{"id":4112,"date":"2022-12-01T00:00:00","date_gmt":"2022-12-01T08:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/dornsife.usc.edu\/palaver\/?p=4112"},"modified":"2024-06-13T09:37:13","modified_gmt":"2024-06-13T16:37:13","slug":"if-i-gave-my-plants-prozac-would-they-stop-dying","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/dornsife.usc.edu\/palaver\/fall-2022\/if-i-gave-my-plants-prozac-would-they-stop-dying\/","title":{"rendered":"If I Gave My Plants Prozac, Would They Stop Dying?"},"content":{"rendered":"\n\n\n\n\n \n \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n
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If I Gave My Plants Prozac, Would They Stop Dying?<\/h1>\n\n\n<\/div>\n \n \n By<\/span>Anonymous<\/strong>\n \n December 1, 2022<\/span>\n <\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n <\/div><\/div>\n\n \n \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n
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Editorial Content Warning: This piece contains references to suicidal ideation and abuse.<\/em><\/p>\n

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I study the wilted plants decorating the windowsills and the blackened leaves littering the dull linoleum floor and the dried potting soil and feel nothing at all, barring a vague jealousy. Flies orchestrate dull harmonies as they target the fruit expiring in the ceramic bowl she painted. I push it off the counter and watch it shatter. I don\u2019t blink. I don\u2019t flinch.<\/p>\n

I hoped I would feel something.<\/p>\n

The visceral rotting aroma is masked by the toast that\u2019s burning in front of me. I recognize that it\u2019s billowing smoke and I don\u2019t do it on purpose, but I don\u2019t stop it. If my house was on fire (maybe I set it aflame, maybe I didn\u2019t\u2014what\u2019s the difference?) I think I would watch it unfold like a five-act play, applauding as it dazzles me, evokes tears from my eyes, ensnares me while I marvel from the kitchen floor. Feeling warm would be nice, even at the expense of my flesh charring and melting off my tired bones. My greatest fear is that I am a phoenix, that if I set a match to my nest, I will rise from the ashes, reborn and immortal, instead of settling into an eternal sleep. I eat the blackened soot poorly imitating bread and it tastes the same as everything else that I\u2019ve managed to put down this week.<\/p>\n

She doesn\u2019t understand this, though. She says it\u2019s my responsibility to get out of a burning house, it\u2019s my duty to save myself, to wrestle with disaster\u2014to prevent<\/em> it. She exasperates and begs and fails to reason. I should feel some desire for survival, some fear for my mortality, and I should want to stay alive. I\u2019m not quite sure I\u2019d call my existence \u201cliving.\u201d I tell her that I\u2019m just too tired today. Maybe I will be better tomorrow, a month, forever, never.<\/p>\n

This isn\u2019t normal<\/em>, she declares. The world is bright and beautiful and there\u2019s tons to stay alive for.<\/em><\/p>\n

My world is monochromatic<\/em>, I drone, and it\u2019s true\u2014I only see in shades of gray (nobody\u2019s favorite color is gray). We live in different realities. There is nothing more for me to see.<\/em><\/p>\n

According to her, I still had psychiatrists, psychologists, therapists left to see. They poke and prod and marvel at my ill mind, scalpel it into slivers and attempt to suture the fragmented pieces of my soul back together (was it ever whole?). She thinks they can seep dye into my ears and eyes and nostrils to color my psyche and maybe the world wouldn\u2019t look so drab and maybe I would want to stay alive until tomorrow. I read somewhere that Vincent van Gogh ate yellow paint because he thought painting his organs the color of sunshine and flowers and happiness could make him become these things, could cure him of his misery, could make him happy like his paintings, could release dopamine and serotonin, could make his existence worthwhile. She tells me this isn\u2019t true, that eating paint was a poison, a toxicity, a suicide attempt. She says I \u201cromanticize self-destruction.\u201d It\u2019s a pretty story, though.<\/p>\n

\u201cDepression,\u201d the shrink diagnoses, slapping a pen down on the notepad recording my \u201cconcerning\u201d thought patterns, looking proud as if my symptoms were obscure\u2014as if identifying my condition was the solution. I treat my new bottles of yellow happy pills decorated with smiley faces as candy, an upper when I\u2019m \u201cfeeling blue.\u201d The irony is that I now only feel and see a single shade of gray\u2014the classic, timeless tombstone variant. My days squish and stretch, time speeds up and slows down, and reality (is this even real? is anything?) blurs into one suffocating hedonic treadmill. I think in fog and I\u2019m not sure if I\u2019m alive anymore.<\/p>\n

I buy new plants for my apartment, replacing the deceased ones.<\/p>\n

My mental health professionals love unpacking my dead\u2014it\u2019s their favorite topic. They drool over anecdotes of how I watched my childhood best friend rot from malignant tumors, how I spent my teenage years in hospital rooms, how I celebrated a sweet 16 in an ICU, how I wrote and delivered a eulogy before I was 18, how my best friend didn\u2019t tell me their expiration date even though they knew, how I watched someone live and die before I was even alive, how I didn\u2019t get to say goodbye (I guess I did but they were already half-dead), how I am utterly alone, how I don\u2019t believe people will stay, how I\u2019m glad I\u2019m alone because people can\u2019t choose to leave, how I don\u2019t want people around anyway, how I don\u2019t know how to go on living, and how I don\u2019t want to.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have developed an avoidant attachment style,\u201d my shrink diagnoses, once again. \u201cYou construct your life to create distance between you and all others to avoid the discomfort of commitment. In every relationship, you have an exit strategy. You must practice emotional intimacy without running away.\u201d<\/p>\n

I practiced intimacy, but not the way they intended. I let men fill me up then empty me, I grant them permission\u2014I beg <\/em>them\u2014to turn my soul inside out and violate it and use and abuse it until it\u2019s so misshapen that it no longer fits and I can shed this useless weight and finally leave it behind. Maybe I\u2019d invent a new one that fits me better and lacks the baggage, maybe I could exist without it.<\/p>\n

He loves being older than me. He loves that I\u2019m still in high school, he loves being my boss at my job, he loves that he groomed me, he loves that it\u2019s illegal, he loves that I keep his dirty little secret\u2014that I am<\/em> his dirty little secret, he loves that I am too young to know how to say \u201cno,\u201d he loves that he can tell me abuse is normal before I know that it is wrong. I love that the pain he inflicts overshadows the aching dagger already in my heart. He tastes like cigarettes and treachery and bad news and everything that will break my mother\u2019s heart. He\u2019s drunk off Jack Daniel\u2019s and the fantasy of being Bonnie and Clyde; I am high off ecstasy and the danger of dancing with the Devil in hellfire.<\/p>\n

This was not love\u2014neither of us are capable\u2014so we pierced each other with our mangled claws and bled through the sheets until the mattress oozed maroon and we called it romance. He \u201cloved\u201d me so much that he\u2019d kill for me, and he did. I don\u2019t know what he did with the body because I was preoccupied spilling my guts on the bathroom floor and shaking so badly that I chipped my teeth. I didn\u2019t want to know, anyway.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut it\u2019s because I love<\/em> you,\u201d he explained, his patience running thin, his temper rising. \u201cDon\u2019t you understand everything I do for you?\u201d<\/p>\n

He drags me off the floor and slams me into the drywall, hard enough to crack it.<\/p>\n

\u201cI will never let you go,\u201d he consoled with his calloused hands wrapped around my throat, pleading in his empty, black eyes (I understand, my eyes soften back to him\u2014I know he needs this). My throat burns and I am suffocating\u2014but isn\u2019t this what I asked for?<\/p>\n

This is what I get for not having an exit plan.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s been a couple years since him, but I swear sometimes I still wake up shrieking because my hands are caked with blood and red decorates my nail beds. I don\u2019t think I\u2019ll ever wash the stain clean. In a twisted way, I\u2019m grateful for this terror, this paranoia\u2014it makes me feel wiser. She always said I have a macabre obsession with suffering, the disillusionment that pain was tantamount to meaning.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s masochistic<\/em>. She rolled her eyes.<\/p>\n

But how else do I make peace with these scars?<\/em> I ponder.<\/p>\n

Other than trauma, he left me with a drug dependency. I stumble anywhere where I can forget my name, where I won\u2019t recognize the reflection. The bartenders whisper about me behind the bottles and mutter sad sighs as they fill my glass again and again and I let it empty me. They say I\u2019m \u201cwasting my potential,\u201d but I don\u2019t believe in that. Potential is made up\u2014it only materializes when you act on it and make it real; without that, it\u2019s a fantasy, an illusion to trick people into thinking they matter, that they\u2019re special. I don\u2019t fall for these tricks.<\/p>\n

Tablets melt under my tongue, and I trip down rabbit holes, waking up bruised and battered (it reminds me of him) in places I\u2019ve never been to before with people I don\u2019t know. There\u2019s blood on my head (did I faint?) and blood between my legs (who?) from incidents I don\u2019t remember. Sometimes I wake up in hospital beds with needles in my veins (not the needles I like). I speak in colors and my soggy, heavy words drip down my chest along with the vomit and mistakes I\u2019ll repeat tomorrow. My white knuckles grip the bathroom counter (like he gripped my neck) and my nose bleeds as I chase white rabbits to nowhere (I\u2019m going nowhere).<\/p>\n

You\u2019re killing yourself\u2026 <\/em>she said, gazing at me through the mirror.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s the whole fucking point, darling<\/em>, I slurred through my teeth, staring back with glazed-over, lifeless eyes.<\/p>\n

On a particularly noteworthy bender, I scrambled my brain with fungi and MDMA and sobbed over a snow globe my (dead) best friend bought me on their Make-A-Wish trip. I was so high that I climbed the stairs (the elevator was too slow) lining my organs and unzipped my body and stepped out of my skin and sat on a couch suspended in disbelief, detached from my skeleton. I watched my life through a television, and I frantically flipped through the channels and saw all the other realities I could have lived and realized how I hated my movie, how I was plagued with the worst possible version of my life, how I was appalled by myself. It\u2019s like you\u2019re watching a horror film and, pausing it, you sigh relief that it\u2019s fiction\u2014that it\u2019s not your<\/em> reality\u2014but then panic sets in as you realize it is<\/em> your life (it\u2019s my<\/em> life!) and you must go relive that day after day in an endless loop and you cannot save yourself. It\u2019s like a Choose Your Own Adventure book where I made all the wrong choices. I was doomed to go back into my wrinkled, tattooed, scarred skin and remain helpless as the puppeteer continued making a mockery of me. How could this<\/em> be my life?<\/p>\n

I stopped doing drugs and I stopped drinking after that. I cleaned up the dead plants in my apartment and bought new ones (again). I began missing my therapy appointments. I let my phone vibrate and I don\u2019t listen to the receptionist\u2019s voicemail and I stopped refilling my prescriptions and I let them bill me so she thinks I still go.<\/p>\n

Maybe I just don\u2019t want to get better.<\/p>\n

The skeletons in my closet rattle as they dress my aching bones in the morning, and the monsters under my bed whisper lullabies as they tuck me in at night. I have conversations with the demons in the attic as we flush out all our nightmares and I play hide-and-seek with the ghosts in the walls. If they all leave, I will have to be enough to fill the empty space. I am afraid of myself. I will haunt my own apartment.<\/p>\n

It’s not that I want to keep feeling like this\u2014I just don\u2019t want to forget.<\/p>\n

You must forget, if you are to go on living<\/em>, she coos.<\/p>\n

I visit my best friend\u2019s grave frequently (I don\u2019t think this counts as forgetting). I like the solitude\u2014there\u2019s something comforting about a lawn full of dead people. Fertile soil intertwines the ribs of their fallen body, and I pretend my crying is a service, and that my tears will fill the watering cans that will bring them back to life. I don\u2019t believe in fairytales, but I\u2019d like to remain agnostic to that one (I don\u2019t believe it).<\/p>\n

The things you love never really leave you<\/em>, she comforts.<\/p>\n

Bullshit, <\/em>I sneer. I\u2019m bereft.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

I wrestle with the thorns and concrete under my feet and pick fights with the grass, cursing it for growing while the bodies under it do not (the grass never says anything back\u2014what a coward). It\u2019s ironic that we bring flowers to cemeteries and let these plants die on top of people that are already dead. At this graveyard, people (ghosts) collect the gifts each night and throw them away, so the foliage never wilts. It reminds me of the wilted plants in my apartment, how I don\u2019t know how to keep things alive. When my plants die, I replace them and watch the process repeat. Maybe I do this with people too\u2014I only love things with an expiration date. I am wilting, and I don\u2019t know how to stop it. Can I reverse the damage? Can I save myself?<\/p>\n

Do I want to?<\/p>\n

I contemplate as I perch on the kitchen counter and light my cigarette with matches. I crack the window next to the faucet, rest my feet in the sink, turn on the water and let it run over the ends of my jeans, over my socks and wet my feet until they feel soggy. I light a match, let it burn my fingertips and drop it into the sink, onto my feet. I test if fire or water will win, how much the spark will catch before the dampness extinguishes it.<\/p>\n

Inhale. Exhale.<\/p>\n

I tap the ashes on my socks.<\/p>\n

Inhale. Exhale.<\/p>\n

I put the cigarette out on my socks.<\/p>\n

I dangle my feet over the counter, listen to the tapping of water droplets, watching the pool grow beneath my feet (I leave the water running). I drop from the counter and sludge across the linoleum. I leave wet footprints, but I know they will be gone by tomorrow. I throw away all the (rotten) food in my fridge. I collect all the leaves off the floor, and I toss the dead plants in the dumpster (I don\u2019t buy new ones this time).<\/p>\n

I sit on the damp kitchen floor and light another match, watching it burn my fingers, and precariously drop it on my (damp) jeans. I wonder how long I can keep playing with fire.<\/p>\n

Stop<\/em>, she pleads. Please! You\u2019re my best friend<\/em>.<\/p>\n

It doesn\u2019t matter<\/em>, I answer, preoccupied with the flames.<\/p>\n

Yes, it does! <\/em>she cries. I can\u2019t live with you like this!<\/em><\/p>\n

I look up, at nothing. I grimace. I grin.<\/p>\n

But you\u2019re already dead.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n<\/div>\n\n\n <\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n\n \n \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

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