In Between

In the beginning, I'm always counting. That’s how it starts.  First, I count days, then hours, then minutes. Five days until Friday, four hours until five, just a few more minutes. My life is lived in the spaces in-between. The rest is dispensable. All those days, all those hours, all those minutes. Insignificant. Expendable. Nonessential. My life is now about erasure. Skip to the good part. I live like this for a while. Counting and skipping. Then the spaces in-between get longer. The minutes matter less and less. Then they don’t matter at all. A little weight is lifted. 

The hours keep right on going, for a time, and then I start counting backwards. Five becomes four, four becomes three. I turn the clocks back and the spaces in-between draw out, expand. That’s where I live now. Three becomes two. I’m living longer. Two becomes one. Back and back, I go. All the way back, to the early morning. Then I stop counting hours. They're all the same. Fixed in time. Frozen. The watch of the world has stopped, and I live. 

I come home early. I hold a half empty box in my hands. She stands in front of me, tears in her eyes. I don’t see them. I’m too busy. My life has become infinite. I don’t count the days anymore. It’s just one long day now. It's always the space in-between. I am eternity. I brush by her. She wouldn’t understand. 

I find some new things to count. I count fingers. Sometimes I count two, sometimes I count three, four, or five. I’m back to counting forward again. I count ounces, and liters. I count backward too. I count backward if I take, and forward if I give. Three down, nine to go. Four down, eight to go. I count glasses. I subtract cans. I count ice cubes. I count splashes of water. I measure in fractions. Three quarters last night, two thirds the night before. I plan ahead. This night is covered. The next is not. I look at the clock and I count the hours until closing time. I’m counting hours again. 

I count the minutes until bedtime. I need a few more minutes. I count the minutes past. Then I sleep. I wake up and I shiver and shake. I count a few fingers, then I count the minutes until I’m steady. I’m counting minutes again. Then the people come.

They circle around me. Some of them have tears in their eyes. I don’t see them. Some of them have tannins in the corners of their mouths and on their teeth. I see them. Some of them suck mints. Some of them chew gum. Some of their eyes are bloodshot and glazed. I see them too. I’m quiet. I listen. I nod when I’m supposed to nod, shrug when I’m supposed to shrug, and frown when I’m supposed to frown. They all stand up and give me a hug. Each in turn. There’s a lot of them. I don’t count them.

On the inside, I find some new things to count. I count how many days are left. I count the hours and the minutes. I count the number of white pills, and the number of reds and blues. There’s always more white. I count the number of blood pressure tests, and the number of times the nurse gasps at mine. I count the minutes until the next “fresh air” break. Then I count the number of cigarettes I have left. I count the number of group sessions. I count the number of times they make me share. I count the good meals, and the bad meals. There are no good meals. At night someone comes to check on me every half hour. The first night I count sixteen times. By the end, I count two or three. And then I’m gone. 

At home, I try not to count. I try to breathe. That’s where I live now. I am finite. The spaces in-between each breath. Sometimes that works. Sometimes it doesn’t. On those days, I stand in front of her, tears in my eyes. She sees me.