Dog Medicine by Julie Barton

part of me trapped in childhood trauma raged silently beneath my quiet exterior.
    Those long, dark weeks, I stayed on the couch, sometimes watching television, but mostly sleeping and then waking and staring atthe couch’s back cushion. It was maroon, a wide stitch, full of bodily smells from years of evening escape into the television. Day after day I would wake up, walk from my bedroom to the couch, fall asleep, wake up, stare at the couch cushion, maybe weep or think about going to the bathroom before drifting back to sleep. The pattern quickly became irresistible.
    It was late spring. The weather was warm and bright, and I lay inside completely inert. I hoped to die. I hoped for a heart attack that would send me to the hospital where nurses would tend to me with care and ask me what was wrong. What I felt was more than sadness. It had become an irresistible blackness. I began to love falling into that dark place. I clung to the awful feelings because they were so familiar, so honest, so intoxicating, and they shut out everything else. There was no room for considering that I could try again at life, that I could try even though I might fail, that someday I could feel better. I fantasized about dying, then sat frozen with fear that I would indeed someday cease to live.
    â€œDo you want something to eat?” my mom would whisper, rubbing my back gently.
    â€œNo,” I’d mumble.
    â€œDo you want to come with me to the store?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOkay, well, I’ll be back in about half an hour,” she’d say, a slight exasperation in her voice.
    The days like this became endless, merged into one long, bleak existence. I had never experienced this kind of gravity. The thought of getting up and going somewhere, doing something, exhausted me. So I didn’t do a thing. For days. My mom’s school year had ended, and she was home with me each day, but that made no difference. My favorite place was officially the dark crease between the cushions on the back of the couch. My face felt best pushed deep into that crack. Sensory deprivation had become the only way to comfort myself. I needed to be alone withno light, no sounds, no smells, and as little air circulation as possible. The breeze from an opened door hurt my skin.
    I don’t know how many days I spent like this. Five? Ten? But finally, one afternoon, my dad came home from work at about two in the afternoon. Maybe my mom had called him in desperation. Maybe he’d seen me there on the couch for too many days and the sight made him unable to focus at his desk.
    When he walked into the family room at around two on that average afternoon, there was no noise, just me trying to keep breathing. He walked over to me and said, “Julie?” I didn’t have the energy to respond. “You’ve got to get up,” he said.
    Eventually I replied with a muffled, “No.”
    â€œYes,” he said. “Come on.”
    â€œI can’t,” I mumbled. I started crying.
    â€œYes, you can,” he said, putting his hand on my back. I pushed my face into the cushion and sobbed. My hair was a matted, tangled mess. I could feel the clump of hair shift as I shook my head no. I wanted him to leave; I wanted him to never leave.
    I felt his hands push under my body, and he began to pick me up.
    â€œNo, no, no, no,” I wept. I didn’t want to be carried anywhere. I could only exist there on that couch. That was my only place left.
    â€œWe are going outside. You need to get outside,” he said.
    â€œI can’t,” I said in a whimper. “Dad, I can’t.”
    â€œI’ll help you,” he said, quietly. “I’m here, and I’ll help you.” I put my arms around him and buried my face in his neck, his smell encoded in me, cologne and skin and father. “Dear, get the door,” he said. I heard my mom’s slippers rush to the front door, and he carried me down our front