Beth Dulin
WITHDRAWAL
I set out on the journey twice before. Never made it more than a week. Both times, beckoned back
by the oblivion. All that I ever loved. The map is faded and crumpled. But I’ve got the blue book
and a new piece of hope to hold in my hands. All odds are against me. Warning: Do not try this at
home. At first just a slight letting up of the barely-shifting bluntness of despair. But the wise voice
I always ignored is violently poking my side. Almost drowned out by the ringing in my ears. Too
hot in the bed so I sleep on the floor. Wake each morning with welts on my back, a vertical pattern
marking the column of bones. My shaking hands, cracked open and bleeding. My hair grows long
and turns ghost-white. And the vomiting. Nearly impossible to even keep water down. Pounding
bags of ice in the sink with a hammer. Jagged pieces melting on my tongue. A cold trickle of relief.
I step unsteadily on the scale each day. Hold my breath as it spins a number in place. Tell myself
I’ll call an ambulance if I go below a hundred. Lie to myself because I don’t. There was snow on
the ground when all of this started. Now it’s just before Easter. The crocus and hyacinth have
appeared in the yard. The dogwood bears hundreds of tiny pink crosses. I emerge exactly 48
pounds lighter. Unrecognizable and barely able to walk. It feels like it’s all been beaten out of me.
But I am standing in the sunlight, bloody and raw, having barely escaped my sweetest enemy.