You wake up with a start and try to sit up. Look at the clock. It reads, 6am, and you begin to wonder why your eyes can’t focus. Oh, there they go…wait, no. The room is spinning. Or are you spinning? You feel like you’re about to throw up, so you push your snoring dog aside and run right into something big, solid and in the way. Oh, that would be the wall. You walk down the hallway as if you were failing a sobriety test. The walls are sideways. The ceiling’s on the floor. What the heck is going on? For a second you feel like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, feet over head, just tumbling, tumbling and you wonder if this is all a very bad dream. You see vivid colors mixing together in a spinning diagram you see on the back of Mad Magazines. Is it a dream?
Then you wake up in a porcelain bowl and realize, so this is what it must feel like to be on LSD. You curl up in the fetal position, and don’t feel like you are going to die, but feel like you might faint and then what happens? You live alone and no one would even know if you were awake or not…you don’t want to live alone for the rest of your life, you scream to yourself as the paranoia sets in. You start to hyperventilate, and then it’s back to the porcelain bowl. The tile feels so cool, but you are breaking out in a sweat. The room has not stop spinning, even with your eyes closed. You pray to God to make it end, still in the fetal position, still with your dog snoring on your bed. You remain like this for what seems like hours, until the walls slowly return to normal, until the ceiling is where it should be, and your tears slowly begin to dry. You try to get up, but dizziness sets in, what I assume feels like a very very bad hangover, even though you have nary a wine bottle in sight. At least you’re sitting upright. You start to cry because you feel vulnerable and alone and that’s when you call for help.
Help arrives and you immediately start to feel better, because at least if you lose consciousness, someone is there. This relives your paranoia, but not your headache. You want to eat but your afraid of another visit to the porcelain tub. You try and move your head to the side, like those stupid exercises they made you do in grade school, but every time you do, the rabbit hole threatens to rear its ugly head. A couple hours go by and you still feel like you’re in wonderland, not sure if you should move or stay still…and you wonder what did I do in my life to deserve this?! Paranoia sets in again, and you think, this must be what it feels like to come down from being high on LSD. You vow never to do drugs. Not that you ever had.
The trip down Chicago’s LSD is ironic. It’s a beautiful spring day, one of the first, and Chicagoans are out and about at the lake, that same lake that you told your dog you’d be visiting today. Oh well. The blue of the lake make you want to throw up, and the drivers near the hospital don’t help either. Up an elevator to an office and there you wait, hoping, praying that the rabbit hole is gone for good.
It’s not.
Inside the doctor’s office, you’re subjected to eye roll tests and neck squeezes, and finally are starting to feel relief from something you never thought possible: needles. The tiny pricks of the point are followed by muscle spasms that make you feel vulnerable again, and you think, so this is what it must feel like to have Turret’s. The shoulder pain you have been ignoring suddenly comes into play, and the doctor actually prescribes yoga, because it’s the worst tension she’s seen in someone your age. What ever did I do to deserve this? She pokes and prods and tries to release tension in the shoulder, then lays you on your back with needles in your neck and hands, and leaves a bell on your stomach as she leaves the room.
You breathe and think, man, I hope this works.
It doesn’t.
The rabbit hole returns in full force, and the sound of you ringing the bell doesn’t help. She flips you over and inserts points in your neck. You keep descending down the rabbit hole, even though your eyes are glued shut and you are saying a little prayer for release. Then, as another prick is felt, you convulse into what you think is a seizure. And then it’s gone. The rabbit hole disappears. The pain in your neck is a welcome relief from the pain behind your eyes. You sit up. The dizziness is gone. the only thing left is a gnawing effect of what can only be described as a dull hangover. So this is what it must feel like to be a drunk, you say. Coherent, and functional, but not quite in this world. At least the rabbit hole is gone…for now.
Prescriptions are written, and you get a handout about what exactly the rabbit hole is. An imbalance of the inner ear, or of head injury. You have neither. The rabbit hole, as it turns out, can appear out of nowhere for no good reason, and can disappear all the same. There is no cure, just medication to ease the trip down the rabbit hole. You sigh and think, of course I would get the sickness that doesn’t have an answer. Irony is my middle name.
You’re told you can’t drive for 5-7 days. At first you panic, and then realize, visiting the rabbit hole while trying to turn left on Foster Avenue? No thanks.
The rest of the day is a blur. You eat some food. You sleep a lot. The rabbit hole doesn’t return, but the numbing hangover remains. You try to read. You try to watch TV. You try and be normal, and realize, this rabbit hole might return sometime again, so just take it easy.
You go to sleep with the meds on your nightstand. You say a little prayer for uninterrupted sleep and listen to the sound of your Wisconsin childhood while you drift off.
You awaken to the sound of lawn mowers and dogs barking. All seems right with the world. You sit up and at first, everything is where it should be. Then the spinning graphic of the Mad Magazine cover comes back, and it’s back down the rabbit hole. You do the exercises you were taught to do, and relief comes. If only you could function with your head tilted to one side on a pillow. You arise, and the rabbit hole now is on the outside of your eyes, and you’re able to get to the bathroom to take your meds. Back to bed you go, descending down the rabbit hole once again, this time devoid of colors, and you say a little prayer.
You wake up again, and feel a hella lot better. You can even turn your head side to side. You actually want to go to work, to contribute to the world, but your head is saying, sit still. You’re frustrated with the incapacitation and reliance on not moving in order to feel better. You ask, why me, again, but then you tell yourself to shut up, call in sick to work, and sit still. You take your bottle of water and laptop to bed, write this blog, and vow to be healthier from now on. You promise to do yoga at least once a week, get some exercise, and when dizzy, take a time out and breathe.
And you pray just a little more. You pray that the mind will return to equilibrium and that you will never take your health for granted again. You pray that this is a one-time thing to tell you to slow down and enjoy life. But above all, you pray that you won’t ever see that rabbit hole again.
But you know you will, and you feel comforted by the fact that at least this time, you didn’t ignore the signs, you didn’t pretend to be invincible at age 29, and you got help. If there is one thing the rabbit hole taught you, it was that doctors are there for a reason, if just to make you understand your sickness with a handout and a bottle of meds that you will now carry for the rest of your life.
You are also comforted by the fact that there is a reason you never did drugs. Rabbit holes are scary as hell.
