It's All in Your Head

It’s All in Your Head

Kintsugi: Death's Consent #3

Is something wrong with my mind? 

I follow the doctor’s pen left and right. 

“And... who’s the president?” she asks. 

I answer. My heart is pounding, throat dry, hands shaking. Will she believe something is wrong? 

She shrugs: “If you can look left and right, and you know who the president is; you don’t have brain damage.” 

“I feel fuzzy,” I say. “Weird, floating brain feeling.” 

“Any drug use?” it’s more an accusation than a question. 

“No,” I bark. “I don’t drink or smoke, either.” 

She’s looking at my shaking hands as she laughs: “Not at all?” 

I stare at her. She raises an eyebrow at me. I can't find different words to describe this feeling in my brain. I need her to understand, to believe me. She writes a prescription for pain killers.

“These are the same as over-the-counter, but they’ll be cheaper. Take ‘em as needed, you’re fine.” 

I sound like I'm begging when I say: “I hit my head three times on the side window.” 

She puts her hands on her hips: “How could you hit your head three times?” 

I sputter: “When they ran the stop sign. Again, when my car spun. Third, I hit the guardrail. Also, I forgot; the side airbag deployed late and hit me on the top of my head. That one hurt more—”  

She laughs: “Oh, you forgot? Come on,” she flexes her biceps at me. “Big strong man like you?” 

This comment breaks my brain. What the hell is she talking about? Am I acting weak? Am I so weak I don’t deserve treatment? 

“It’s all in your head, you’ll be fine,” she says, then walks out without saying goodbye. 

First, I feel rage: of course it’s all in my head, I’m worried about my brain, you moron. Then, shame: Why did I give up? Then panic: Why won’t anyone listen? Is my ability to communicate failing? 

I’m at the pharmacy, I only vaguely remember the trip here, so distracted by my thoughts. I’m holding a bottle of pain killers and some beef jerky waiting to check out. 

I’m home. The entire journey all seems so fast and yet... it’s dark outside. 

“It can’t be dark already,” I say to no one. 

What if I’m right? I won’t be able to work. I escaped the hell of government assistance when I left home as a kid. Sure, I was homeless right after, but homelessness is safer than government assistance. It took twenty years to get ahead from homelessness. I'd still be trapped if I'd been on assistance. Jen and I are in the process of buying our first home. We're moving in soon. 

“I won,” I say it like I’m trying to convince someone. 

Life’s supposed to get easy after you win. Happily ever after. What if I’m too broken to escape hell for a second time? I shake my head, it hurts my neck, my head pounds. 

“No,” I say under my breath, “I’m fine.” 

I must be fine. I must be. Think about how much school these doctors go through. Sure, her attitude was off, but facts are facts. I know who the president is. I look left. I look right. 

“It’s all in my head,” I say. 

I realize I'm inside my home, sitting in an old rocking chair. It squeaks as I glide back and forth. I open the bottle of pain killers, shake two pills out and swallow them. I stare out the window, into the darkness. It seems to grow, filling my vision. Then, I feel something move in my hand. 

I look down... I'm holding two pills. Didn’t I take them already? I swallow them, thinking: that's only one dose, right? 

I nod my head yes. Everything is fine. 

I tell myself: “It’s all in your head.”