Bleached

I throw bleach at the mirror. I watch as the liquid forms rivulets and drips down like toxic rain water. It’s a funny thing that something we use to clean and sanitize our home can also be used as a poison. Well, maybe not so funny. I googled that it only takes one glass of bleach to kill a person. There is a lot of poison in a gallon sized bottle that you can buy from the grocery store. I did not google how many people attempt suicide this way each year. It’s hard to tell what is funny anymore and what isn’t. I find myself laughing to the point of peeing my pants at things I just shouldn’t. I watched a little sparrow fly straight into the window the other day. Normally, I would have flung open the door and went to investigate whether I could help the poor thing. But, instead, I howled like my mother’s german shepherd does at the emergency sirens. I howled and felt pee dribble into my underwear liner and then moisten the inside of my thighs. It took awhile for me to get up and change my clothes. The kairos of the moment was palpable but I couldn’t bring myself to react to it.

This year I became a domestic goddess. Everything I do is better than anything before. I cook better. I organize better. I cook better. I clean better. This is the year I discovered you can scrub a fiberglass shower stall with baking soda to remove stains. This is the year I learned laundry detergent alone does not clean your clothes, you need to add sanitizing detergent to it. And, though not the last thing I learned, I discovered you can label the exact location where every kitchen utensil should lie in the drawer and that you can use mini rubber notches to hold them there so that they never move out of place no matter how hard you slam the drawer shut. But there is always another cabinet, another corner somewhere that has kept a low profile and has escaped my scrub brush and label maker.

I hate it all. But I also have a growing resentment that my day job pulls me away from my domestic pursuits. The only thing I really enjoy is marking tiny lines along the multi-tiered shelving unit I bought for my spices so that each container is replaced at exactly the right spot to stay in a perfect line at the right height. I know it is all an illusion. And, yet, I can’t stop. The more I organize the less space my soul seems to take up. I don’t know when, exactly, it began to dissipate. But I do notice my insides feel lighter than they used to. There is something physically missing in there. I just wish the scale reflected that.

I haven’t been anywhere in months and yet there has never been a time I was more concerned with how I look. There is more pressure from the only person who sees me than there ever was from the outside world. She is my alter ego and I usually forget about her until I look in the mirror. She is the opposite of me. Or maybe she is how I used to be. Or how I wish I could be? I don’t know anymore. All I know is that she is a badass. She doesn’t care what others think and she does what she wants. She feels none of this domestic imprisonment, these obligations to turn a house into a home. She laughs out loud at the ridiculousness of such a sentiment. Every time I poke at the roll on my abdomen left from childbearing and feel a twinge of disgust, she falls to the floor laughing. Every time I examine the acne scars on my face and make my one true wish that they will go away she takes out her eyebrow pencil to draw more scars on her face and sticks her tongue out at me. I grew tired of her free spirit mocking me. That is why I threw the bleach at her. But she laughed at that too and pressed her head against the mirror, twirling the crown of her head on the glass and then combing the excess bleach through her hair. “Highlights!”she said, delighted by her antics.

She likes to show off when I have my weekly call with my therapist. As soon as the reminder ping sounds on my phone, she perks up, and comes running. I both love and hate when she shows up. Sometimes I just want to talk to my therapist. But she has a way of monopolizing our conversation. And when he asks those unhelpful questions like “And how did that make you feel?” or “And what did you think about that?” or simply says “Tell me more about that.” And she just chats away like they are old pals. I want to scream out “Shut the fuck up already! I have something to say!” But my voice gets caught in my throat like I am trying to swallow a bite of wonder bread that won’t pass. I feel the weight of all the things I have to say clogged there. I hate her all the more because she never tells the truth. “Oh, I am just fine,” she will say. Or, “It made me feel unheard.” or “I think I just need to take a few deep breaths when things get like that.” You know, the kind of answers the therapist wants to hear, not the kind of answers he should be getting. As a result, he doesn’t want to continue my prescription anxiety pills. I have ten more. Then the call ends and she is all I have.

I hate her and I hate that I need her. I hate that I now have to ration out my anxiety pills. I hate to think about what it is going to feel like when they run out. I hate the therapist for believing her. I hate everything. And yet I love her. How could I live without her? I need her mocking voice in my head. I need her smug grin in the mirror. I need her telling me what I should be doing instead of what I am actually doing. I need her to tell me I am awesome. That I am beautiful. That I can do anything-c’mon how hard is it really? I need her stupid optimism. I need her go-get ‘em attitude. And I love her for it all. Without her I have nothing. Without her I am nothing. Without her I have nothing left to love. Without her I have nothing left to hate.

The phone rings. It is the therapist again. He says he doesn’t normally do this, but could we schedule a follow up call later that day? “Yes, yes, of course. You are the doctor,” I say. I already anticipate what the conversation will be like:

“Are you sure you are telling me everything?”

“Why, yes, of course I am doc.”

“I just feel like you are holding back.”

“No, no, there is nothing else I want to say.”

“You know, this is a safe space.”

“Oh, I know I can tell you anything.”

“I have something I would like to tell you then.”

“Ok, shoot, doc.”

“I would like my colleague to give a second opinion.”

“Ok, great. When can I talk to them?”

“Well, I have already called over to the hospital and asked that you be on the board.”

“The hospital? But, there is nothing wrong with me. I am not sick.”

“It is just that my colleague, you see, she works in the psychiatric ward and you need to be on the board in order to be seen by her.”

“I see.”

“We would both like for you to try to make it over there today.”

“I see.”

“Can you make it?”

“To the hospital?”

“Yes, to the hospital.”

“Of course.”

“Great. Then, I am going to send you her direct line so you can let her know the exact time you might be over there. Her shift ends at 6pm.”

“I have a meeting at 4pm but I could go after that.”

“That is good to hear. Can you call her and let her know too?”

“Of course.”

“Wonderful. I need to get to my next appointment now. Thanks for taking my call and for considering a trip to see my colleague. I think you will really benefit from it.”

“Of course.”

“Good-bye, now.”

“Good-bye.”

Well, that didn’t go exactly as I thought it would. My heart begins to beat a little faster. The anxiety presses down on my lungs. They are going to find out about her. Or, he already knows. They are going to take her from me. That is why he wants me to get a second opinion. That is why I have to go to the psychiatric ward. Can they slam the doors behind me and trap me there against my will? Should I get a lawyer? Should I bring a lawyer? Should I bring her? Is there any way I could leave her here? But, if I don’t bring her I can’t rely on her to say the right things. I catch a glimpse of a darkened, blurry reflection on the iphone screen. She raises her eyebrows at me but says nothing. It isn’t like her to be quiet. She must be worried too. Maybe she needs me just as much as I need her.

I go to the bathroom because I feel like I may need to throw up. I stand with my palms pressed into the ceramic counter. I bow my head like I am praying or reading something in tiny print there next to the sink. It still smells like bleach in here. I squat down and open up the cabinet door. I pull out the bleach. Maybe cleaning the bathroom again will take my mind off of it. I open up the child-proof cap. The sharp scrape of chemical grates against the inside of my nose. I look around for a rag. And a bucket. All I see is the little cup next to the toothbrush holder my husband used to rinse his mouth with after he brushes his teeth. It has grime at the bottom because no one ever bothered to take it downstairs to clean. I pour it half way full of bleach. It doesn’t dissolve the years of toothpaste like I thought it would. Instead, it just turns a murky grayish-green soup. I can’t clean with that. I go to pour it out in the sink. But my hand stays as I reach out to tip it out. I feel one of my eyebrows do that twitch it does when I am changing my mind about something. I bring the little cup to my lips instead. I tilt the cup just enough to wet my lips. It burns the thin, fragile skin there. But, it honestly doesn’t taste like much as I suck it into my mouth and swallow the film. I raise the cup to tilt it more heavily, but then put it back down. I am not brave enough to drink the whole thing.

I don’t feel or hear her anywhere. I must be alone. I raise the cup again and tilt it a quarter of the way at a forty-five degree angle. A quick splash invades my mouth and I feel it slide against my teeth. I begin to laugh as I xertz the bleach now. I look up and my alter-ego is back. Only, she isn’t smiling this time. Tears roll down my face as I belly laugh at her. She stares at me with all seriousness and as I tilt the little cup all the way back I hear her say, “Fuck you, bitch.”