CAN YOU BRING MILK ON YOUR WAY HOME?

My troubles started on the subways.

I used to do a lot of speed back then. My friend at the time invited me over one weekend when he had just picked up his script for Vyvanse. In those days, we planned it so that when one of us finished our bottle early, it would be time for the other’s refill; we were never out of anything. Our moms paid no mind as they themselves were just as confused as we were: unhinged ghetto kids desperate not to get an education, but desperate to get out of ourselves.

When I left, I was just starting to come down, and coming down from uppers is probably the worst thing anyone can experience: all of your body except your heart and your brain is ready to go to sleep. It’s better if you have benzos on hand, but they were hard to come by since everyone in my high school except my friend and I were into kush and booze. We were friends because we shared one trait and one trait only, which was that we both learned to eat our food cold because his mom was always home, and mine never was. 

When I got to the subway station, I knew I was going to have a hard time because of the way I reacted to the sound of people coming and going up the escalator. I jumped at every little sound, and there were far too many people for my liking when I went down to the track. I tried to stay back as the train came in. The nausea started to find me so trying to fight for a seat wasn’t something I was interested in at that moment. I was more than happy to stand up and face a wall so I didn’t have to look at anyone and no one had to look at me.  

After getting on, I found a place towards the back of the car I was in where I could stand without too many people around me. I held a railing sitting directly above me, and rested my head in the crease of my elbow. The wheels screeching were too loud for my ears, and I felt like I was going to throw up since I hadn’t eaten anything in a couple of days. I closed my eyes to try and calm down so I could spare people whatever the hell I was going to do if I lost it. Although, it backfired on me because every so often I had to come up for air, but I couldn’t stay up for too long because I couldn’t look at people or else I felt like I was going to start crying.

I wish I would have just stayed down because one of the times I went up for air, it just so happened that we were going over the Prince Edward Viaduct. It’s this bridge that the train goes under. It's really nice; it overlooks part of the city with such a spectacular view that I couldn’t really put my head down just yet, even though I had seen that view many times. It was beautiful: graffiti on the walls of the trail that lay below, buildings on the side towered over, and the sun was saying goodbye to whoever wanted to hear it. It didn’t register until we got to my station that I had just watched someone jump off of the bridge a couple of feet away from the subway car I was in. I paused for a second and started to laugh because I thought of Wile E. Coyote falling into grey smoke.

I missed my stop, and got off at the next one but I couldn’t get back on the train. So I went up the stairs and walked out on the street where I walked and I walked, stopping occasionally to cry, throw up, go into a restaurant to order something to eat and then leave when the food came. I called my mom who never answered. No siblings, one friend, bad grades, and no money. The fucking guy looked like a ragdoll, thrown off a building like some science kindergarten science experiment. I hope someone still remembers him because I do. I’m here talking about him and I haven’t taken the subway in twenty-five years. I already see him enough when I’m asleep, I could go without seeing him when I’m awake.

Anyways, a couple of hours later it had gotten dark and I managed to get home. When I entered the apartment, it was pretty quiet since my mom probably had a late shift that night or something. I tried to go to bed, and I never bothered to take my clothes off, or my shoes. I’m Arab so I must have been in some state when I didn’t even take off my shoes for bed. I couldn’t sleep, but I also didn’t want to stay home so I always tried to find some excuse to not be home since I hated being there, which I won’t get into why right now. By now my friend was probably passed out so I couldn’t go back over and spend the night there. I put a pillow and a blanket into a duffel bag and headed out the door. I know for a fact I wouldn’t sleep so easily so I raided the medicine cabinet before I left.

I roamed the streets for hours before I found myself at the beach near all these beautiful houses. By now, an optometrist probably wouldn’t be able to see my pupils. I slept on the beach that night because of him, and it was probably the last time I slept well. I didn’t even think about it. I was too focused on how beautiful I felt with the waves in the background, and no one, not even god to bother me. 

Let someone sleep tonight and tomorrow, please. Don’t kill yourself. Don’t do that to someone. I can promise you, even if you go off into the woods or something, someone will still be affected by it. I don’t have anything good to offer you. I can’t be your friend because this hotline doesn’t allow me to take your contact information so we can meet in a coffee shop and you can tell me about your boss sucks or how your partner doesn’t pay attention to you anymore. I can’t give you money because I don’t have very much. I can’t give you a good reason to not do it because I can’t allow myself to be a hypocrite. I have heard too many people tell me their last words because they needed someone to say goodbye to, but I can’t do that anymore. I swear to god I can’t do that anymore. I thought I could help myself and others by working here, but it’s gotten to be too much. If you still want to do it, fine. Just realize that you are costing me my job, and I need to bring milk home to my daughter tonight.