It was about a year after my mother died that I had the epiphany and decided to make a break for it.
Since about age fifteen, I, and the general population have been trying to convince me that I’m not quite right in the head. Apparently I have a disease which, among other things, makes me repeatedly try to die. The other symptoms are sometimes touched upon, but generally expected to go away after a one hour discussion or two. In order to help these one hour sessions along, it has become popular to prescribe a most peculiar, yet “groundbreaking” procedure.
First, each of the wrists and both ankles of the patient are fitted with a set of manacles, whose material is determined by the quality of one’s insurance coverage or ability to pay out of pocket. Newer, less intrusive and more comfortable materials are more costly. Each of the manacles has a loop from which is affixed a length of chain, and although some doctors like to try alternative combinations, chains will usually run from one wrist to the other, and from one ankle to the other.
The chain itself is not of set length, but rather is lengthened or shortened according to the intensity of the patient’s desire to die. The whole point of the procedure is of course to prevent the patient from killing herself and so if she for instance says something like “life seems so difficult, I wish I could just die,” her doctor will proscribe the immediate shortening of her “chain” via the removal of from one to all but one of the links.
The link removal procedure is of course very costly and close supervision of the patient is necessary as the side effects can be extreme. Many patients even report having an increased desire to off themselves after dropping a link or two. Doctors will usually tell them this is merely a side effect of the increased motivation they are feeling now that their life has been made better via the shortening of their chains.
Other side effects are considered a necessary evil. My biggest complaint has always been the loss of mobility the whole getup causes. Shuffling along is an extremely inefficient mode of locomotion, and one time, when I was on only one link, I had to sort of shuffle hop. Don’t even get me started on stairs. Usually I’m told that I will eventually adjust, but one or two doctors have taken pity on me. One recommended I get one of those motorized chairs you see on infomercials. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that there was no way I could afford it, and that no, I didn’t qualify for public health care. The other gave me sleeping pills, saying that I needed more rest so I could better handle dragging my chains around.
Others users have complained of chaffing from the constant rubbing of the manacles against their skin. Another obvious downfall is the weight gain which is inevitable due to reduced mobility. Although it’s a somewhat amusing image to see someone try to run in a set of those things, it is extremely embarrassing and frustrating for the wearer. A major complaint for couples is the decreased sexual desire and performance. The chains, after all, are so intrusive and limiting that many people don’t see sex as worth the trouble. Plus they make it hard to maneuver. Think about it. These limitations inhibit masturbation as well, which is definitely not gravy.
I’ve had manacles of maybe four different materials, and chains of various lengths. The most effective manacle brand for me, one of a somewhat expensive material, helped me for two years before my skin developed a sensitivity to them and I developed a heart disorder. Another brand tended to tighten in response to perspiration. I wasn’t on that one for very long. All brands, however, regardless of how much a patient was willing or able to fork over for them, chaffed and generally made mobility a problem.
It’s amazing how much society is willing to ignore the fact that people are walking around with bands and chains on their wrists and ankles. Most people I talked to about it were surprised to learn I even had the things on. “Why Lily, whatever are you talking about? And why would you need them anyway, you’re so smart and pretty!” One boyfriend of mine stopped calling when I revealed that it had been a chain between my ankles which had made our sex life somewhat difficult. He didn’t want to be dating some crazy chick.
My family was a bit less willing to be oblivious. They were especially distressed at the extent of the contraptions at my mother’s funeral. At that point, I had so few links on the chain between my wrists that I couldn’t even hug anyone. And the damned things kept clanking at inopportune moments during the service. I usually giggled to cover up the noise, but people noticed.
Yet I wore those damned things for five years.
As I said before, it was about a year after my mother passed away, that I had my epiphany. I had recently quit a really nice job because I couldn’t deal with life despite the chains of moderate length stretched between my wrists and ankles. I sought help and as usual, the doctor’s solution was to remove a link. He said he was surprised that I was on such a loose reign anyway; he said the length of my chains hadn’t been “therapeutic.” So I had the chains shortened and two weeks later I find that I’m beginning to fear going outside.
This came as somewhat of a shock since I have been an outgoing, or at least outspoken, individual since the end of puberty. Yet I had become particularly sensitive to the obviousness of my manacles and other people’s opinions of me. In short, I was so afraid of leaving my apartment that I couldn’t work. So I sit down one evening, make peace with my gods, and swallow everything with a poison control warning that I can scrounge up in my medicine cabinet. This includes a number of sleeping pills and prescription painkillers, so the first thing I do is get fabulously high before falling asleep.
A mere twenty six hours later I wake up with nothing more than medicine mouth. I’m irate. I jingle my chains and realize that despite being intrusive and obvious, and just plain unstylish, they do nothing for me. I realize that I’ve tried to kill myself more times since I’ve had them put on than before I had ever learned of their amazingly groundbreaking existence. And there is really nothing holding them on but one pin…
At this point I do something tantalizing, something groundbreaking of my own. I remove the pin. I take off the manacles. I put them behind the cat box. I go about my daily business.
Strangely enough, my body really started to miss those things after only two days of having them off.
It’s Tuesday morning, I think, and I have to get out of bed. This is mostly because I just had another bad dream in which all of my teeth fall out, and then I’m chased by something I can’t see. When I woke up, about a minute ago maybe, I was terrified. I’m terrified now, and I don’t really know why. The important thing is that if I put my leg over the side of the bed, something will get it. But I need to get up, because this is just plain stupid.
I think of those manacles, behind the cat box.
Shit no, I resolve, this is way better than that. After a few more heart-racing minutes, I turn to look at the clock (since I know there are no floating skulls in that direction anymore) and see that I have been asleep for 37 minutes. It felt like 37 hours. Furthermore, it’s 11:24am now, and I hadn’t slept before this “nap” of mine since about 8pm last night. Since taking off the manacles, I’ve realized that I have so much I need to get done – right now! Now is certainly no exception, I realize. So I get up.
First thing’s first, I need to hit the can. So I walk into the bathroom and do my business, marveling at how easy this is (and also how great a job I did scrubbing the pink ring out of the bathtub last night). I take this opportunity, on my throne, to plan out my day, or at least the next period of consciousness before I drop back into the teeth-grinding abyss known as sleep. I will clean the kitchen, including those dishes which have begun to smell, I will wash my laundry (I’m out of clean clothes), and then I will vacuum and work on homework.
Three hours later, all my characters are at level 69, and I’m smirking at this, but my stomach growls and I head to the kitchen. The smelly stack of dishes mocks me. Okay, I resolve, I have to at least clean the ones that have been soaking in water for, geez, I don’t even remember how long. Then I’ll be able to cook something. The dishes get washed. I boil water for mac and cheese.
One hour later, I remember the water as I’m watching yaoi in my room. I pause it at an incriminating moment (“Sempai, no!”). The water has boiled and the pan is empty, scorched. I add more water: hiss. Repeat.
One hour later I have mac and cheese, and it isn’t even overcooked-mushy. I eat it, the whole box. I really need to do something about this scatter-brainedness. I also need exercise, so I find something that doesn’t smell too much to put on, and I go for a walk. Outside, people are funny.
End.
Life is a Kinky Euphemism: Main
Life is a Kinky Euphemism: October, June, and January |
