I sit and my head pounds and I sit and put my head in my hands and my hands start to pound and I sit. Now I realize my hands are starting to shake and I stand and I pace and I try to get the blood pumping. Yes, Blood circulation and I pace and I pace and I feel each step in my head and I'm still shaking.
Water. Yes. Drink water. Sustenance. Bread. I pour water into a mug--my favorite mug with two geese on the side and the quaint saying, "home is where you hang your heart"-- a thrift store find for sure. I stick a piece of wheat bread into the toaster and wait, cupping my mug with both hands because this is how you are supposed to hold mugs. And my toast comes up and I get too excited and I burn my forefinger slightly on the newly deep brown crust. Butter. Real butter-- not fake "I-can't-believe-it's-not-butter" butter, because I can believe it's not because I was raised to appreciate the good, rich, fattening taste of real butter.
I sit at the table, buttered toast, goose mug. And I try to silence the pounding in my head. It's now at the front, on the side-- my temporal lobe, I was taught in human anatomy.
I get a book to take my mind off of this thing in my head that is screaming at me. The pages seem blank or at least utterly void of anything that makes sense and I put the book down by throwing it across the room, knowing my fellow English majors would consider this complete blasphemy. Something. Something. I need something.
The t.v. and I turn it on and I crunch my buttered toast and I don't even know what I am watching because my head is screaming and my hands are shaking and I look at the melting butter and it says "you don't even appreciate me right now" and I try to assure it that I do-- that I-can't-believe-it's-so good, but I can't. I can't taste it. I haven't tasted anything for this entire week.
I turn off the t.v.
I lay down. I abandon my toast and butter and goose mug and water and lay down. No time to make it to the couch. I am on the kitchen floor and I am laying down and my temporal lobe is the son of a drummer's boy and I am closing my eyes but I can't stop seeing, thinking, pounding, shaking.
I sit up.
I want to cry, but don't for my roommate's sake. I am rolling on the floor. I am taking Advil that I know won't help and I finish the water and the toast.
I am cold inside and my body is mad at me and I am mad at me for bringing me here in the first place.
Here--detox, this place of endless waiting. I will never be the way I once was. I now live the life of an addict and those addicted always need something. Something. But toast, even butter doesn't work. Not water, the purest of all. Not modern man's medicine. Not even the book flung across the room. Words are empty. Days, emptier still.
And I break. I get out the beans. I get out the grinder. The smell alone is beginning to bring me back and soon the pot is brewing and my heart beat is becoming regular and my body is already drinking it in through my pores. I refill my goose mug and pour, slowly, deliberately, passionately.
I sit and I drink and I do not shake. Yes, my detox from coffee is a place of endless waiting, and it is one of which I am not patient enough to reach the other side.
I will try again next week.