Breaking Point

 One day I broke an ashtray.

I didn’t just knock it off a table and accidentally break it. I smashed it into many pieces.

As you can assume, I was not having a very good day. It was a Wednesday in May and my dad had just died on Saturday, and my emotions were all over the place. 

I had just got back from a thrift store in New Smyrna Beach. On the way I stopped at circle k for a candy bar and a coffee, because I had been ignoring my hunger but I needed something junky to soothe it. I ate a butterfinger. They always get stuck in my teeth. The hot coffee washed it away. It was all I had eaten all day and it wasn’t enough at all.

I just needed to do something with myself so I went to the thrift, one I knew and liked but didn’t always frequent. And I’m glad I went because I found a Van Halen t shirt, which dad loves, and I bought it for him even tho he was not here anymore (is that crazy?). But I was also mad at John for not letting me take my car; it was blocked in in the drive way. He said just take his, no big deal. It was a big deal. To me. Anything could upset me.

On the rack right next to the Van Halen tshirt was a shirt that said “Best Dad Ever.” Wow. It meant something to me. I thought about buying it, but I just left it and let it remain a sign. I looked at clothes and tried stuff on. I was surprised at my behavior: here my dad was not even gone for a week and I was having a fashion show…I was not impressed with myself, yet I realized I needed to do something, anything, to help me feel better. It’s weird that people die and life keeps going and people keep doing people things like eat and sleep. And go shopping.

I didn’t know what i was going to do with the shirt. Leave it at dad’s house? Keep it and wear it? I kinda did both. I got a Starbucks coffee one day and drank a third and left the rest in dad’s room, along with some Newports (I was going to his house every day to feed the dog). Grief is irrational but entirely appropriate. 

Well, I got home from the thrift and sat on the porch, fatigued and still hungry and frustrated, and this anger just bubbled up in me. Partly because I realized John was just watching tv on the couch. Here were people: fine; here was me: not fine. I needed to eat but I wouldn’t do it. I needed a nap but I refused. So I just grabbed the nearest heavy thing and threw it with a female force. 

Then John came out.

“What was that?”

“I broke an ashtray.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m mad… at myself” (I lied).

He just looked at me in disappointment and shook his head. “It’s sad that you break things.” And he walked back inside to watch tv.

It was a beautiful ceramic piece decorated with a bird and flowers in Japanese style, but the ash grime had covered the art. I used to wash it to keep it pretty (it’s the best a smoker can do). I think it came from goodwill. 

Now I was not only upset but ashamed and horrified. Why did I do that? Why can’t I control myself? What is wrong with me?

I cleaned up the mess and then I went for a walk, seething with anger mixed with guilt. I tried to nap. I tried to eat leftover puttanesca, my favorite pasta, but at this point I was crying too much to swallow it.

I needed to see a doctor, asap. I needed something, like those anxiety pills I used to sleep but I had ran out of. I needed a benzo but I knew they wouldn’t give it to me. Because I’m an addict.

I called my health insurance hotline because it was late and my psych’s office was closed. “I need help,” I cried, “my dad died and I broke an ashtray. And I’m scared,” I sobbed. They told me to go to a local urgent care. So I did.

I went to the FHCP office on Dunlawton, which is connected to my pharmacy. I saw a lady doctor. She said her name was Miriam and I told her that’s my mother’s name, and it just made me cry more. I told her what happened and asked if I could get some vistiril. It’s the baby Benadryl used as an anxiety med for former addicts because it’s not addictive and doesn’t get you high. She wrote me a script and I had to go to Walgreens to get it. I planned to start taking it daily to avoid these episodes. 

So I did. And it just made me very sleepy. I don’t think it’s a medicine you’re supposed to take consistently, only for acute anxiety when it happens. And she gave me a high dose, because I was in a desperate panic and it was the best she could do. 50 mg. You can take four a day (my regular doctor prescribes only 25 mg at three a day). My friends on the dock noticed I was nodding off. They were concerned.

And I kept “abusing” the drug until I thought I was in the clear. Later on my doctor told me that overtaking this medicine can jumpstart early dementia. Great. The stress continued, and the anger was on and off. One day I thought about going to the hospital. My nice neighbor talked me out of it. She gave me a box of herbal tea (and let me smoke some of her cigs) and talked to me for a while. I felt better. 

And I have to thank all these people for putting up with me and helping me through this difficult time. I think John has forgiven me for the ashtray thing. I hope.

No more heavy ashtrays for me.

PS. I realize this post may make me look like a bad person, but I’m really just a human person with normal problems. 

And I think this is how you write the hard stuff. You just take the bad stuff and you write it. And hope somebody understands.