Mountain Arches

Brianna R Duffin

Every bone in my body ached with the knowledge that it was time. I was out of reasons not to do it and somehow more reasons to do it kept popping up like weeds. My heart screamed it was time every second of every day. I could focus on nothing else. The meds in my brain fought me every step of the way, but they’d chosen not to be effective all this time, so I refused to obey them now. Despite everything that was wrong with me, one thing was not. I was still in control of myself.

Well I guess that’s not necessarily true. My life was dominated by my “decisions” to actually attend my doctor’s appointments and cope with their consequences. For example, my medication schedule. I’ll spare you the details of my complex, hardcore drug regime and its painfully non-addictive components, but let’s just say I’d long ago lost track of how many pills I was “required” to pop daily. If not for the signed prescription forms, I’d be back in rehab, this time as a narcotic addict. I learned to swallow multiple pills per sip, but still needed a full glass of water to get them all down. Pills, pills, pills, repeat. It seemed nuts to me, but I was the crazy girl.

Then there was support group. The first one of the week was actually enjoyable; the leader didn’t care what we did as long it was legal and safe. He gorged himself at the brunch buffet- best part of my day- then took a nap on the settee in the corner. I think it was there for us “comrades in the battle for health” to practice trust exercises, relaxation and de-stress techniques, and opening up to each other in a comfortable environment. The actual group members ate what little food he generously left us, tossed what nobody wanted, and spent the remainder of the hour on our phones. It was a safe haven all right and it let me breathe in some form of inner peace, but only because it was not even close to what it was supposed to be. Rather, it was something I could use to help me.

My second support group, however, was just as miserable as anticipated. Not only did the outrageously nosy leader encourage us to share our deepest feelings, each member was required to open up at least twice per session. Then we had to keep standing while two other people gave in-depth responses to whatever we had shared. And, yes, responding was just as mandatory as being responded to. Naturally, we then had to answer the responses before we could sit back down and get back to our own thoughts. It was torturous for anyone who valued independent, private…