Christine N Rifkin – Author

Just a short introduction before we dive into a non-fiction piece I wanted to share with you all. A few months ago, I experienced a traumatic car accident that caused both physical and emotional damage. As someone who suffers from a bipolar disorder and takes medication for it, taking additional medications (like narcotics) on top of it pretty much negates its effects. So not only could I not walk, I felt like I was barely keeping my head above water emotionally. This piece was written when I was deep in a narcotic haze, trying to keep my eyes open during the day but screaming in my dreams at night. I’m finally out of that phase and I am thankful, but I will forever remember how it felt to be there, and not know how I was getting out.

Strange dreams. Waking up in pain. The daily routine.

Just one day, I’d like to wake up and stretch my legs, calves, ankles, toes…to the edge of the bed and just feel tall again. What is the point of counting the days I’ve been like this? It will only make the immense recovery time seem even more far away than it already was. Stay positive is the mantra. What is the other choice? Contemplating what will happen to my husband if I never wake up again?

Those thoughts among the recollection of that day’s events run through my mind at random times. Most commonly at the start of every day, when my eyes are already teary and ready to burst. The worst is when the thoughts stalk me at night. Metal twisting, air bags deploying. I see it because I saw it then. The repeating matinee for my mind just before I drift into another painless sleep. I hear the distant echo of my husband’s screams just before consciousness disappears. Then, I dream. From the time my eyes close, until they open again, I remain at the mercy of whatever film my brain has conjured up for the night.

Once, I was in a helicopter, as if that was a normal place to be. The cockpit shifted and my body felt as if it were sliding out of the door. Falling thousands of feet to the hard, green ground. It wasn’t the fall that woke me, it was the twitch of my broken, bandaged foot that I tried to keep still all night. Sharp, intense, blaring pain shot through my heel, up my calf and into my entire body. I screamed myself and my husband awake and said, “Please, I need a pill.”

How much longer? How much more? The answer: So much longer and so much more. What am I supposed to do at 10PM when my mind is in a haze, my eyes are glued open, and I can’t stop staring at the black clump behind the bedroom door.

Am I alive? Am I dead and unaware? I could float away into the ether and not feel a stitch of pain. This room is getting bigger and smaller at the same time as my breath. Is it a living creature? Am I stuck inside its belly? Please don’t let me die. Please don’t let these drugs take me beyond the realm of life. I thought I was scared before but now, I’m beyond scared. Unable to distinguish between anxiety and true fear.