Today at school I thought about you. Not in a creepy way. I just wondered about the other people you’ve treated. The other schizos with their disjointed speech and soapy spit bubbles and tinfoil hats. The ones who aren’t on ToZaPrex and who no longer see the line between what is real and what is batshit crazy.
About a year ago, when my mom first took me to see a doctor, I was in bad shape. It felt like my brain had been dumped onto a dirty sidewalk, then poured back into my head with bits of garbage and broken glass. It was surprising how quickly it happened. I was fine, and then I wasn’t. The doctor’s waiting room was like purgatory: everybody knows they’re already dead, but it’s such a depressing afterlife it’s actually a little scary if you think about it too hard. Exactly like being stuck in line at the DMV for all eternity.
The waiting room is a place I still have nightmares about. Except when I do, I’m chained to one of the chairs and trying to ward off the punches of another patient while my mom watches from behind a glass window because a man in a white coat is trying to explain that I’m too dangerous to approach. I’m screaming and crying, but no one hears me or, worse, no one cares. It’s the loneliest I’ve ever felt.
Anyway, the waiting room only had two or three patients in it. All men. Unless you counted Rebecca, who was sitting quietly and playing at the Lego table. One of the men was my age and with his mom. He looked like he was in worse shape than me, which was comforting for some reason. Of course, that made me feel guilty. Why should the fact that he looked worse off make me feel better about myself? It doesn’t matter. There’s no escape for either of us. Even our moms know this is true, which is probably the worst thing about this situation.
I’d rather suffer alone.
So the other kid in the waiting room was rocking back and forth and humming to himself. It wasn’t a song I recognized, and the tune seemed to change sporadically. His mom wasn’t saying anything to him about it. She was reading something on her Kindle and acting like her son was just sitting there not doing anything odd. It was like she knew her kid was being weird, but she would be more than happy to kick your ass if you brought it up. She had this Xena: Warrior Princess attitude about her that made it perfectly clear that she had been fighting for her son his entire life. It was only when he started pulling at his sleeve that she snapped to attention and pulled the sleeve back, but not before I saw the deep red gashes in his forearms. They looked like he’d been digging for something up to the crook of his elbow.
I was staring, and his mother noticed and glared back, daring me to say something, which kicked my mom’s natural protective instincts into gear. They stared each other down for a moment before my mom asked, “Here to see Dr. Finkleman, too?”
The other woman nodded, touched her son’s head fondly, and eventually resumed her reading. They were no longer adversaries, just two women fighting the same battle, putting their faith in the same doctor. Cure my son.
I think about that waiting room more than any other spot because it’s our gathering place. The place where the crazies go. A group of us, seeing things no one else can see and following orders no one else can hear, because we have no choice. Our truth is different from everyone else’s.
I guess I should count my blessings because I could have been born in pretty much any other decade in history and been sent to a madhouse where the patients were caged and baited like animals. Places so breathtakingly evil that you don’t have to imagine hell. Asylums were nasty places.
This entry is a bummer, but count your blessings. At least you get paid to read it.
DOSAGE: 2.5 mg. Approved increase in dosage.
NOVEMBER 28, 2012
I used to think that Dwight’s ability to talk in almost every circumstance was annoying, but I’ve developed a respect for it. It is almost impossible to keep up a steady stream of conversation during a tennis match, but Dwight does it without getting winded or breaking a sweat.
He would be perfectly content talking forever without ever actually saying anything. But the nice thing about him is he doesn’t worry about how he looks to other people. He’s awkward. Pale. Skinny. He’s not the type to feel sorry for himself. And the weird thing is he’s happy all the time, which is why it was so odd to hear the unhappiness in his voice after gym yesterday.
We’d just finished our laps on the track, and most of the guys had already showered. St. Agatha’s does not have a long wall of showers like some of those locker rooms you might see on TV. They have individual stalls with hooks on the outside of the door for your clothes. Very classy…and phenomenally stupid for high school showers.
I’d been one of the last ones to finish the run, so when I walked into the locker room, all I could hear was Dwight pleading with Ian and four other guys to give him back his clothes.
“C’mon, guys,” Dwight said through the door. Ian was wearing his towel around his waist and holding Dwight’s clothes away from his body like a matador coaxing a bull into the arena.
“Seriously, guys. I’m going to be late for class,” Dwight pleaded.
“Not really my problem,” said Ian. He walked to the row of lockers right by the door to the main hallway and tossed Dwight’s clothes high out of reach. “Looks like you don’t have any options.”
Being tall and menacing has its advantages. I don’t think anyone saw me enter the room, so when I parted the crowd around Ian, there was silence. He was about to open his mouth to speak when I yanked off his towel and shoved him out the locker room door and into the hallway, holding the door tight so he couldn’t get back in. He pounded on it from the other side, and, curiously, none of the other guys in the locker room did anything to stop me. In fact, they scattered when I looked back at them.
Then the bell rang.
The sound of hundreds of footsteps echoed in the hallway, followed by laughter. I grabbed Dwight’s clothes from the top of the locker and handed them to him over his stall.
“You just pushed him into the hall stark naked,” he said.
“Yep,” I said. Dwight’s face split into a grin.
“How did he look?”
“Cold,” I said. “C’mon. We’re going to be late.”
It was probably immature and incredibly stupid, but some of the best moments are. I’d probably pay for it later. Still, no regrets.
Maya’s text later:
Maya: I saw Ian Stone’s white pimply ass today running past the gym. I almost went blind. I’m told you had something to do with that?
Me: You’re welcome. Love, Karma.
DOSAGE: 2.5 mg. Same dosage.
DECEMBER 5, 2012
My mom is pregnant.
DOSAGE: 3 mg. Approved increase in dosage.
JANUARY 9, 2013