It’s actually kind of annoying to be quizzed by your therapist. You asking me what I know about schizophrenia is like me asking you what you know about dressing like an arrogant snob. I know it because I live it.
Here are the facts, which you already know, but I’ll tell you anyway because I want to appear clever and I’m desperately seeking your approval. Obviously.
“Schizophrenia” is a Greek word that literally translates to “schizein” (to split) and “phren” (mind). But it doesn’t mean split personality. And it doesn’t mean multiple personalities. The “split” refers to a rift between mental functions.
It is a cornucopia of shit, basically. Which you already know.
Never goes away. Never gets normal. And never lets you relax.
Side note: Your jacket is stupid. You shouldn’t wear plaid. Also, I hate your hair. Is that mousse that you’re using to make it so wavy? Knock it off. And your fly was unzipped for the entire hour of our last session, but I didn’t say anything because (1) I didn’t want you to think I was staring at your junk, and (2) I don’t talk to you, and that would have been really difficult to mime.
Here’s something you don’t know. My great-uncle Greg had it. He was my grandmother’s brother, and the thing I remember most about their relationship was that my grandma liked to pretend he was normal. She never made it sound like he was anything other than a normal man with problems. I never even heard the word “schizophrenia” mentioned when anybody talked about him. I’m not sure that was helpful, but it was a different time and people had less sympathy for diseases that weren’t killing anybody. Plus my mom said Uncle Greg was never diagnosed. If he hadn’t had a family, he probably would’ve died on the streets.
I liked him. He was soft-spoken. Never complained. There wasn’t a mean bone in his body. He was the kind of guy who hid money in library books when he returned them and always let people go in front of him in line at the grocery store. And he played the piano better than anyone I’d ever heard. He taught himself and could pretty much play by ear.
Since he lived with my grandma for most of his life and had no real expenses, he taught piano to kids who couldn’t afford lessons. Sometimes they would pay him in vegetables from their gardens. Sometimes their moms baked cookies. Once, he came home with a scarf one of his students had knitted for him, and he wore it every day for a month. In July.
But the point is, if they wanted to learn, they left knowing how to play.
I really wish I’d wanted to learn back then.
He died around the time my dad left, but I’ll never forget the thing he said to me when he was trying to teach me how to play. He’d overheard my mom telling my grandma about me getting teased at school for something stupid. This was way before they knew anything was wrong with me.
“Most people are afraid of themselves, Adam. They carry that fear everywhere hoping no one will notice.” Before I could ask him what that had to do with anything, he laughed. He had a ridiculous laugh, like a horn that sort of exploded out of him at odd moments. My mom said it was a big hit when I was a baby.
Even though he was never diagnosed, I know he was like me. The difference is that he was really kind, and it doesn’t matter how crazy you are if you’re a genuinely nice person. People will forgive you.
—
You asked me once what I was afraid of. I didn’t answer because I didn’t feel like it. Talking about it makes me sound lame. But it’s late and I can’t sleep. And the thing that creeps into my mind when I can’t sleep is here.
You’ve probably noticed by now that I’m capable of defending myself against anything that might actually stumble into my room in the middle of the night, but my fists are still clenched and my eyes are still searching for the source of the scratching noise beneath my floorboards because there is a part of me that still believes that what I see and hear is real. That something is trying to get me.
I remember a story I read once about a man who thought the people on his train were trying to kill him. He’d convinced himself that they could read his thoughts and were going to drag him off the train at the next stop and bludgeon him to death.
He locked himself in the bathroom for over an hour. When the train finally reached the next stop, he ran screaming from the compartment before leaping for the station platform, missing it, and cracking his head open on the snowy bank below.
He was thirty-seven. Pretty young to die.
I find that with most stories, at least the ones I’ve read in school, trains nearly always mean something. They are adventure or death.
In the corner of my room, I see a man standing in shadow. He’s wearing a black bowler hat and carrying a cane with a curved handle. Every few minutes, he checks his watch and looks at me.
“It’s almost time,” he keeps saying under his breath. “Get ready to run. Train’s coming.”
“Almost time for what?” I want to ask him.
But he just smiles and says nothing. He doesn’t have to.
And even though he’s creepy and I wish he’d leave, he isn’t what I’m afraid of.
I’m afraid of the way things used to be when I believed he was real.
I’m afraid that someday I won’t be able to watch the parade of hallucinations without doing what they tell me to do because I’m afraid the drug will stop working. And everyone might have good reason to be afraid of me.
DOSAGE: 1.5 mg. Same dosage. No change.
OCTOBER 3, 2012
The naked guy visits once in a while. He’s probably the weirdest hallucination I have. Taller than me. And stark naked. Cheeks to the wind. In my head I call him Jason. No reason, he just looks like a Jason.
He’s actually a pretty nice guy. He reminds me to hold doors open. To say thank you. That kind of stuff. But we don’t have a relationship beyond that. Jason is just a giant, naked presence wandering the halls in my school. So that’s crazy even for a hallucination.
I’m not supposed to call myself crazy anymore. It was in one of those books my mom bought after I was diagnosed. They all talk about loving your freak-show kid no matter how many imaginary friends he’s got.