Absurd

Not the kind of equipment I thought I would use to fight death. Yet out of respect for the two kindly smiling ladies dressed in white and beige next to me, I held back my amusement.

It is commonly believed that depression is a lifelong affliction. Even if you get over it, it will come back.

Honestly? I thought I learned how to deal with it. Once again, I did my usual. Bleached my hair, traveled, stayed with family, took it “easy”. I even fell in love. But it didn’t stop.

This time, the societal illusion was stripped away from me without mercy. I was always a firm believer in purpose, and I had found mine. Turns out all of that was… well, an illusion. Purpose is what you choose to see and beyond that, there is nothing.

So when I saw an advertisement for a study of the effect of psychedelics on treating depression, I couldn’t resist partaking in the dance with an absurd pantomime of life. Something I haven’t tried yet. What surprised me, however, was the sheer amount of paperwork.

Questionnaires. Pages and pages of wrist numbing. An exam to see if I’m fit for the trial. Half the questions I wasn’t even sure what they were asking. The other half… You could say they knew everything about me and my family.

Preparation. One would think that was it. I passed the exam and started the treatment process. Oh no, hold your horses there. I had to keep talking to the kind ladies over and over. And god almighty, today, I had to spend another six hours with them. I didn’t know what else to say anymore. It’s not like I was sad; I just felt nothing.

Procedure. That’s now. With a light pressure on my left shoulder, one of the ladies urged me to take the pill, while the other poured me a full glass of water. Getting the blue bean out of the bottle, I wondered how I was supposed to get it to go down. With anticipation, I gulped a few times, warming up my throat for the upcoming swallow, and tossed the thing into my mouth.

Even after several generous gulps, I couldn’t get rid of the sensation that something was still stuck. I tried to give my attendants the most “I’m so fucking grateful right now” smile, but soon realized how fake it must’ve looked. Meanwhile, they rayed their angelic smiles upon me.

The left lady instructed me to put the rest of the “fighting” gear on. As I unfolded the sunglasses, their hollow, stiff plastic reminded me of the tourist trap shops. Meanwhile, the headphones took a trip from a decade ago and made me yearn for my comfortable headset at home.

Not really knowing what to expect, I pressed the play button — a whale soundtrack. The thought of enduring it for another seven hours made my head throb.

I leaned back in my chair as my companions stepped back. I probably sat for a good hour. I even managed to tell the part where the whale sounds started looping.

Then, in the whiteness of it all, obsidian tar dripped on me. It didn’t burn or smell. It kept dripping, falling off of me and every time my skin turned whiter and whiter. I looked back on the ladies, now covered in tar, yet they didn’t mind.

A voice echoed. It was a painfully familiar one and I wouldn’t mistake it for anything else — my previous boss. He was giving a speech. Appreciating the grueling hours and failures that took place to build the community we had. It was his usual thing — praise for suffering and call it cool. With that charisma of his, he could’ve made anyone sell their souls.

As I faced back to the front, I found myself amongst dozens of tar covered people, drinking coffee, nodding and chuckling and boss’ sharp wit. I recognized the figure next to me. After all, they held their favorite mug.

“Are you okay? You look rather pale,” my best friend hushed.

People kept glancing at me, which only made my palms sweaty, ears and cheeks heat up. Feeling the weight of it all, I gave all of my best to listen to the talk. I chuckled when necessary, tapped my cheek and tilted my head when he went on about something deep, squinted and softened my eyes when an uplifting bit began. Still, no use.

Sensing an opportunity, I meandered my way through the dark shapes. I scanned the back of the seminar room, looking for a bastion of safety — a supply closet. I often used to sneak in there when talks became too stale and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

As soon as I shut the door behind me, a comforting scent of cleaning detergents, a musk of dirty brooms and way too much dust crawled up my nose. And in an absolute darkness all around me, I broke down. Everything just slipped out of my hands. Like always. Crouching down, I tried to focus on my breathing and get it back to normal.

But my whole body was shaken to the core when three evenly paced knocks resounded through the air. Decisive and intentional. Had they realized I slipped away and came looking for me? Again, three more knocks, followed by an utter silence. No more speech or anyone talking outside either.

I waited awhile and, after I realized nothing was going to happen, cracked the door open and found… well, absolutely nothing. Just an empty seminar room, parts of the tar remaining on the seats, mugs laying on the floor.

But I assumed too soon. Collecting parts of my previous colleagues, the tar gathered, building up into a human sized blob. It stayed like this for a moment, pulling the breath out of me.

“Taking it easy again?” the familiar voice asked.

There could’ve been a million ways to say I didn’t belong there, but this?

I could sense he was about to say more, but thankfully (I can’t believe I’m actually saying this), the sound of the whales drowned it all. Yet again, I celebrated too soon. The blob changed its tactics to a blinding glow. Don’t ask me how a pile of tar could do that — that is beyond me.

Pushing my sunglasses along the bridge of my nose and feeling a warm touch upon my shoulders, I laughed.