I stared at the door, the tiny indention, the mark left by my cracked skull ring. The swell pushed through me, exploding from my fists. I took a swing, and then another, each with more force. Gritted teeth, a red-eyed anger/sorrow mixer. The shout slipped through my mouth, but registered as someone else’s voice. I took one last swing, and heard the splintering. It landed on the first word of the alcoholic anonymous prayer. “Fuck,” I repeated, this time in a whisper. My body sagged; my fists ached. I fingered the exposed wood, and hung my head. Just moments ago, not five minutes, I buckled Shaun in the car seat of Jeanna’s car and waved him goodbye. I traced my steps internally. And just as I reached my bedroom door, I swung my fist. Somehow, I’m on the other side now. I sucked in a breath. Krist, am I crying?
“I’m not feeling well,” I tell the doctor. I’m here for a follow up; I’m getting over a bad cold I had a couple of weeks ago. “Emotionally,” I add, because I want him to know that I’ve recovered from the cold. “Usually, I have full control over my anxiety, depression. The anger. But lately…” and I trail off.
“In these sort of situations, we have to ask,” he begins. I know what he’s going to ask, but I’m not sure how truthfully I’ll answer. “Do you have thoughts about hurting yourself, about hurting others?”
“No,” I lie.
The first week or so, Zoloft left me sleepy. It still leaves me thirsty.
I turned thirty-three Sunday. On Saturday, I found myself in familiar, old company. It’s been years since the four of us found ourselves at Coffee Zone. The kids are older, too. Personalities are creeping in. There are laughs. Jokes about reliving our youth. Jokes about how old we’re getting. It’s not the Zoloft. It can’t be. But this swell of something familiar fills me. These are the people I love the most, I guess. And I’m more than ok with that.
Sorry for being such a sap.