By Zary Fekete
I’ve learned to carry with me a small pill box every day. You see, I have a series of
maladies.
I have an illness in speaking with strangers. I want to appear to them as the best human
they have ever met. Or at least I hope that they will forget me.
I may never see them again, but I worry myself sick over their unknowable thoughts.
When I am checking out at the grocery store I will silently catch the clerk’s eyes and suddenly
wonder, “Does she like me? Is she impressed with my good-natured comments about the day?
Does she feel like I’m a real human girl?”
So, I’ve learned when I see the clerk waiting it is best if I reach into my box to take a pill.
I have another worser condition. A sickness with people I already know. The problem
here is that of familiarity. We have a history together. They have a frame of reference. I cringe
when I feel these friends and acquaintances draw near. I assume that each moment I speak with
them that I am either improving my image in their eyes or I am slightly degrading it. I’m rising or falling.
Always. If I rose the last time we talked I hope to go months before seeing them again
so as not to chance another encounter. I want to leave them impressed. And then never need to
see them again.
I try to avoid these discussions whenever possible. Sometimes I go the long way round
the building or take the hallway on the floor below. When I cannot avoid them I reach into my
box for a pill.
Perhaps the most difficult moments are the times when I am with myself. I dislike myself
intensely. I fear myself because I know me extremely well. I know everything I have ever been
frightened of and every awful thing I have done or thought. I know all my weaknesses and I
exploit this knowledge mercilessly against me to my advantage. I accuse myself repeatedly. I
take delight in wallowing in my own wretched failure. You might think that I should be
sympathetic to myself and willing to help. Perhaps I should see myself as a needy orphan. Why
can’t I swoop in to rescue myself? No. I throw the self-inflicted darts the hardest.
The only thing that helps me in these moments with myself is to take a pill.
See now, let me show you my pill box. I’ll open it for you so that you can peer inside.
Ah, you’ve noticed…it is empty. There are no pills. Yet reaching for it is the only way to survive
the fear.
What is the fear, you might wonder? It is the memory of what I used to use to coat my
days. The mornings were aching and dry and my mind didn’t fully feel like my own until I could
drink. I could mentally map out the course of each day drink by drink. I would name the drinks.
This one is “Medicine”. The next one is “Morning”. The next…”Afternoon”… and “Evening”, and “Bedtime”
…and there were ones sprinkled in between like “Unexpected Socializing” or
“Booster Shot” or “Normal Face”. There were, truthfully, too many to name. But they are what
I used before I had a pill box.
Today there are no more drinks. Instead there is a white page…a just-raised pencil…a
determined twist of the lips. There is an empty pill box which I reach for every day.
Zary Fekete…
…grew up in Hungary
…has a debut chapbook of short stories out from Alien Buddha Press and a novelette (In the Beginning) coming out from ELJ Publications.
…enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter: @ZaryFekete
Hot Pot Magazine 