Uppers and Downers

The author of this nonfiction essay elects to remain anonymous.

This might make you feel like you’ve had an extra coffee the doctor says as she scribbles a prescription for Prednisone. Like hell, I think. You’re talking to someone who once chugged eight shots of espresso. But I demur and mention instead that my blood pressure was 143/83 the last time I took steroids. Doctors like numbers. I’ll give you numbers. 65-year-old-businessman-two-weeks-away-from-a-stroke numbers. I’ll give you numbers.

Well, we’ll just give you a lower dose.

They need more numbers. I’ll give you numbers.

Well, the time before even on the lowest dose my heart rate was 150 BPM while I was laying down.

The doctor barely glances up at me. Fuel + O2 → CO2 + HO. If I put it like that, can you understand would you understand do you even care that you’re trying to douse me in gasoline and light a match?

The doctor barely glances up at me.

Could you at least give me some Xanax?

No, you might overdose and die. I might die if you don’t give me some freaking Xanax, I think, but of course do not say because I believe this litigious university might be overly generous in committing students on the verge. No Xanax. They give me six mini yellow Gatorades.

I’m not even worth a full sized bottle?

The sympathetic nurse suggests I go to the ER. They might help me. Might give me something to tranquilize my runaway mind. Slow my racing heart. But I have a paper to write, a book to read, and a suitcase to pack, and I think the ER would charge me a couple thousand and not even give me the free Gatorade, so I cry instead. I throw my shoe at a tree and swear to never ask for help from another doctor again.

I do ask for help again, six months later. Because in my dreams I see my dad die. I run out of class because I think I’m going to throw up. My hands shake so much I can’t even type.

I don’t know where I am.

I don’t think my heart rate is supposed to be this high. Can you have a heart attack at 22? How selfish. To run my perfectly good heart ragged while my dad lies in the hospital because his heart isn’t working right. It is extremely ironic, and I hate myself for it.

My feelings whirl from my stomach to my chest to my throat and start choking me. I cough because I am choking. I collapse to my knees, and that’s when I think I need help. I drag my rebelling body in defeat back to the student health center. Hope springs eternal. Or maybe I’d just like another Gatorade.

The student doctors give me an EKG. There’s nothing wrong with your heart. Yes, I know I told you I’m having a panic attack. There’s nothing wrong with your heart. What seems to be the problem here I’m having a panic attack that’s too bad sorry to hear that what seems to be the problem here I have a panic attack every two hours in between I feel nothing my dad’s in the hospital I don’t know what to do that’s too bad please help me there’s nothing wrong with your heart yesIknowI’mhavingapanicttack it’s really not our policy to prescribe benzos they’re very dangerous you could abuse them or die I’mhavingapanicattack I could give you some antidepressants you might feel better in two weeks sorry about that there’s nothing wrong with your heart use your relaxation techniques what relaxation techniques hydration is important we’reoutofGatoradehaveagoodnightthere’snothingwrongwithyourheart.

I walk out of the health center, and I’m choking again. The receptionist grins like the Cheshire cat and wishes me a good night. I think they told them to be nicer because students keep killing themselves. They smile very kindly while refusing to treat you. I can’t even make it ten steps before I crumble onto the edge of the cold concrete because I’m shaking so hard. I hyperventilate until the edges of my vision turn fuzzy and black. I wish I would just pass out so someone would help me, but my brain clings to the turmoil of consciousness. I think maybe one of the doctors leaving the health center might walk past me and help. No one does. Students walking by try to avert their eyes while I shrink into the night’s shadows, sobbing against the red brick exterior of the student health center. The school thinks red brick makes us look like an Ivy League.

I wonder what’s left at this point, but I’m running late already so I switch my tears for a smile until I look happy.

I am not happy.

I go home and have a cocktail of Nyquil, Benadryl, and muscle relaxers for dinner. I Google it first. It probably won’t kill me. I wake up for class the next day. I’m so groggy I don’t even know where I am. I think I might pass out in the shower. I can’t feel any of my limbs. I think I’ve discovered the poor woman’s Xanax. I think my TA thinks I’m high. I think I might be high.

I go to work. I go to meetings. My dinner has worn off, and I’m perfectly awake and agreeable now. I think I’m a star great question great intern I’m smiling I feel fine actually I feel nothing and that’s fine my roommate and I have dinner see a play eat ice cream I feel nothing and that’s fine nothing is great very preferable actually you can feel nothing and eat cotton candy ice cream everything is fine I start laughing but too hard what’s funny my roommate doesn’t understand why are you laughing why aren’t you laughing. I laugh even harder. No one made a joke. My roommate looks very afraid. I take some more Nyquil and pass out with all of the lights on.

I think the Nyquil might be carving exquisite little holes in my brain. I read it’s going to give me Alzheimer’s. I celebrate a little sniffle as an excuse to take Nyquil with no guilt. I’m not abusing Nyquil. I have a cough! Really! A cough! And not sleeping can give you Alzheimer’s anyhow. I’m failing my own life. That’s funny. That’s really funny, I think. I tell my roommate I’m taking my life pass/fail, and I’m failing. We laugh. He’s not sure I’m joking. I’m not joking. But that’s funny.

When the Nyquil doesn’t work, I try some muscle relaxers. Relax, reader, my muscles hurt anyway! Safe by technicality! Perhaps some Advil PM? This is, of course, on top of the melatonin and Zyrtec I already took, which have long since stopped working but hope springs eternal. It’s fine. I Googled it. You can’t overdose on melatonin, and my doctor says I have allergies! It’s fine. I’m fine. My thoughts grow teeth at night. I’m trying to defang them.

The summer before sophomore year of high school, I accidentally got addicted to Benadryl. I took it every night and slept until 6 pm. Then when I didn’t take it, I didn’t sleep at all, and my brain tried to explode. So I took some more Benadryl and started tripping in my dreams. You really need to stop sleeping in so late, my parents tell me. Google, how do you become unaddicted to Benadryl?

I told my roommate my New Year’s resolution for 2021 is to stop abusing Nyquil. 2020’s already lost, but I’m a consummate optimist, and I think we’re on track for 2021. Or 2022 at the latest. My roommate laughs. I just hope the little holes in my brain haven’t grown too large. Or if it’s too late, I hope they just make one great big hole and then everything will be black.

My tombstone reads: Here she lies, lobotomized by Nyquil.