Afflicted | 28 July 2021
It always struck me as funny that they called it an, “affliction.” It never came up with any pain, or suffering. But there I’d be, laid up in bed for days at a time, staring through the ceiling directly up at…well, you, I guess.
BNR Response
So, mom, there are juts a couple of things I wanted you to know. We don’t always communicate that well when we try to talk to one another, so I wanted to put this in writing. I’m also hoping it is something you read and reread, and that it is a source of reflection for you in thinking about how we curate our future relationship.
I preferred when my episodes happened near the beach in Aberdeen, rendering me too far from the Clinic so I got to stay in the casita for my “recovery” instead. The last time it came over me things got really quiet and all of a sudden I felt the warm scrub on sand against my back, and the dangerous tickle of waves kissing the bottoms of my feet. My skin prickled fresh with goosebumps as the air from the shore glided over me and up the bluff towards the Kurt Coabin Memorial.
“Marc. MARC.” You jolted me awake, rattling me by the shoulders like a faulty vending machine and with just as much unnecessary force. I remember you chiding me again, like so many times before, “Marc. You had one of your episodes again. You know, if you don’t straighten up and start taking more of your meds then your affliction is just going to keep getting worse.”
You always have a way of taking everything to that Blanche DuBois level of melodrama, don’t ya, ma? At first, I couldn’t understand what was so bad about losing 15 minutes here and there while my mind escaped the hell of your house to imagine the beach. Then I started examining the whole situation more closely.
Why did you insist on my staying with you after I graduated from Reed, even when my scholarship paid for me to stay in my beautiful on-campus housing until my post-doc work at RISD was supposed to start? I was laid up in the bed at the main house, coming in and out of the gloaming, when it dawned on me that my “affliction” had only started I’d left Oregon altogether. It all started to come together that night once again reflecting upon the last two lost years I’ve spent wasting away in either the stuffy Olympia estate or in the casita or at the Clinic. In that haze where you thought I was asleep, I caught you sneaking something in my soup.
After “waking” to see the corrupted food on the tray table, I waited for you to leave the room and then dumped my lunch into the vase on the bedside table. I then feigned sleep when I heard you heading toward my room from your study down the hall. I heard you hovering, I could feel your eyes on me as you got closer (too close) to my face. I watched through nearly shut eyes to see you turn partially and produce another unlabeled bottle of sap-colored liquid.
You were eerily calm, measured, when you took me by the shoulder and swiftly launched into your familiar refrain about my latest episode and my need for more drugs. When I was noticeably conscious you became almost panicked, spit nearly frothing at the edges of your mouth.
As you smugly removed the empty bowl and returned it to the kitchen, I resolved to start my rebellion. I haven’t eaten anything you’ve put in front of me for the last month and I’ve never felt better. My friends have supplemented my diet during their visits, and, while I sometimes miss my beach daydreams, I can now enjoy the actual beach.
I waited to share this letter with you until we were back at the Clinic for my monthly examination. I waited so that Dr. Fransblau and I could share the news with you: while I will be discharged this afternoon, it’s my pleasure to inform you that, as the song goes, “you can check out anytime you like, but you can’t never leave.” Enjoy your stay here, ma. You won’t be leaving any time soon.
Your son,
Marc.