You Found Me
You found me when I was a little girl when my mother locked my sister and me in our rooms for hours
because she was having an affair.
My brother was a baby, I never thought of that, where was he?
In the room with them or crying in a crib somewhere?
My sister had diarrhea into the heat vent.
You found me in high school when my parents broke up
when I was so stressed my grades dropped
You found me so many times that I swallowed bottles of pills and no one knew about it.
You found me when my children grew up and my hormones waned
after we had lived in one of the most exciting cities in the world and moved back to the American suburbs.
I missed the old man who sold sweet potatoes out of a bucket on a bicycle, the shop that only sold duck tongues, and the tunnel under the river that none of the taxi drivers took because they thought it was haunted.
You found me when I looked at the photos I had taken of all those beautiful Chinese babies and Bob said, “She’s one in a billion” and I burst into tears.
You found me when I missed seeing live eels at the supermarket and no one understood my tears.
You found me often in the last few years — raging back into relapse again and again.
The meme says, “People talk about managing your depression like it’s managing a stock portfolio.”
I texted a psych nurse friend who reassured me, “Depression is temporary and…bullshit.”
You found me each time after I got Covid — with crippling anxiety that comes on when I drive
I am not sure if I should drive, I might crash the car or run over a pedestrian.
You find me when I lie for the 1000th time that I’ve been under the weather
and cannot attend the party/dinner/theater/barbecue/picnic.
Take a walk every day, they say.
You will feel better, they say.
Volunteer somewhere so you focus less on yourself, they say.
What a load of shit.
I steel myself to go to the supermarket, breathing deeply in the car in the parking lot.
Mozzarella cheese, gnocchi, basil, cherry tomatoes.
When I check my Fitbit later I have 45 zone minutes and I haven’t exercised.
I tell my doctor and she says I’ll be better soon.
I need a refill for Ativan and the doctor on call only gives me 5.
I said I need a new scrip.
5.
No one hears me so I buy ketamine from a drug dealer in Oakland.
I grind it with a mortar and pestle to make it powder, put it on a mirror, make straight lines with a razor
Snort it with a dollar bill, though the 20 dollar bills are more crisp.
Like I’m snorting cocaine
as if I were having fun.
The only fun part about it is that I don’t have to be me.
