By Stefani Hid
Maybe I’m the only person who has never been free of anxiety. Anxiety is part of my blood; it is stuck there, in my brain and in my nerves, like a parasite impervious to antibiotics. I am sure of this, especially now as I think of what I did tonight.
I stayed up, far into the night. I took my car onto the road and drove fast, wanting to become one with the wind. My hands were clammy, my body covered with sweat. But I wasn’t aware of my eyes, of what I was seeing and what I was doing. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t want to think. I just wanted to drive.
At three in the morning, the roads were empty. Without any obstacles before me, I kept my foot on the accelerator. But I wasn’t alone: my husband was curled up in the trunk.
Maybe we would die, maybe we wouldn’t. But I knew that if I wanted to stay alive, I had to keep on driving. I was being followed. I could feel them at my back, sticking to me the way a train car sticks to the locomotive ahead of it. If they caught me, they wouldn’t just kill me; they would torture me first. They would strip me naked and electrocute me.
The car felt as though it could go forever—and that is just what I wanted to do, to keep on driving, because I was terrified. I was afraid to think. I had to keep on driving in order not to think. I wanted to forget who was following me. I wanted to forget the thoughts in my own head. I wanted to forget the diagnosis I had made on my own case. I may not be a professional diagnostician but I sometimes feel as if I am suffering from some form of minor dyslexia. When I wanted to say anthropology, for example, I might say anthology instead. And not just that: I could feel the damage that the sedatives I’d been prescribed had done to my brain.
Even basic logic had begun to escape me. Swearing never to take those drugs again, I exchanged them with stimulants which I dissolved and injected into my head. After that, I didn’t feel so weak, or passive or bored. Quite the opposite, I felt energized, hyperactive, my libido rising into my brain.
After drinking half a bottle of tequila, I became certain that nothing and no one would dare to prevent me from driving. Nothing was going to get in my way. I would never stop, I swore, even if my car tumbled into a gorge; even if it went over the side of the bridge or hit a truck; even if it blew up and exploded into a thousand pieces.
I wanted to become one with the wind, to float into the sky like smoke rising from a burning car. At least then they wouldn’t be able to torture me, nor would I be tortured by my own thoughts.
I didn’t want to go home and, most of all, I didn’t want to go to sleep. If I fell asleep I would dream and I hated my dreams because I always encountered the same person in them: a fat baldheaded man wearing a shirt whose top two buttons were unfastened. He was never alone. He was always with his partner, an old-fashioned-looking woman around fifty years of age with curly hair. They formed an inseparable trilogy: the man, his partner, and my dream. The man was forever in a rage, always shouting and swearing at me. The woman, on the other hand, always stroked my head. The man’s eyes would bulge as he ranted: “It’s your own fault that you’ve ended up like this. Can you even remember your crimes? You weren’t always the person you are now. Can’t you feel your inner soul telling you who you really are?” His angry barrage made my spine burn. My head felt as though it would burst. I could feel it, really feel it—even though it was only a dream.
The woman spoke softly as she stroked my head: “Come again in a week’s time and I’ll hold a holy Mass to pray for the spirits of those who died at your father’s hand. Aren’t you sad to think of your father? And not just him, look at yourself! Look how tragic you are! Come to me and trust in me. If you don’t, the spirits will never leave you alone. They’ll never leave your father alone, either.”
The man and his partner kept saying this: “Trust in us. We are the only ones who can bring you peace. Trust in us. We will come again before you destroy your kidneys and brain through your drug abuse; before you destroy yourself with nicotine; before you smash your head against the wall.”
Since the last time I dreamt that dream, I hadn’t slept. The fact is, I intended never to sleep again. I was going to keep on driving, with my husband curled up in the trunk. I had managed to get him in there by tying him up after first hitting him on the back of the neck. I was fed up with him for taking a piss before having sex with me. Or, more precisely, before he raped me. Beforehand, he would always tie me to a chair, pulling the rope so tight that it bit deeply into my thighs. I was sick of the sound of his voice, always nagging and haranguing me, particularly when I’d lit up a cigarette. Well, I said, I won’t let you stop me from smoking. I love to smoke and if I can I will go on smoking even after I’m dead. I’m not scared about smoke damaging my lungs or my heart; I’m not scared that it will harden my arteries or make me stupid or reduce my libido. It’s not cigarettes that will kill me. I know that’s not how I’m going to die.
I’m fed up with everything—with sitting on the back porch, shooting at those bastard rats that keep trying to gnaw their way through the wall and into my room. I’m sick of eating, and bathing, and reading books, and watching television and most of all, I’m sick of sleeping. I’m fed up with my own thoughts. Which is why I’m going to keep on driving, down a road with no obstacles. I’m not going to slow down, and I’m not going to turn around.
I’m going to kill my own thoughts. I’m too obsessed to quell my mind, and my mind is obsessed with ruin. I am always on edge. Every day for me is a struggle to achieve the hardest thing I know: to fight my thoughts and overcome myself. My thoughts are my breath. I must somehow extinguish my breath without dying.
I can hear my husband shouting in the trunk: “Calm down, honey. You just stay where you are and wait and see what I’ll do to you!” I couldn’t open the trunk to silence him. I had to keep on driving. Maybe later, I’ll kill you properly. Maybe I’ll split your head open with an axe or drown you in a swamp, together with the car.
Wait, just wait! I’ll be so happy and so alone after that.
I don’t have to wait to die to know what hell is like. I can feel what hell is now. I’m surrounded by murky darkness and flames that lick at my body. But I’ll never cry. I laugh at hell. Hell is nothing—I don’t know why everybody is scared of it. It’s not as bad as my head. My head is far worse than hell. One day my head will explode in the fire from that explosion and set flame to the entire earth. It will burn all life to a cinder. It won’t just bring darkness; it will inflict blindness. It will paralyze the soul and kill the spirit.
Maybe it’s heaven that I won’t recognize. My heaven is a flicker of hope that there’s a place in the world for people with no heads. Their bodies can go about their daily activities, without thinking. You can feel happy only if you can’t feel anything anymore. At that point there is no sorrow—and no happiness, either, which is what happiness is. Humanity will exist without being aware that it exists. And non-existence will make them happy.
I don’t want to open the window; the air from the streets in this bitch of a city will destroy my brain. It will raise the level of lead in my blood and reduce my IQ. I do love smoke, but not all types of smoke. I only love the smoke that stops me thinking, the smoke that makes me calm.
I can feel my heart beating fast. My left hand is numb. Can you hear that sound? It is the sound of horses neighing. Yes, there are horses neighing in my head, only in my head. So no one else can hear them, not even you. I call this my disease. It never ceases to afflict me. And it’s driving me crazy. Can you imagine what it is like to hear the sounds of wild animals inside your head? Or to see all the other things inside there: the piles of rocks, the heaps of meat, the slabs of cement, and the three duck eggs. These things have been chewing away at the optical nerve just above my nose, so now I’m condemned to smell burning cakes for the rest of my life.
My left eye moves on its own. Maybe the nerve that is meant to connect it to my brain has been severed. I can’t control the movements of my own eyes. Maybe I’ve been attacked by a stroke at the tender age of twenty. I can’t move one side of my body and I can’t do anything.
Can anybody help me? I remember the talisman that I used to wear around my neck. Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers. Well, I’m traveling now, aren’t I? Maybe I’m not in a fit condition to pray, but I have to try anyway.
“Saint Christopher, my friend, I beg you to protect me on this endless journey of mine. I have no idea what is going to happen, but I believe in you. I’m not going to wait until I abandon this body, or until I can feel my nerves again, until I find peace. Keep me company. Sit in the passenger seat next to me. Hold my left hand or reach out to touch me. I’m not dead, but I feel as though I’m dead. Because you are dead, you know what it feels like to be dead. Help me to die happily.”
I remember the rosary in the pocket of my jeans. It’s a Saint Michael’s rosary, effective for driving away demons. Should I offer a prayer to invoke his protection? But there are no demons to drive away, except the demon inside me, the demon inside my own head. I never prayed to Saint Michael, I just keep his rosary in my pocket. Maybe that’s the trouble; maybe that’s why I’m so anxious all the time. The demon inside me wanted to leave, but I clung to him. I loved my demon. I loved what he did to me. But now I am going to try to pray, I don’t even care if there’s anyone listening or not. “Saint Michael, kill the demon inside my head with your axe! Stick a spike in my head, if that’s what it takes. Shove your spear up my nostril and stick it into my brain so that I don’t have to think anymore. The demons have transformed themselves into shrieking beasts that live in my head. You can treat me as a demon, too. So, stab me, kill me, help me cease to be.”
I said the prayer twice, without giving it much thought, but afterwards I felt exactly the same. Nothing had changed. They were still following me and I was still scared. I was still afraid of my own thoughts. But then, it was as though I received an answer. They told me to surrender, to accept whatever happened. But I didn’t want to accept, I didn’t want to die, I didn’t want to feel pain. I wanted to remain aware of myself. I couldn’t accept what was to happen, and I couldn’t relax. I was too concerned for myself, too worried about what would happen to me. You are wrong to tell me to accept. You would do better to give me some anti-anxiety medication. Or just kill me quickly, so that I don’t know what’s going to happen and am not able to feel it. So that everything ends; so that I don’t have anything to fear or worry about anymore.
I knew that I was still being hunted. I had to keep on moving. Besides them, something else was hunting me, too. Maybe it was my own thoughts. Yes, it was day and my own thoughts were hunting me, keeping me on edge.
I don’t ever want to see my home again, nor do I want to see my grandmother who lives there. The advice she always gives me makes me want to run away as fast as I can, until I run out of breath and die. Sometimes I want to smother her with a towel to stop her breathing too. The paranoid old woman likes to give advice. You can imagine the kind of advice a paranoid old woman gives. She should keep her mouth shut. She should try to deal with her own paranoia. Maybe she thought she was old enough and wise enough to give advice. Well, I’m wiser than she is. I’m the wisest person who has ever lived. Remember that, Granny.
Ha ha! I’m overcome with a desire to laugh, even though I don’t know what I’m laughing at. Maybe I’m laughing at myself, laughing at myself rolling and spinning like a ball. So, what time is it now? The clock in my car says 4:30. I’ve been driving my car in the dark of the night for one and a half hours. Dawn will be breaking soon. Is that right? I’m not sure. I’m not sure of how accurate my sense of time is at the moment. But I don’t care. I’m going to keep on driving. I can no longer hear the voice of my husband coming from the trunk. Has he suffocated to death? I don’t know and I don’t care.
Everything is the result of karma. I often behaved like a demon. No, not karma; I don’t believe in karma. I had never been taught about that, but I had planted the seed and now I had to reap the fruit. I had a husband, but I still had sex all over the place, even with other women’s husbands. I had killed my own sister, smashing her head in with a rock. I never gave my pets food. I often tortured my housekeeper, branding her with an iron. I planned to kill my husband and my grandmother. It wasn’t that I wanted to do these things. No, it wasn’t me doing all those things. It was just my body and my mind.
There was no answer to my pain. There was no path out. I was like a rat in a trap because I was on a road with nothing to bar my way. I could escape from the trap and run away to God knows where, just running without end. There was only one thing that worried me. The road without end was not as long as my desire to drive. Maybe it would come to an end quite soon, and I would have to turn off. But right now, I am going to keep on driving, I am going to try to get away from the anxiety and the thoughts that pursue me, to get away from my husband who lies shivering in the trunk. I can see the long road lying ahead of me. The road is empty at however many hours it is past three in the morning.
Translated by Irfan Kortschak