“Then maybe he should have taken that guy out before he killed those kids,” I said. Sister Catherine looked like she was looking for the right words, but I didn’t want her to feel like she needed to comfort me. “It’s okay, Sister. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
In this situation, whoever had said that in class was right. He could’ve just offed himself. No one else would’ve had to die.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget that feeling, when I learned what someone would say if they knew my secret. What they really thought about people with my condition. Not the fake comforting words they’d give that other people would hear. The real words in their heart.
If they knew I was a threat, they’d tell me to kill myself. They’d think I was a monster.
—
On Monday I’d received a friendly reminder notice from the office to check in with my student ambassador. Naturally, I tossed it in the trash. Nobody was actually monitoring my participation in the student ambassador program, but I was supposed to be having weekly meetings with Ian. I guess the prospect of these meetings disappeared when I shoved his naked ass into a crowded hallway. It’s a shame because I think we were really starting to hit it off.
The weird thing was he’d been unusually quiet since then. I didn’t worry about it until today, when I passed him in the hall after class. Instead of walking past me like I didn’t exist, he stopped and looked at me with a weird expression on his face, like he knew something I didn’t.
When I walked to the bathroom in the hallway next to the church, he followed me in and took the urinal next to me and started to take a leak. I usually avoid conversation with other guys while I have my dick in my hand, but Ian was unfazed. It was the first time I’d been this close to him since the shower incident.
“Tragic what happened in Connecticut,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, watching his lip curl and waiting for him to get to the point.
“People with problems like that. We should just round them up and shoot ’em, you know? That way nobody gets hurt.” He zipped up his pants and clapped me on the back, but not before turning to the JESUS LOVES YOU/DON’T BE A HOMO graffiti on the wall and saying, “That’s been there forever. Someone should really clean it up.”
I felt my body go cold.
—
Sometimes I forget you’re there. I write these notes and spill my guts and sometimes it feels like you really hear me. Other times it feels like I’m just writing to nobody.
So I’d like to take this opportunity to say that I don’t like guns. I don’t own guns and I don’t have any desire to shoot anyone ever. I don’t play violent video games, mostly because I’m bad at them. I don’t even really like laser tag.
Amen.
DOSAGE: 3 mg. Same dosage.
JANUARY 16, 2013
Yes, I understand that you want to know how I hurt my hand. And I get that this isn’t how therapy works. I’m not getting the full benefits of the session by talking to you through these “diary” entries, because therapy is a conversation, not a dissertation. You listen to me, we talk about what I’ve said, and then we make a plan to do it all over again the following week, and nobody ever gets fixed.
The thing is that I know what’s going on. I don’t need you to tell me what’s wrong with me. I don’t need the back-and-forth analysis of what my dreams are telling me or how my hallucinations are changing. I’m very aware of the things lurking in my head. I understand that I’m not normal, so I actually don’t need you, which is why I don’t need to talk in your office.
I don’t ask you about the picture frames on your desk of your three children, who will all most definitely need braces. (Sorry, dude, but it’s true.) I don’t ask you about your wife or about the painting behind your desk of the woman with the green umbrella.
It might actually be worse for you because I write everything down. It means the evidence is all here. If you miss my descent into madness, overlook some anecdote that seems off, it could be crucial. It could be the difference between failure and success. You’re supposed to notice this stuff before it happens.
So you also asked me about my mom. What I think about the pregnancy, if I’m worried. I guess that’s fair. Major life changes are supposed to set us off. Any disruption in our day-to-day routine could cause problems, which is why my mom has been watching me more closely than ever.
My mom had me pretty young. Twenty is young to be a mom. That’s four years from now for me. I can’t imagine having a kid in four years.
But I guess it makes sense that she and Paul want to have a baby. The funny thing is they didn’t talk to me about it. My mom usually goes into excruciating detail about everything, so it’s really out of character for her to keep this kind of secret. They waited until she was three months in to tell me.
When they told me about it, Paul looked anxious, like he was afraid the news would set me off, which made Rebecca cry, because why would a baby set me off?
It’s sad that my mom’s worry is split between her thoughts about the baby and her thoughts about me. She shouldn’t be worrying about me at all. Plus I can hear Paul’s reaction in my head. Metaphorically, of course—I don’t actually hallucinate his voice. He’s got his own kid to protect now. It’s an almost Shakespearean turn of events, where I should be cast out because I pose a threat to the true heir.
It’s nice that I can talk to Maya about the pregnancy, at least. Her brothers are only five, so she understands what it’s like to be a lot older than your siblings.
I think it’s weird that I still haven’t seen Maya’s mom. She’s a nurse and works strange hours, but still I feel like I should have bumped into her by now.
Okay. So my hand. This is what happened.
Maya and I decided to stay late at the library after school on Thursday to work on some homework because Paul had to work late and my mom had a doctor’s appointment. It was kind of a date. I brought gummy bears and she had peanut butter pretzels. If food is required for it to be classified as a date, then there you have it.
I like libraries, if for no other reason than they give homeless people a place to hang out. There’s something nice about the way you’re never too old to go into one, but it still makes you feel the way it did when you were small. I still remember how my mom would let me wander the children’s book section while she looked in the career section for jobs for my dad.
And I like the smell of books.
A few minutes after I arrived, I noticed Ian staring at me. He had his feet up on a nearby table, and his eyebrows were raised. I’d unknowingly started twiddling the pen in my right hand to ward off the group of flies that were circling my stack of books.
But then I realized he wouldn’t have kept staring if that were actually what I was doing. The flies weren’t real.