Klonopin
By: Hannah Mae
Tags: Psychology, Domestic Violence, Veterinary, Creative Non Fiction, Creative Writing

My psychiatrist and I sit in the pin-drop quiet room, overlooking the Wells Fargo parking lot, listening as the printer sputters out my prescription for another two months. We both know this dance. He lectures at me while I nod and pretend to write notes at his general advice, stories and anecdotes routinely recycled to fit the topic. Minimize eye contact as much as possible.

Sometimes I get up the nerve to open my mouth with a

Uh, well

or a

I mean, actually

But he bulldozes on, either unaware or uninterested in the particulars.

My frustration each time is somewhat assuaged by the chocolate lab in the office. He isn’t neutered and I try not to stare at his testicles the entire 15 minutes, imaging how quick it would be to just put him under, and make the small incision, the vet pinching them out,

One

Two

The vesicles tied off and layers of sutures completed almost before the initial dose of Propofol wears off and the Iso kicks in. I can tell he is older by his oily fur, and greying muzzle; dog musk wafting over to me mixing with the leather couch, but he seems content and sleeps the entire appointment, oblivious.

No one wants to be here, and I feign ignorance about the underlying cause of the night terrors and panic attacks. The alarming decrease of time I spend outside my apartment.

I still find the motivation to drive down your street though.

Keeping track of you makes me feel safe. Try to spot your silver Subaru in the parking lot, the one I helped you pick out. A common sight in Colorado, but I memorized your license plate long ago. They put a weird modern art statue in the middle of your complex and I know you must hate it.

I shrug at the doctor,

“I guess I’ve always just had anxiety”

He will throw out words like insomnia, general anxiety disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder.

But never grief, fear, PTSD. My perpetual shadows.

I have a theory that men who don’t neuter their dogs have underlying masculinity issues. As I stare at the gaunt, pale man in front of me, I can’t tell if that’s what’s at play here. Or if it even matters as he hands me the prescription, sixty Klonopin for 30 days. It’s a benzodiazepine, similar to Valium, known for it’s anti-anxiety effects. We sometimes give the same class of drugs to dogs that have seizures.

I know that this is too much, but this is transactional, we keep it shallow. I give him $250 and he gives me the drugs to block out the cacophony of you.

I’ve never mentioned you though. I can’t. I am just starting to get my strength back. I do not feel scrappy or confident or strong after leaving. I am an open wound, the scab and keratin and clotting factors desperately clinging to each other.

I stop at a drive-through on my way home and wash down two tablets with french fries and a large diet coke. Waiting for the wave of warmth over my brain.

I can think again.

My first time taking it I waited in the dark, lying on my smoke stained, threadbare carpet. I remember the second the switch had been flipped in my muddled brain: the thoughts ran straight and narrow, the frenetic energy pushed away, the whispers in the back of my mind silenced. I couldn’t believe it.

I walked around in awe, wondering if this is how normal people experienced the world, without the crippling doubt and fear.

My first thought is relief.

My second thought is raging jealousy.

No wonder people finished their degrees, answered text messages regularly, and went grocery shopping more than once a month. No wonder people could forget their ex-boyfriends.

I leashed up Jackson in his red harness, no longer hesitant to run into someone outside, and we walked for an hour. As he trots in front of me, my breath comes deep and easy. Without hesitation I pull out my phone and call my dad, my voice steady and sure, the stutter absent like my fear of you.

This was my fleeting gateway to normalcy.

I come back to the office in six weeks for my refill, and the old chocolate lab is gone. A new puppy bounces, locked in a crate. I don’t ask what happened, because I don’t want to know, and instead zone out, nodding at the appropriate prompts, and wondering how many identical chocolate labs had been there before.