Chapter 1: Rabbit Holes
“I said, ‘No!’”
Silence filled the room. Oscar held his breath, shocked and unsure if he had spoken out loud or imagined that, too. These conversations rarely escalated to actual speech. He wondered if the neighbors heard him yelling. More importantly, he wondered if they realized he argued with the voices in his head, staring at an empty corner of the room.
“Fuck,” he muttered, coming back to reality.
They weren’t hallucinations.
He knew he was alone.
Sundays were the hardest. The mornings were fine, but by the afternoon the overwhelming sense of dread crept in like a thief in the night. It stole his peace. It stole his sleep. At the thought of his day job, something deep inside of him revolted, like a dog digging its claws into the concrete sidewalk, or yanking at its leash, unwilling to be pulled by the neck into the vet’s office.
For decades, he spent Sundays preparing for battle. He donned the emotional and mental battle armor every week. When he originally became an IT Project Manager, he had planned to stay for a few years until his art business succeeded. But month after month, year after year, he let the mediocre suck the ambition from his veins and replace it with their blandness.
They controlled him now. A personnel number represented his identity as a company resource. His salary chained him to the corporate world, so long as he wanted to eat and afford a decent place. And now, every Sunday evening, something within him cried out in protest.
It happened at the drop of a hat. One triggering word from a book or blog post, one emotional memory attached to a song, or the sight of an everyday object, brought forth negative emotions attached to an unhappy conversation. He could never remember the triggers. That made them all the more powerful. His imagination had the remarkable capability to turn his emotions against him. Before he knew it, his thoughts raced down the usual rabbit hole of his Sunday evening anxiety.
He stared off into space. Sometimes, he wondered what he might look like to someone who entered the room, catching him in one of his episodes. With his eyes wide open, he dreamed, making facial expressions as though he was in conversation, and on rare occasion, speaking out loud to the energy of someone not there.
Within these rabbit holes, he was fully in charge of the scenario, though it often didn’t feel that way. His imagination had the speed of a wild horse. He couldn’t recall what those people from his past had said to him word for word, but he remembered the emotional impressions they stamped on his spirit. He remembered the feeling of being bullied, manipulated, undermined, harassed, cast aside, or stabbed in the back. The more he thought about it, the stronger the feelings grew, even years later.
The emotions were still there, inside of him, holding on for dear life. They left gaping wounds in his psyche, which never properly healed. Now, they festered and clung to him; They dug their claws into his soul.
Disappointment.
Condescendence.
Violation.
Betrayal.
Assault.
Rage.
Conversations replayed in his head and veered off course toward complete derailment. He feared that one day he wouldn’t be able to hold it back—he’d snap and let everything unravel, making him a true mad man. He’d likely lose his job for lashing out if it came down to that. In the company, he had witnessed it three times before: someone would snap, go to an employee assistance program, and never return.
Once it resulted in an employee suicide on the steps to his office building. He didn’t know the man well, but he knew they had the same job title and held some common management personnel. He understood the pressure. He understood why the man returned to work to blow his brains out. He wanted to show them what they’d done.
He struggled in these moments to stop the momentum of his thoughts and only seemed capable of imagining worst-case scenarios. Never once had he successfully steered the conversations in his head toward a tactful resolution. He often wondered what was wrong with the wiring in his brain that prevented him from imagining happy occasions, winning arguments, and standing up to bullies, while his coworkers lifted him onto their shoulders in celebration.
Deep within the rabbit holes, his heartbeat escalated. His breathing grew rapid and shallow. Sweat formed within his clenched fists and along his brow. When it became painful, his thoughts came back to the present moment and he realized he was thinking about work, or conversations with an ex, about situations that never happened, and likely never would. Most of the people in his imagination no longer existed in his physical life, but he held onto his contempt for them.
He had no idea how to control the intrusive thoughts. He feared they might kill him or drive him insane, leading him to a life spent locked in a white-walled room, talking to imaginary people. It was too embarrassing to tell others. People always joked that talking to yourself was a sign that you were crazy, but what about talking to people you knew weren’t there?
Staring at the covers, he knew he wouldn’t find sleep in this state. Without much thought, he sauntered over to the dry bar in the living room, and flipped a glass tumbler right side up, whiskey bottle already in hand. He didn’t need to turn the light on to know where the bottle set. Woodford Reserve. Double Oaked. He pulled the cork and poured the dark amber liquid into the glass. With a single snap of his head, the whiskey charged down his throat.
He wandered over to his vinyl collection and plucked a Daniel Castro album from the lot, looking for a distraction, or anything else to help him sleep. Placing it gingerly on the player, he closed his eyes and savored each chord played by the electric guitar. He poured himself another glass, relished in the authentic sound of the vinyl, and found that the rhythm of the music weaved its way into his soul, soothing it with gentle melodies.
When the music was on, colors accompanied the sounds. They filled the room. They warmed him. They calmed him. He wished he could surround himself with that peaceful feeling all the time. Three slow whiskey pours later, the needle slid from the vinyl, covering the room in an abrupt, cold silence. He splashed cold water on his flushed face and retired to bed for a second time that night. But this night wasn’t different from many others. This was all part of the battle preparations he needed to survive the week ahead, and the many weeks to follow, in the hopes that one day he suddenly wouldn’t wake and it would all stop. The voices would silence. The memories would disappear. And the world would have one less sour coward to contend with.