While staring at the ceiling in the small hours of this morning I came to a revelation about an old boyfiriend who was addicted to Nyquil. It was a doomed romance. He was my mechanic. He had not a stick of furniture (save for his childhood twin bed) in his sprawling apartment. He admitted rather casually one day that he had dabbled in meth. He had a daughter he never saw. But, truthfully, it was when I watched him guzzle electric blue cough medicine every night that I realized maybe he wasn’t the one.
Now that I’m married, I still feel pretty sure he maybe set the bar low. But having come down with a nasty bug and giving Nyquil a try for the first time, I’m thinking he may have been on to something. I’ve gone through a bottle and a half since Thanksgiving and there have been peaceful, restful nights of oblivion as a result. My cat pawing my head? Unfazed. My husband yanking the covers? Who cares? But I’m lately wondering if continued self-medication is the best idea I’ve ever had, hence detailed knowledge of my ceiling.
I keep having visions of this woman featured in the most wrenching of all episodes of A&E’s Intervention (and trust me, I’ve seen most of them). She’d go to bed cradling mouthwash, wake up and puke in the wastebasket in front of her husband and children, slug some more of it down, then tuck it under her pillow again for good luck.
How many steps away am I from that? I’m not sure, but tonight I think I’ll sleep on it.