Madcap

Trigger Warning: Gaslighting, Violence, Drugs, Threats

Did you know that you can get scabies from clothes? That’s right. When you were in your late 20’s with your biological clock ticking, and your blind date so chivalrously put his coat around your shivering shoulders as you walked back to his car, you were inviting those disgusting little mites to their new homes. It wouldn’t take long for them to burrow their way under your skin and begin feasting on the fluid between your skin cells, laying eggs, and secreting their waste wherever it best suited them.

Disgusting, right? You feel them right now, don’t you? Those little itches all over your body. Like your skin is crawling. Like you want to rip it off. Now you know how I felt. I’d love to have crawled out of my skin. I’d have loved to peel it off, layer by layer. I’d have done anything to feel that rush again.

I was born a thrill seeker. As a kid, I was always climbing and jumping, cutting, bruising, scraping and breaking. I came with a warning to new babysitters. “Don’t let her out of your sight. Not for one second. There’s a reason we’re offering such a large hourly rate. You’re going to earn it tonight.” They never quite grasped the message. Every last one of them had to learn the hard way.

As I grew older, the risks grew larger. Tree climbing became rock climbing. I started with cliffs and worked my way up to mountains. I’d take risks with people, too, leaving a path of destruction in my wake. I’d jump into whirlwind relationships, surreptitiously sewing seeds of contempt right out of the gate. The dizzying intensity of falling in a new relationship was just as addictive as the rapid pace of its demise. Both were positively intoxicating for me. Every moment would send waves of electricity dancing along my skin. I’d drink in the adrenaline rush like the drug it is, then set out on the neverending hunt for more. People, as a whole, are just tools to fulfill my needs.

Quit looking at me like that. I know that you get by on an extra shot of espresso in your mocha on those days when you want to live it up a bit. Maybe, if you’re feeling particularly daring, your thrill comes from reading a particularly spicy scene in a romance novel, your husband just inches away, scratching at his belly button that juts out from the bottom of his pit-stained college fraternity shirt as he watches the evening news. But that just won’t do it for me. My life was carefully constructed, yet it was unadulterated chaos - and the high it brought was unmatched. Go back to your espresso shot and your book club and forget what I said if you need to, but don’t act like you have any idea about what I’m describing. Okay? Now back to it.

I couldn’t stand the thought of sitting at a desk day in and day out, listening to the general public dribble on about their pointless problems and going to meetings that could’ve been emails. The idea of small talk around the water cooler literally feels like an ice pick to the eyeball. Actually, come to think of it, a lobotomy would be more ideal. Suffice it to say, office work was not for me. I was made for something better. Something that most aren’t cut out for. Something exciting.

I decided on a job in emergency services, landing on a police officer. The deciding factor for me was the fact that I would be carrying a firearm and I got to keep my autonomy, unlike the military. I couldn’t - and still can’t - fathom becoming property of the U.S. government. Those imbeciles can’t even blow their noses without shutting down. Yes, law enforcement was the better option.

All throughout police academy I fantasized about the day that I would have to pull out my gun. Perhaps it would be in a standoff, or at a bank robbery. It really didn’t matter what the scenario ended up being. What would matter is the pulse racing, blood rushing exhilaration that accompanied it. It wasn’t too long after graduating that I learned first hand that it was even better than I had dreamed. For a long time, my job, my relationships, and my extra curriculars quenched my thirst for adrenaline. But then I turned 34.

It started just a couple of weeks after my birthday, and was so slow that it was almost imperceptible. I would wake up feeling like I hadn’t slept at all, regardless of how much sleep I had gotten. I figured it was a passing phase and I gritted my teeth and powered through it. When I fell asleep in a briefing, however, I began to take it more seriously. I already worked with a group of chauvinistic pigs who were playing witch hunt with me. I didn’t need to hand them kindling for the stake they were set on burning me at.

I cut caffeine. I did yoga. I did sleep studies, took medications, cut screen time after dinner. It made no difference. I constantly felt like I was wading through molasses. My legs were made of lead, as were my arms and my eyelids.

Next, came the weight loss. I’ve never been overweight, so it became apparent almost immediately. I was always so nauseous and constantly fought bouts of diarrhea. It was only a matter of weeks until I looked skeletal. When I passed out getting out of the squad car and cracked open my head on the curb, I was put on leave until my health was under control.

It took weeks of testing to find the cause. I had all but given up. I was just about bed ridden and I looked nothing like I had before. My hair had begun to fall out and my eyes had sunk into their sockets. I could hardly eat, yet I craved salt. Often, I would pour a pile of it on my palm and lick off, then have nothing else to eat for the rest of the day. But finally, there was a diagnosis. A light at the end of the proverbial tunnel.

I have Addison’s Disease. It is an endocrine disorder that causes my immune system to attack my adrenal glands and disrupt my cortisol and aldosterone production. Addison’s Disease isn’t curable, but it’s manageable. Essentially all I had to do was make best friends with an endocrinologist and take a handful of pills each day and I’d be good to go.

I did the work. I took the pills. I let my body recover. I played nice with the doctor and even brought muffins to the office one day. I could taste the bile in the back of my mouth as I smiled and gushed about how the medical team had saved my life. I did it all to have my old life back, and it was all for nothing. Little did I know, my body had already attacked my adrenal gland, and the consequences would be dire.

It wasn’t long until I was on the upswing and back on the force. I should’ve fallen right back into my old lifestyle, but a chasm had begun to form between myself and the thrill I so desperately chased. My body was suddenly impotent, unable to react to the stimulation my daily regimen used to bring. I could see where I wanted to be, but I just couldn’t quite reach it. My fingertips were always just inches away from the rush. So I upped the ante.

I had such high hopes for bungee jumping, but the most exhilarating part was signing the insurance waiver. I started so many rumors, began and ended so many relationships, and stuck my nose so far in other people’s business that I had to take notes to keep all of my stories straight. Nothing was working.

Skydiving was fun at first, and I briefly thought it might do the trick. The jump from the plane held me on a precipice that had me convinced that I’d found my cure. But I had to pull the parachute cord right before I climaxed into oblivion. As my body snapped against the sudden resistance, something in my mind did, too. I was no longer chasing a high. I was married to it, unfaithful as it was, and I was going to track down the little infidel.

The answer had always been right there in front of me. I’m not sure how I was blind for so long, but it was your husband that paved the path back to my beloved fixation. It was his third day on the job when he was assigned as my new partner. How else would I know about those pit-stains, right? I bet your boxes weren’t even unpacked yet. Had you even met the other den mothers? Were there groceries in your refrigerator yet?

Your husband acted gruff, but an act is all that it was. I’m sure you’re probably already well aware of that, though. A week in he realized he couldn’t shake me and gave up his facade. As he let down his guard, I let mine down, too. But only slightly. I could sense that something was different about him, and I wanted to understand it. After all, you should have a working knowledge of all of the tools in your belt, right?

I earned his trust, little by little. I broke down his walls. I saw the little inconsistencies. The contradictions and slip ups. I just couldn’t get every piece in the puzzle to fit. So I covered for him when he slipped. I lied for him. I made him believe I was loyal. Made him believe I was dedicated. And finally, finally, he let me in on the deal the night that you had that dinner party.

You know your neighbor? The one that you can’t keep your eyes off of? I think you actually had drool running down your chin at one point that night. Don’t worry, though. Your husband is too thick headed to notice, and your secret is safe with me. For now, anyway. But back to what I was saying. That neighbor is your friendly neighborhood drug lord. Don’t act surprised. No one needs to own that many baseball bats unless they’re routinely busting kneecaps.

Your husband and your neighbor had gone outside to smoke cigars. I went out back to join, but mostly I wanted to get away from your feral children. As I came out, I stumbled right into the middle of a payoff. Your neighbor was handing your husband a particularly thick wad of hundred dollar bills and a suspicious baggie containing white powder. I wish I could’ve taken a picture of the both of them. The looks on their faces was priceless. Those looks quickly faded, though, as I smiled and sauntered over, inserting myself into their little scheme.

Let me tell you, there is nothing more exhilarating than this. I am simultaneously busting the bad guys and selling their best friends cocaine out of the trunk of my squad car. Internal affairs was onto us at one point, but they couldn’t find anything concrete. That was the biggest high yet. Until now. Because now you come into play, and you’ve got quite a choice to make.

I know you know. He hasn’t figured it out yet, but I have. I saw the way you tensed up when he kissed you goodbye this morning. How your eyes looked right through him instead of into his. Tell me, where did he slip up? Did you finally start questioning how his salary afforded your house, your tennis lessons, and your car payment? Or did he sniffle one too many times last night?

Tell me, can I trust you? Would you protect us - your husband, your neighbor, and me? Can we be a nice, warm jacket tonight to keep you warm? Will you let our little secret burrow under your skin? Because my adrenaline is pumping. This conversation is definitely doing it for me. But whichever choice you make, there’s a bigger high on the horizon.