Post by iamdatura on Jun 29, 2021 16:49:52 GMT -5
TW: Mental Illness/Addiction
Elizabeth’s leg bounces uncontrollably. Surrounded by clothing haphazardly thrown into mountains alongside the mess of blankets, she sits cross-legged in her king-sized mattress, her laptop propped up with several pillows. Her eyes glare at the bright white screen from beneath the shroud of a brown sheet.
Time doesn’t flow. Every second drips. Elizabeth looks down at her knee and flexes her thigh muscles, but no amount of willpower keeps her leg from moving.
Her focus is drawn back to the screen where a Zoom window opens without command. From the gray window and spinning wheel comes the face of one, Doctor Cameron Behringer. Elizabeth offers a lazy wave, and he responds with a smile and nod before adjusting his microphone and screen settings.
“Elizabeth! I must admit, I was surprised when I saw your name on my appointment logs,” he says with a coy smirk.
“Well, you know. I figured it was time to get an expert opinion or two.” Elizabeth rolls her eyes.
“Good. Good. Are we still about the same place as last time?”
“Yeah. Minor changes here and there. Nothing major. Been working on myself. Going to meetings. The normal.”
“Wonderful to hear. Any current medications?”
“None prescribed.”
“Ah.” Cameron turns his attention away from the screen and writes a note in his legal pad.“Feelings of worthlessness?” he asks. Elizabeth shifts and pulls the blanket in tighter.
“Yeah.”
“Low self-esteem?
“Most days.”
“Mmm,” Cameron responds, turning his head and making another note. As he does, Elizabeth repositions herself again, stretching out her right leg in an attempt to keep still. “Feelings of guilt?”
“Still there.” She frowns. “It just doesn’t go away.”
“Thoughts of suicide or death?”
Elizabeth hesitates. “No.”
Cameron makes another note. “How are the panic attacks?”
Elizabeth sighs. “Every other day, at least.”
Cameron shakes his head and makes another note. “I know you have your aversions, but considering where we are, I think we can try a short script of Alprazolam…”
Elizabeth shakes her head. “Not interested.”
Cameron sucks his teeth and leans back, clasping his hands in front of him. “Elizabeth…”
“Not. Interested,” she retorts, shaking her head again. “I am not putting myself in that position again.”
“Well, we could try something in the same class less prone to…” Cameron trails off, noticing the glare emanating from Elizabeth on his screen. After a few moments of thought, he continues, “If you’re completely uninterested in benzodiazepines, we can try something else. Have you tried Duloxetine?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Cymbalta. It’s an SNRI. Should help with the depression, anxiety, and nerve pain once we increase the dosage and get you settled on it. We’ll start you on twenty milligrams and couple it with one hundred milligrams of hydroxyzine for the anxiety. It’s an antihistamine, but it has shown promise for anxiety. Completely non-habit forming.”
Elizabeth brings her thumb up to her mouth and bites down on her nail. “Okay. I’ll try.”
Cameron smiles. “Good.” He scribbles furiously into his pad and rubs his chin. “Now, keep in mind that you will not see immediate results like you would with Xanax or Ativan. For the next two weeks, you’re likely going to have mild side effects.”
“Like?”
“Minor GI discomfort. Tiredness, especially with the hydroxyzine.”
Elizabeth lets out a sigh. “Well, at least it’s something to look forward to.”
“Speaking of things to look forward to,” Cameron flips a page in his pad and taps his pen. “Rumor has it you’re returning to full time competition?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Well, if you are truly trying to get back into full time competition, I believe this will help when you get into the swing of things, especially with something like Clash of the Icons. How are you preparing?” He tilts his head.
“I…” she sighs, “I haven’t. Not really. I can’t get over—”
Cameron offers a sincere smile. “After a loss like that, anyone could end up where you are. Especially under the circumstances.”
“I just. How could I be so stupid? Rolled up in the main event? After surviving that scaffold match? I just—”
“I know, Elizabeth. I know. Remember who you’re talking to.” Elizabeth averts her gaze from the screen and nods. “Listen, my job is to get you feeling like yourself again. If you find yourself in a situation where you cannot manage the anxiety, seriously consider additional medication.” He raises his hand as Elizabeth begins to respond. “Just remember: I am here. I know what signs of misuse look like.”
“Noted,” she groans.
Cameron’s eyes dart to the clock. “You mentioned meetings. How is NA going?”
Elizabeth grits her teeth. “Honestly?”
Cameron nods and taps his pen on his desk. “I understand. Progress isn’t always linear or guaranteed. Sometimes it’s start and stop. I’ll include a prescription for Suboxone.”
“That would be good. Thanks.”
“Elizabeth?” She looks up without moving her head. “Despite your setbacks, I am proud of you. You’re making a lot of progress. When are you seeing your therapist again?”
“I don’t know,” she mumbles.
“Speak up,” Behringer says, firmly.
“I don’t know. I canceled the appointment.”
“Elizabeth.” Cameron quirks his brow. “You know better.”
“I know. I know.”
“You know what?”
“I’ll schedule it in the morning.”
“Excellent.” Cameron chuckles. “I’ll send these over to the pharmacy. You should be able to pick them up later today. Anything else?”
“It was good to see you again, doc.”
“I could not agree more. I’ll put you down for two weeks?”
“I’ll see you then. Ciao.”
“Be well, Elizabeth.”
“Be well, Cameron.”
The ding of the window closing presented Elizabeth with a pang of sadness. It festers in her gut and spills upward. She wipes a stray tear from her left eye and closes her laptop before laying back in her bed.
Progress may not be guaranteed.
But failure is.
---
Waves of sunlight flood through four symmetrical, rectangular windows that make up the northern wall of Elizabeth Mauduit’s secluded cabin. The five wooden pillars spaced between each pane of glass are covered in dim floating string-lights, and each sill is covered with various plant life in ornate pots. Against the foreground of cactus, succulents, snake plants, and sprouts, outside, a river rushes against a backdrop of mountains and trees.
In front of the windows is a dark oak desk, littered with books of various sizes, some open, some not. Datura sits in a wicker chair, her back to the camera, eyes glued to faded pages of a paperback book resting in her left hand. Her right pointer finger glides across the worn page as she reads. Upon closer inspection, each book is a collection of various places and times, the collected and recorded works of various civilizations and their achievements.
“History…” she mutters, not looking up from the book. Several seconds of silence follow as she licks her finger and flips to the following page. “It’s a fascinating subject. If I have learned anything over the last year, it is that being a part of it is not always a pleasant experience. I told myself I no longer wanted to be involved in historic moments. And yet…”
As she trails off, Datura gently closes the book and slightly turns her head, looking back over her shoulder. “Here we are.” Elizabeth presses her hands onto the armrests of her chair and pushes herself to her feet. She averts her eyes in front of her, staring outside through the glass.
“History rarely affords us the opportunity to shape how the world will see us. Time carves its way with little regard to things like comfort. But at Clash of the Icons, five of us will enter the VFW hall in Bethesda, Ohio, and one of us will leave having earned one such precious occasion.” Datura sighs, crossing her arms.
“How I wish I had been given more time to acquaint myself with you all. It is a shame our introduction will come at the death rattle of Ascension. I want so badly to know you all, and for you to know me. But our time is short, and I refuse to bore you with my own history as so many newcompetitors are ought to do. Instead, I want to answer a simple question I’ve been asked rather frequently as of late. Why? Why join Ascension in the first place?”
Datura inhales deeply through her nostrils and sighs through her mouth. She uncrosses her arms and leans back, pressing her palms into the top of her desk. “On May Second, I competed for the Supreme Championship Wrestling World Championship against Cid Turner. If you are not familiar, I would advise you look into his work.” She waves her hand. “Before that match, Cid said something that struck me. He said, ‘Sunday is just another valley among your life’s peaks, but it is my honor to be that valley, because I know what it represents. It’s your final valley. The last one you’ll ever have to dig yourself out of before reaching that ultimate peak.’ Poetic. Isn’t it?” She tilts her head and pauses to reflect.
“I am… not the most reliable athlete you will ever encounter in this business. I have squandered opportunities and failed on more occasions than I can count. My career is a collage of close, but not close enough.” She raises a finger. “I have spent the better part of my career justifying my losses. You know exactly the type of soliloquy:” She clears her throat. “On the last show, I came up short. I was bested. But next time! But next time! But next time… ” She laughs.
“For four of us, there is no next time. Not here. In death, Ascension Wrestling Federation snatches our ability to redeem ourselves, our ability to rise from the ashes, as it were.” Her fingers begin to tap against the desk.
“Mister Fury,” she says, her mouth turning to a pout. “I truly believe that if we had only had more time together, you and I may have been close acquaintances. Perhaps even friends. I can see you’re a man of… particular interests. Particular faith.” She extends her arms as if to showcase her wide collection of pagan symbology covering the nearby walls. “Perhaps we do not havethe same faith, but we have faith nonetheless. We appear to have similar aesthetics and tastes. I watched your little prayer several times now.” Elizabeth raises her finger to her lips.
“You know, for a moment there, I thought you had Andrew Morgan beat at A Call to Arms. You started off rather strong. It was an untimely setback for you, but I would not say it was a failure. I cannot think of any names, from any company, who would have survived going head first into those bars.” She uses her middle finger to trace her own forehead where Fury was split open. “Frankly, it was simply unfortunate how that suplex ended. Couldn’t have been helped. But Redmond, I promise: I forgive you.” She offers a gentle smile and a wink.
“Don’t think in defeat I will take you any less seriously. You are still a technician.” She shakes her head. “Oh, it looked so natural when you drove your head into Morgan’s and transitioned out of that bear hug. You were like a vine wrapping your way around a branch. That is the type of elegance I so look forward to.” She smiles and tilts her head to the side, allowing a thunderous pop to escape her discs.
“You are an excellent candidate to represent Ascension Wrestling at Night or Champions. I mean, you have already beaten Xiaolong once, and should he best Mister Adkins, I see no reason why you could not put on a repeat performance. Imagine. Redmond Fury, the final Phoenix Champion.” Datura peers off past the camera.
“Alas, there are others.” She clicks her tongue and feigns disappointment. Her eyes shift upward as she thinks about the additional competitors. “All wild cards, all for different reasons.”
“Consider Mister Smith, for example.” She rubs her chin. “Some, perhaps the inexperienced, would look at Mister Smith’s recent string of losses as cause for comfort.” She shakes her head. “I disagree. Three episodes of Prestige in a row, he failed. Now, if I were him, I would feel trapped in a corner, and I am wise enough to know what dogs do when they are backed against the wall.” Elizabeth tilts her head and raises her brows.
“It is not often a name so perfectly encapsulates a competitor, but Mad Dog reflects as it should, and I’m more than familiar with that level of instability and what it can do in-between the ropes.” She suddenly grimaces and grasps her shoulder, squeezing the muscle. “Though, after that apron piledriver, I’m sure you are familiar as well, Mister Smith? I do hope that you're at one hundred percent come the fourth.”
“Which leaves Ace Sky and Sam Sawyer.” Datura wags her finger. “Though I pride myself as somewhat of a researcher, I haven’t quite had the opportunity to sit down and study these two, which is always exciting, don’t you think? It seems appropriate considering how scant my own story is. I hope, for all of our sakes, you all do a bit of digging. I will. Watch me. Study my failures. I have.” Datura smiles.
“The only question left to ask
is who will sculpt their way forward
and who will be the stone?”
—-
Th-
Elizabeth’s heart sends vibrations down her ear canals as it pounds against her sternum. Her eyes lock onto her reflection, and her fingers claw at the countertop of her vanity, her hands tapping against the wood as they shake. She inhales a deep and choppy breath through her nose, then exhales, inhales a deep and choppy breath, then exhales, breathes in
“Fuck.”
The tension in Datura’s chest tightens. She fumbles for the hydroxyzine, dumps two into her hand, and swallows them dry. The harsh taste as it dissolves makes her gag, and she flicks on the spicket and puts her mouth under the faucet, trying to wash it out. She then moves on to the flattened box of Suboxone, removes a wrapper, removes the film, and forces it under her tongue.
Elizabeth feebly sits, pressing her back against the vanity. From the bathroom, she peers into her main living area. Clothes are strewn about on furniture; sheets and pillows litter the floor; empty cups and plates decorate random flat surfaces. She presses the back of her head against the doors of the cabinet.
“What a mess.”
Th-
Thump
TH-
THUMP.
Elizabeth’s leg bounces uncontrollably. Surrounded by clothing haphazardly thrown into mountains alongside the mess of blankets, she sits cross-legged in her king-sized mattress, her laptop propped up with several pillows. Her eyes glare at the bright white screen from beneath the shroud of a brown sheet.
The session will begin when your provider joins.
Time doesn’t flow. Every second drips. Elizabeth looks down at her knee and flexes her thigh muscles, but no amount of willpower keeps her leg from moving.
DING
Her focus is drawn back to the screen where a Zoom window opens without command. From the gray window and spinning wheel comes the face of one, Doctor Cameron Behringer. Elizabeth offers a lazy wave, and he responds with a smile and nod before adjusting his microphone and screen settings.
“Elizabeth! I must admit, I was surprised when I saw your name on my appointment logs,” he says with a coy smirk.
“Well, you know. I figured it was time to get an expert opinion or two.” Elizabeth rolls her eyes.
“Good. Good. Are we still about the same place as last time?”
“Yeah. Minor changes here and there. Nothing major. Been working on myself. Going to meetings. The normal.”
“Wonderful to hear. Any current medications?”
“None prescribed.”
“Ah.” Cameron turns his attention away from the screen and writes a note in his legal pad.“Feelings of worthlessness?” he asks. Elizabeth shifts and pulls the blanket in tighter.
“Yeah.”
“Low self-esteem?
“Most days.”
“Mmm,” Cameron responds, turning his head and making another note. As he does, Elizabeth repositions herself again, stretching out her right leg in an attempt to keep still. “Feelings of guilt?”
“Still there.” She frowns. “It just doesn’t go away.”
“Thoughts of suicide or death?”
Elizabeth hesitates. “No.”
Cameron makes another note. “How are the panic attacks?”
Elizabeth sighs. “Every other day, at least.”
Cameron shakes his head and makes another note. “I know you have your aversions, but considering where we are, I think we can try a short script of Alprazolam…”
Elizabeth shakes her head. “Not interested.”
Cameron sucks his teeth and leans back, clasping his hands in front of him. “Elizabeth…”
“Not. Interested,” she retorts, shaking her head again. “I am not putting myself in that position again.”
“Well, we could try something in the same class less prone to…” Cameron trails off, noticing the glare emanating from Elizabeth on his screen. After a few moments of thought, he continues, “If you’re completely uninterested in benzodiazepines, we can try something else. Have you tried Duloxetine?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Cymbalta. It’s an SNRI. Should help with the depression, anxiety, and nerve pain once we increase the dosage and get you settled on it. We’ll start you on twenty milligrams and couple it with one hundred milligrams of hydroxyzine for the anxiety. It’s an antihistamine, but it has shown promise for anxiety. Completely non-habit forming.”
Elizabeth brings her thumb up to her mouth and bites down on her nail. “Okay. I’ll try.”
Cameron smiles. “Good.” He scribbles furiously into his pad and rubs his chin. “Now, keep in mind that you will not see immediate results like you would with Xanax or Ativan. For the next two weeks, you’re likely going to have mild side effects.”
“Like?”
“Minor GI discomfort. Tiredness, especially with the hydroxyzine.”
Elizabeth lets out a sigh. “Well, at least it’s something to look forward to.”
“Speaking of things to look forward to,” Cameron flips a page in his pad and taps his pen. “Rumor has it you’re returning to full time competition?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Well, if you are truly trying to get back into full time competition, I believe this will help when you get into the swing of things, especially with something like Clash of the Icons. How are you preparing?” He tilts his head.
“I…” she sighs, “I haven’t. Not really. I can’t get over—”
Cameron offers a sincere smile. “After a loss like that, anyone could end up where you are. Especially under the circumstances.”
“I just. How could I be so stupid? Rolled up in the main event? After surviving that scaffold match? I just—”
“I know, Elizabeth. I know. Remember who you’re talking to.” Elizabeth averts her gaze from the screen and nods. “Listen, my job is to get you feeling like yourself again. If you find yourself in a situation where you cannot manage the anxiety, seriously consider additional medication.” He raises his hand as Elizabeth begins to respond. “Just remember: I am here. I know what signs of misuse look like.”
“Noted,” she groans.
Cameron’s eyes dart to the clock. “You mentioned meetings. How is NA going?”
Elizabeth grits her teeth. “Honestly?”
Cameron nods and taps his pen on his desk. “I understand. Progress isn’t always linear or guaranteed. Sometimes it’s start and stop. I’ll include a prescription for Suboxone.”
“That would be good. Thanks.”
“Elizabeth?” She looks up without moving her head. “Despite your setbacks, I am proud of you. You’re making a lot of progress. When are you seeing your therapist again?”
“I don’t know,” she mumbles.
“Speak up,” Behringer says, firmly.
“I don’t know. I canceled the appointment.”
“Elizabeth.” Cameron quirks his brow. “You know better.”
“I know. I know.”
“You know what?”
“I’ll schedule it in the morning.”
“Excellent.” Cameron chuckles. “I’ll send these over to the pharmacy. You should be able to pick them up later today. Anything else?”
“It was good to see you again, doc.”
“I could not agree more. I’ll put you down for two weeks?”
“I’ll see you then. Ciao.”
“Be well, Elizabeth.”
“Be well, Cameron.”
The ding of the window closing presented Elizabeth with a pang of sadness. It festers in her gut and spills upward. She wipes a stray tear from her left eye and closes her laptop before laying back in her bed.
Progress may not be guaranteed.
But failure is.
---
Waves of sunlight flood through four symmetrical, rectangular windows that make up the northern wall of Elizabeth Mauduit’s secluded cabin. The five wooden pillars spaced between each pane of glass are covered in dim floating string-lights, and each sill is covered with various plant life in ornate pots. Against the foreground of cactus, succulents, snake plants, and sprouts, outside, a river rushes against a backdrop of mountains and trees.
In front of the windows is a dark oak desk, littered with books of various sizes, some open, some not. Datura sits in a wicker chair, her back to the camera, eyes glued to faded pages of a paperback book resting in her left hand. Her right pointer finger glides across the worn page as she reads. Upon closer inspection, each book is a collection of various places and times, the collected and recorded works of various civilizations and their achievements.
“History…” she mutters, not looking up from the book. Several seconds of silence follow as she licks her finger and flips to the following page. “It’s a fascinating subject. If I have learned anything over the last year, it is that being a part of it is not always a pleasant experience. I told myself I no longer wanted to be involved in historic moments. And yet…”
As she trails off, Datura gently closes the book and slightly turns her head, looking back over her shoulder. “Here we are.” Elizabeth presses her hands onto the armrests of her chair and pushes herself to her feet. She averts her eyes in front of her, staring outside through the glass.
“History rarely affords us the opportunity to shape how the world will see us. Time carves its way with little regard to things like comfort. But at Clash of the Icons, five of us will enter the VFW hall in Bethesda, Ohio, and one of us will leave having earned one such precious occasion.” Datura sighs, crossing her arms.
“How I wish I had been given more time to acquaint myself with you all. It is a shame our introduction will come at the death rattle of Ascension. I want so badly to know you all, and for you to know me. But our time is short, and I refuse to bore you with my own history as so many newcompetitors are ought to do. Instead, I want to answer a simple question I’ve been asked rather frequently as of late. Why? Why join Ascension in the first place?”
Datura inhales deeply through her nostrils and sighs through her mouth. She uncrosses her arms and leans back, pressing her palms into the top of her desk. “On May Second, I competed for the Supreme Championship Wrestling World Championship against Cid Turner. If you are not familiar, I would advise you look into his work.” She waves her hand. “Before that match, Cid said something that struck me. He said, ‘Sunday is just another valley among your life’s peaks, but it is my honor to be that valley, because I know what it represents. It’s your final valley. The last one you’ll ever have to dig yourself out of before reaching that ultimate peak.’ Poetic. Isn’t it?” She tilts her head and pauses to reflect.
“I am… not the most reliable athlete you will ever encounter in this business. I have squandered opportunities and failed on more occasions than I can count. My career is a collage of close, but not close enough.” She raises a finger. “I have spent the better part of my career justifying my losses. You know exactly the type of soliloquy:” She clears her throat. “On the last show, I came up short. I was bested. But next time! But next time! But next time… ” She laughs.
“For four of us, there is no next time. Not here. In death, Ascension Wrestling Federation snatches our ability to redeem ourselves, our ability to rise from the ashes, as it were.” Her fingers begin to tap against the desk.
“Mister Fury,” she says, her mouth turning to a pout. “I truly believe that if we had only had more time together, you and I may have been close acquaintances. Perhaps even friends. I can see you’re a man of… particular interests. Particular faith.” She extends her arms as if to showcase her wide collection of pagan symbology covering the nearby walls. “Perhaps we do not havethe same faith, but we have faith nonetheless. We appear to have similar aesthetics and tastes. I watched your little prayer several times now.” Elizabeth raises her finger to her lips.
“You know, for a moment there, I thought you had Andrew Morgan beat at A Call to Arms. You started off rather strong. It was an untimely setback for you, but I would not say it was a failure. I cannot think of any names, from any company, who would have survived going head first into those bars.” She uses her middle finger to trace her own forehead where Fury was split open. “Frankly, it was simply unfortunate how that suplex ended. Couldn’t have been helped. But Redmond, I promise: I forgive you.” She offers a gentle smile and a wink.
“Don’t think in defeat I will take you any less seriously. You are still a technician.” She shakes her head. “Oh, it looked so natural when you drove your head into Morgan’s and transitioned out of that bear hug. You were like a vine wrapping your way around a branch. That is the type of elegance I so look forward to.” She smiles and tilts her head to the side, allowing a thunderous pop to escape her discs.
“You are an excellent candidate to represent Ascension Wrestling at Night or Champions. I mean, you have already beaten Xiaolong once, and should he best Mister Adkins, I see no reason why you could not put on a repeat performance. Imagine. Redmond Fury, the final Phoenix Champion.” Datura peers off past the camera.
“Alas, there are others.” She clicks her tongue and feigns disappointment. Her eyes shift upward as she thinks about the additional competitors. “All wild cards, all for different reasons.”
“Consider Mister Smith, for example.” She rubs her chin. “Some, perhaps the inexperienced, would look at Mister Smith’s recent string of losses as cause for comfort.” She shakes her head. “I disagree. Three episodes of Prestige in a row, he failed. Now, if I were him, I would feel trapped in a corner, and I am wise enough to know what dogs do when they are backed against the wall.” Elizabeth tilts her head and raises her brows.
“It is not often a name so perfectly encapsulates a competitor, but Mad Dog reflects as it should, and I’m more than familiar with that level of instability and what it can do in-between the ropes.” She suddenly grimaces and grasps her shoulder, squeezing the muscle. “Though, after that apron piledriver, I’m sure you are familiar as well, Mister Smith? I do hope that you're at one hundred percent come the fourth.”
“Which leaves Ace Sky and Sam Sawyer.” Datura wags her finger. “Though I pride myself as somewhat of a researcher, I haven’t quite had the opportunity to sit down and study these two, which is always exciting, don’t you think? It seems appropriate considering how scant my own story is. I hope, for all of our sakes, you all do a bit of digging. I will. Watch me. Study my failures. I have.” Datura smiles.
“The only question left to ask
is who will sculpt their way forward
and who will be the stone?”
—-
Th-
thump
th-Thump
TH-THUMP
Elizabeth’s heart sends vibrations down her ear canals as it pounds against her sternum. Her eyes lock onto her reflection, and her fingers claw at the countertop of her vanity, her hands tapping against the wood as they shake. She inhales a deep and choppy breath through her nose, then exhales, inhales a deep and choppy breath, then exhales, breathes in
“Fuck.”
The tension in Datura’s chest tightens. She fumbles for the hydroxyzine, dumps two into her hand, and swallows them dry. The harsh taste as it dissolves makes her gag, and she flicks on the spicket and puts her mouth under the faucet, trying to wash it out. She then moves on to the flattened box of Suboxone, removes a wrapper, removes the film, and forces it under her tongue.
Th
Thump
Th
Thump
Elizabeth feebly sits, pressing her back against the vanity. From the bathroom, she peers into her main living area. Clothes are strewn about on furniture; sheets and pillows litter the floor; empty cups and plates decorate random flat surfaces. She presses the back of her head against the doors of the cabinet.
“What a mess.”
Th-
thump
thump
Thump
TH-
THUMP.