A Song for Ezra (ONC 2021)(manxman)✅

Lithium

2019

Another morning, a new day but the same song. Born on the exact date as Kurt Cobain's death (April 5, 1994), I was convinced he wrote the song, Lithium, for me, as if he had a premonition of Ezra Green's birth, like he knew exactly who I'd be and how I'd turn out.

If my parents were alive today, they wouldn't have been all that impressed with how I turned out. At almost twenty-five, I had never even had a real job. I barely graduated from high school. Playing cards and singing and dancing with old ladies didn't count. Three days a week, I helped out at the local senior center for twelve dollars an hour, which wasn't enough to support myself, so I continued to live with my aunt and uncle. I'd been living with Aunt Ruth and Uncle David since my parents died when I was eight years old.

I used to think I killed them, even though everyone told me it was an accident, but I knew what really happened. My mind tended to run wild, and once I got a thought in my head, I couldn't get it out. It was like a domino effect that spiraled out of control. If a somewhat normal person believed the stories I believed, they'd want to top themselves, too.

Yep, I killed my parents. I took the battery out of the carbon monoxide detector to replace the battery in my remote control race car that I'd been obsessed with for weeks. I had no idea what a carbon monoxide detector did or why my parents had one in the hallway next to their bedroom. After all, it wasn't a smoke detector and smoke detectors were more important, right?

That's what I thought until Rob's mother drove me home after a sleepover, and I found my parents in a permanent sleep.

Nevermind. I can't think about it anymore.

Every morning at eight o'clock, my alarm went off, and I woke to Nirvana's Lithium. I could never figure out how Kurt knew lithium would be a magic drug for me, the drug that saved me from ECT (electroconvulsive therapy), also known as shock treatment, two years ago when I was in and out of psychiatric hospitals for months due to severe, crippling depression. When I say severe, I mean SEVERE, the type where I was near catatonic, where I couldn't get out of bed, where I planned, in detail, how I intended to end it all, although I never carried out with my plan. I never even tried, but this last time was close. The recommendation was either lithium or ECT. I chose to give lithium a try. It turned out to be a miracle pill. Within two weeks, I snapped out of my depression and it had been more or less under control since then.

If I were to ever end my life, I figured carbon monoxide was the way to go, just like my parents. But now wasn't my time.

In my bathroom, I popped a pill, brushed my teeth, then stepped into the hot shower, all part of my daily routine. Today was a weird day and I couldn't put my finger on it. A little bit of Ezra's brand of art therapy would ease my nerves. I didn't want to worry Aunt Ruth again, so I sought another outlet for my anxiety, which often bothered the tenants next door, but Aunt Ruth and Uncle David let me do whatever I wanted. However, the tenants didn't appreciate the mess I'd make in the front porch or lawn. If they had only joined me in painting and singing and making sculptures out of trash, they would have had a better time.

In the shower, I lathered my hair, Kurt Cobain's voice singing in my head as it did every morning. For weeks now my current playlist dictated nearly every aspect of my life, and I couldn't do without it. I was once told I had a touch of OCD, among other things. Lithium was an obvious choice for my playlist, a song that never gave me any trouble.

Maybe this week was weird because it'd been raining every day, and the second song on my playlist was ELO's Mr. Blue Sky. I hadn't seen a blue sky in five days. Because of the dark gray skies, coupled with rain, I refused to leave the house, not even to see my elderly friends. I just couldn't bring myself to leave. After all, Singin' in the Rain wasn't part of my playlist.