Today, I went to go pick up my adderall prescription at my university’s health clinic. I see my doctor once every month-and-6-days-ish, and he conversationally asks how I’m doing. It’s the first time he was available for an appointment; I ran out of my medication three days ago and I’ve been struggling to get anything accomplished. And the insomnia returns with a vengeance. Lying awake at six in the morning, unable to concentrate on anything hard enough to finish simple tasks, is something that tends to make you feel helpless and lowers your self-worth.
“I’m doing alright. I’ve got a cold,” I say. This bureaucratic institution has caused my week to spiral to nothing, I add in my head. But are you really to blame? That I’m so foggy and dependent on those little orange-and-blue tic-tacs that I’ve been trained to devour like a timed pulse after the pressure cuff is tightened?
“I’m excited to hear you’re going to Indonesia. What a great opportunity,” he comments as he signs the familiar prescription. He hands it to me, and I steal another kleenex as I walk out the door. I eventually get the pills and stare through the opaque bottle, hazily trying to recall what ‘myself’ was like before I was expected to operate at a pace my brain wasn’t designed to handle.
So here I am, drinking a Hamm’s Special Light. In case you’re not a peon as I, that’s the beer that costs around 14 dollars for a 30-rack, including the Michigan 10 cents per can deposit. As I drink it, I think about how pathetic it is that while I’m medicated, I could probably write a whole blog post in the course of finishing a single beer. Hence where this began.
A friend asked me about songs. And if I attach certain songs to people and remember who I was and how I feel when I hear the song. It makes me think of this stupid Nelly song, which at one time made me really happy and eventually devolved into something that made me enraged. And then sentimental. I think we all have songs like that. And then the song played last week, and I looked over across a crowded room to see if he noticed it was playing. To see if we could have one final, human, shared moment. Something that wasn’t manufactured for our phony constructed audience that we constantly fight to keep afloat over the years. And as much as I fought the urge I looked up every few seconds, and there were no blue eyes to meet my confused gaze. And in that moment, it was confirmed that there was absolutely nothing left.
My beer is running pretty low so I’m guessing I have to conclude. I shake my head of these memories. I want to turn back to him and say, yeah. I think about that all the time. I think of you when I hear a lot of music, actually.
I’d like to think I’m not subject to the jurisdiction of some seemingly finite resource of fucks you have to give. But I’d be expecting a lot from you.