17 “brain fog” by Meghan Bloom

He needs to know what drowning feels like,

craves the sensation of water clogging his throat, flooding it – flooding him – until his head begins to spin, until his lungs begin to burn, and what does it feel like to ache for a breath that cannot be drawn, what does it feel like to want, he needs to drown, he needs to feel, not more – just… like he’s supposed to, he feels enough as it is, it’s all-consuming, and yet it’s always hungry for more, more, more, and he thinks too much, full sentences; commas, but no periods, not until he needs to, until the fog clears, until he’s conscious, until he reminds himself to stop, breathe, he should do that now, it’s exhausting, and

perhaps that’s how he finds himself here, floating on his back in the middle of Lake Ontario, the edges of his vision blurring, waves lap at his skin, battered by the wind, the wind speaks in soft, considerate whispers, but his ears still pound with every syllable, stop. Breathe.

Every so often, he closes his eyes, tilts back his head, and parts his lips. The shouting stops. Breathe. Sour, muddy lake water spills into him. It’s nauseating, but he swallows anyway because it pricks the wall of fog encased within his skull. He needs to think.

It sort of reminds him of the river his mother used to make him drink as a child. She never stewed it for long enough, so it always tasted of weak leaves. Lake water is perhaps more bitter, but at least it gives his heart a reason to race.

There’s a race next week. What horse does he bet on? How many maggot-infested hot dogs can you eat in ten minutes? Good question. How many maggot-infested hot dogs can he eat in –

He’s doing it again. He needs to stop doing this. Breathe. Where was he? Lake Ontario.

At Lake Ontario, he stares up at sun – A-21, 60 watt – and allows the warm muddied water tucked within his cheeks to stain his thirty-two remaining teeth yellow, brown, black.

At Lake Ontario, the texture of the fake wooden table makes him gag, so he holds his breath until his lungs are rotten. Stop. Breathe.

But it’s nothing like drowning. There’s no panic, no desperate gasps or spotty vision. Instead, there’s a burning that clings to his tongue and stings his eyes until he relents, swallowing it down, down, down. There’s the hands of the lake that’s living inside him – pulling, tugging, needing, always needing; to hear, to think, to want. His mind’s a little clearer now, at least.

He should just see a therapist, shouldn’t he?

Yes. Probably. He needs to stop doing this. Breathe. It’s strangely quiet. When did the wind die down? Reluctantly, he looks up. Gale stares at him from across the kitchen, brows pinched. Shit. Did they ask a question? When did they stop talking? How much time has passed?

He needs to stop doing this. Breathe. He needs to focus. He needs a prescription.

Understanding flashes behind Gale’s eyes, then curiosity. Where did you go this time?

Ontario licks at his skin. He blinks hard to push it away. “This is disgusting,” he says, reaching again for the carafe. He needs it. He can’t afford Adderall. “Your coffee tastes like lake water.”