Just Another Day, Maybe

It’s been a long day.  Hard to say why.  

Part of me wants to say it’s just being on my period, and I can’t tell if that’s strangely logical or minimizing my own feelings. It could be that my best friend, more like family, left for a job in another state today. It could just be a long day. 

I feel like I was unfocused a lot of this morning, though I also got some important things done, scheduling classes I’ll be teaching in the new year, and even almost winning a game of ping pong with my wife (getting close is an accomplishment for me and most people). 

But by late afternoon, I was wallowing in angsty daydreams.  Making dinner went like this: put water on to boil. Set timer. Sit on couch, dissociate into my characters’ distress. Timer goes off.  Stumble over and add pasta. Set timer. Sit on couch, return to daydream. Stare, sniffle a little. Timer goes off. Stir pasta, mind still half somewhere else. Set timer. Sit on couch— 

By the time I got dinner on the table, I was on the edge of tears. Over… nothing in particular, or maybe things that happened to my characters that were not even quite canonical in their universes, dramatized montages, and certainly fictional in ours. My wife prodded at it—asking about both of the potential reasons for a long day I started with—but I shrugged it off, wasn’t up for much conversation, and mostly wanted to be left alone to fully return to my other worlds. I asked about her day instead. 

Finishing up dinner, unable to control the tears, I sat on the floor in the bathroom with the door closed and let them fall. It’s hard to explain the kind of tears you don’t really want to be soothed out of, especially when you’re not sure they’re over anything in particular, whether real or fictional. It’s like reading a sad book, or watching a sad movie, that is sad, yes, but good, so you don’t want to be interrupted. But not like, the tragic ending, or an especially climactic character death. More like one of those sad establishing character montages, like the exposition behind Do You Want To Build a Snowman, or the notorious, silent first minutes of Up. 

But in any case, I wasn’t ready to be done wallowing, so I hid for a few minutes until they came back under control, and my wife had gone upstairs. 

Then I went and did the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, some other evening tasks, before retreating to my office, door shut, which isn’t super frequent and is usually for focus (really, to keep the cats out and not on top of my notebook or keyboard). And wallowed on the floor again. 

To complete the wallowing, I heard the vaguely sad piano music. This wasn’t so surprising, for a second, as in place of my usual rain sounds or Harry Potter themed ASMR, I’ve been using a calm piano Spotify playlist as my office background noise the last few days. Except I was ninety-nine percent sure that my phone wasn’t playing anything—I had just brought it up from downstairs with me, where I’d shut the music while using the phone as a timer.  But there was the piano, clear, but soft, barely rising above the hum of the air conditioner. Not any tune I recognized, nor anything coherent. It would pause, then pick up with a different key or melody or volume, or I would just hear a random isolated note here or there for a minute. Finally, I threw myself up off the floor and checked the phone. Nothing. Not coming from the phone. Just me. 

This struck me as interesting. Previously, I wrote about going down on my medication and hallucinating the Evanescence song I’d had on repeat. I was—back on my regular med regimen—again hallucinating music, but it was a hodgepodge of the (sixteen hour) instrumental playlist I’d had on shuffle. I’d wondered before if I’d done something wrong with the Evanescence besides the med changes. If perhaps something in it emotionally was a trigger (some of the chorus lyrics included can you hear me, can you hear me which was almost begging to be hallucinated), or if I just really needed to lay off the repeat button. But here I was again. 

Back on the floor, pondering that, finally distracted properly from the daydreams, I also noticed something else. I don’t remember where it began now—just a few hours later—but I had the thought, I’m still at the Marriott, and it was becoming more and more gripping. 

So, as context, in May, I used some of the extra Marriott rewards points my wife and I had sitting around from pre pandemic business travel, and had my own writer’s retreat/staycation at a nearby hotel. It was supposed to be three nights. I—and my wife—had anticipated that things might get a little weird. That I would stay up a bit late, snack on a few too many cookies, and get super absorbed in my fictional worlds, using the retreat to block out distracting reality for a few days. But things got a lot weird.  

I think because I underestimated the physical neglect. On my last full day, I realized I hadn’t brought any water, and had only had a mouthful of tap water to take my meds, and milk, since I arrived. I remedied this with a bottle of water and a Gatorade from the sundry store, but I mostly forgot about them after a few sips of each. I had neglected real food almost entirely, despite the fact I teach a class about cooking on the road. When I did the pre pandemic business travel with my wife, I made us nice crock pot meals and simple side dishes in a hotel room with nothing more than an old microwave and leaking mini fridge. At home, I eat at least two scheduled meals a day. Yet, alone and lost in writing, I had stuck mostly to toast, fruit, cereal, and dessert. I also acquired a microwaveable mac and cheese cup as something closer to real food, but I later found it mysteriously still sitting in the microwave, filled with water to the right line, but uncooked and abandoned. 

I had stayed up almost all night the first night, despite my usual at home bedtime of 9:30, then dragged myself downstairs early to check out the continental breakfast.  My sleep was weird the next night, too.  By that last full day, I uncharacteristically impulsively took an extra caffeine pill (another 100mg) midday as someone sensitive to caffeine but who finds it one of the only effective things for managing my chronic pain (usually, the 100mg first thing in the morning). I had, realizing how late I’d stayed up and that I didn’t want to be in a coma all day, not taken the full dose of my antipsychotic med at least one night, either. 

I became a total wreck, and failing to find anything better available, had started self harming with manicure scissors, for the first time in almost four years. I calmed down enough to throw on some antibiotic ointment and call my wife and tell her all this. She was calm, appropriately concerned but understanding, and asked if I wanted to come home. I wasn’t sure. I tried to write some more. But by midnight, I realized the words had stopped coming that morning. After another phone call, she picked me up and took me home. 

Anyway, you can see how this makes sense as a source of a delusion. There’s a lot of stuff already wrapped up in there. Lying on my office floor tonight, I felt myself sinking into the idea that I had never left that Marriott.  That everything after was a hallucination, a dream, a… I wasn’t sure what. 

But we went to Tahoe, I thought, over and over, trying to counter the issue with more travel. In July, we took a trip with a friend and my Mom (a delayed Mother’s Day present for the busy schoolteacher) up to Lake Tahoe, got a beautiful Airbnb with gorgeous views and regular meals and sleep and meds. (Yet, it’s a picture of the Strip I took from my twenty-third floor Marriott room that lives on as my desktop background; I spent almost the whole time in front of that window, watching over the top of my notebook the flashing lights, the monorail passing by, the High Roller going around. The crazy city I’ve always called home.) It was like the never left the Marriott theory had come in a flash of enlightenment, but I was still thinking my way through it.  But… Tahoe. And everything else. 

I also had a slight grip, in a way, on the fact that the never left the Marriott thing was the actual delusion, and I was trying to avoid sinking into it, but also desperately mentally countering it, as if it needed to be countered and not ignored. I felt a phantom burning in my wrists that is usually a you want to cut kind of physical manifestation, but I thought, Or I’m dreaming. And they would hurt in real life because of what I had done with the manicure scissors that afternoon. 

And then, strangely, lying on my office floor, it all kind of went away. The daydreams were a vague temptation, but had no strong, magnetic grip on me. The piano notes grew further and further apart, then quieted, and there was just the neighbors talking in their yard on the other side of the wall. The Marriott theory was like something I’d read in a book once—interesting, but not demanding. The phantom burning subsided as I eyed the long healed faint marks. 

I took a swingset break, made us some Rice Krispie treats, cleaned the kitchen again, checked the Internet, started writing this—the most I’ve written all day—and got ready for bed. 

Well, let this weird day be over, then, and we’ll see what tomorrow looks like. I imagine I’ll be posting this then. 

(It is tomorrow now. I have been physically very woozy and off balance, but it was a good day. I went out with my mom and her dog to lunch and errands.) 

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