(6) Bethany Bruno: Mr. Sandman, Please Bring Me a Xanax
As the small wind up clock ticks along with the slow decline of the afternoon sun, small bursts of anxiety begin to rise within me. Nighttime, three years after acquiring PTSD, bring only those aching realities of a life lost forever. I genuinely miss my daily Xanax, who was my call me no matter what time, day or night, and I’ll be there best friend. The tiny oblong shaped pill, once placed ever so gently under my tongue, would melt into a chalky paste before I swallowed. Within minutes, every tense muscle and feeling of unease would release from within the fibers of my being. Every thought, every unpleasant image of his jugular slowly coming to a complete stop. Every ounce of despair, vanished. It wouldn’t allow me to ponder the harsh reality of being denied a relationship with my father. Xanax would assure me that my mother’s cancer diagnosis, mere weeks after the death of my father, was of no importance. It would shut down that logical part of my brain that beckoned me to explore the cruel future that awaits me. It’s my responsibility to bear witness to the deaths of the two people who would love me unconditionally. But like a good friend, Xanax would have said come on now, forget about that and let’s watch some Netflix while eating an entire bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. You’ve earned it!
Now, three years later, and clean from Xanax for two of those years, I can’t help but plead with some higher being to please bestow upon me a few tablets. Just enough to get me through this new life change and to wash away the sleepless nights filled with irrational questions. My new normal, post-death of my father and near-miss of my mother to the same cancer, was changing once more. No matter how hard I try to regain somewhat of a normal life, those plans get ripped to shreds and tossed page by page into the dumpster fire which is now feeding the flames of this global pandemic. I hear on the news the various interviews with random people, terrified of how to move forward or even if they could ever recover from this event. I laugh and think to myself, “welcome to the club.” It will never be the same, and to think that it will is pure ignorance. There is no going back, only walking forward within the darkened room of insecurity. Finding your “normal” after a traumatic event is like having to crawl on the floor, which is covered in shards of glass from the broken ceiling. You try to stand but get pushed down every time you hear any resemblance of another possible collapse. You extend your hands, right then left, as you brace yourself for the pain of gaining distance yet adding a new wound each time. Placing your hand on top of the slivers, as they pierce your skin, is a necessary agony. Once you find yourself in a room free of dangerous debris, you’re still left with the wounds that can only be healed with time.
My present empty room, which appears safe and sturdy, can collapse at any time. I’m disfigured, and still weak from the years of the slow escape from my previous life’s collapse. But I’m still waiting and watching for what’s to come next. Will this virus cause a second wave? Will I somehow catch it, and bring it home to my highly receptible mother, and therefore be the cause of her death? All this time, I surely thought cancer would be her killer, but maybe she’ll be taken out by some unpredictable illness? It’s questions like these that make me dread the night. Maybe because my physical body is at rest that my mind decides to run marathons around life’s deepest and most philosophical questions. I can’t stand all of the excessive and unnecessary visiting hours between myself and my resentful brain. And with no real escape, I’m trapped inside my own personal abyss.
This current world state, in all its chaos and fear, feels familiar right now. Every time I read the random news sites, complete with personal essays about people’s struggle with acceptance within this social distancing world, I feel a sense of relief. For once, in three years, I don’t feel so alone with my grief. If anything, I feel vindication for those who are suffering. For I’m no longer suffering alone, as now the whole world is lost and unsure of what the next step is. At night, along with my usual hours spent distracting myself with some form of entertainment, I also search the internet for stories of suffering. I think to myself maybe now there can exist a world where grief is shared and not neatly tucked away in the closet like a thermal quilt used for those cold nights in need of warmth. It’s the ultimate “told you so” moment for me. I don’t want to be right, or wrong, I just want someone to look at the scar tissue that aligns my hands, extend their arms, and show me their own battle scars. Maybe later at night, as I sit upon my bed and flick through the que of videos ready to distract my noisy brain, I can instead sit there in silence. I won’t need any distractions or even my little miracle pill. Alone with only myself, my fears, and my freshly mended disfigurements. My brain will remain silent as its now content with whatever may come.
Bethany Bruno is a born and raised Florida Writer. She attended Flagler College, where she received a B.A in English. She later attended the University of North Florida, where she received her Master's. She has worked as a Ghost Tour Guide, Library Specialist, English Teacher, and a Park Ranger with the National Park Service. Her work has been previously published in Lunch Ticket Magazine, Dash Literary Journal, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Still Point Arts Quarterly, Nabu Review, and Metafore Magazine. She's currently working on her first novel.