The day I found out that David died, I immediately left work and went home. I laid or lay on my bed (which ever is grammatically correct) and stared at my ceiling fan. I FELT THE MOST ALONE I EVER HAD IN MY LIFE. Alone. I can't tell anyone what really happened. Alone. I can't let anyone see me cry (my secret fear). Alone. How do I go back to a job AS A SITCOM WRITER where I get paid TO BE FUNNY after this?
I will get fired.
They will see me when I come back to work and they will see right through me. They will see the sadness and the grief and they WILL GO BEHIND CLOSED DOORS and say "she will never be the same," "she cannot pull her own weight," "we should just cut our loses."
And then they will fire me.
Which in a weird way brought me relief... because I was in a deep black cold dark ocean with waves coming at me in both directions and everything they would say would be right and true. BUT THEN, the fact that if I DID NOT have that job and I had to lie or lay here in bed, all alone, staring that that ceiling fan with nothing but envisioning my cousin's murder, OVER AND OVER AND OVER again in my head, that's what might be THE END OF ME.
SO I PICKED UP THE TELEPHONE. Where I called a doctor after formulating a plan. That he would give me drugs. Happy pills, anti-depressants, not get fired from your job pills, horrible inexplicable situation pills, SOMETHING TO CUSHION THE BLOW pills.
Good idea.
I called and made the appointment. Now I just had to stare at the ceiling for eighteen more hours.
(To Be Continued - Right Now I'm Thing the Title Will Be "How To Act and Dress When You Are Asking A Reputable Doctor For MASSIVE AMOUNTS of Drugs."
