You don’t ask that many questions about my other doctors. The ones on the panel for the drug study. I think you probably avoid asking questions about them because you don’t want to remind me that this drug is still experimental and the only reason I am taking it is because Paul has a doctor friend who knew about the research and was able to get me into the study. Or maybe you don’t like the thought of me seeing the other doctors because you think we have something special and you’d hate to see me happily medicated with someone else, you sick bastard. After everything we’ve been through together, you’re afraid I’d leave you for someone younger and prettier.
I’ll put your mind at ease. The doctors on the study panel are all old. But they do have a ton of young interns. Yeah, I see the other participants in the halls sometimes when my mom takes me in, but it’s not exactly a place where I want to make friends. I know you said it might be beneficial to talk to people who are going through the same stuff I am, but I don’t see that as helpful. I don’t want to talk to other people like me. I can’t help them. I’m crazy, too.
The doctors ask me everything from the ever-popular “How do you feel?” to the awkward “Does the drug seem to be causing any sexual complications for you?”
“I am not having sex.”
“With masturbation?”
“No. That works fine.”
“Excellent.”
Yeah, it’s nice to know that even on the drug I can masturbate properly. The doctors seemed gratified to learn this as well.
They were pleased with all the results, actually. Since I’d been such a whack job to begin with, they were glad that the drug had completely transformed me, allowing me to live a relatively normal life. They congratulated themselves a lot on the success of the drug, the success of the study, and their overall brilliance. I was okay with it because it was benefiting me, but after a while, they did sound like douche bags. The thing about being smart is that you don’t actually need to remind people you’re smart every five seconds. It makes people want to kill you.
I know that experimental treatments are for the ones who have no other options. You know about the incident that got me enrolled in the study, of course. It’s all in my file.
You’ve got to understand that I was sick. Not just the regular kind of schizo-sick-in-the-head. I had a fever. I was burning up. Little puddles of sweat had formed in my eye sockets, and I could feel the moisture weighing down my lids. I remember feeling disoriented, like I’d suddenly lost my balance. That was when I saw it slither underneath the kitchen cabinets. A thick green snake that I thought had come in from the backyard. I leaped onto the table.
I grabbed my mom’s kitchen scissors and stabbed at it as its tail whipped back and forth, slapping the tile. It lunged, and I brought the scissors down on what I thought was its body.
My mom found me in a pool of my own blood, the handles of the scissors jutting out of my thigh. I don’t even remember doing it. Sometimes I think I can remember the blinding pain and the loud crack of my head hitting the ground, but then I remember the snake, too. So I don’t trust my memory.
That was after they’d taken me out of school. When I spent almost six months in my house, unable to do anything and not wanting to move. Rebecca didn’t smile back then. She definitely didn’t twirl. We just sort of covered ourselves in blankets and watched reruns of Avatar: The Last Airbender.
I had really awful reactions to the first few drugs they tried. One of them actually landed me in the hospital with chest pain, so I was pretty sure I’d never be able to live my life. I was angry all the time. Usually I did what the voices told me to do because I just wanted them to stop. I wanted it to end, and I knew the fastest way to make that happen was to just do it. Slap my own face. Pinch my skin. Run and don’t stop running.
Is it weird that I think part of me will never stop running?
—
Ah yes, the baby. At five months it should be about ten inches long. It can hear our voices now, so my mom makes a big deal about everyone talking to her belly. Paul and I take turns doing this. Because we love her.
It’s actually a testament to our love that neither of us said a word when she burst into tears because her feet were too fat for her slippers, even though her voice got really high and squeaky and we probably could’ve laughed about it.
Last night, before dinner, my voices were singing to me. I actually like it when they do that because it’s a nice break from them telling me that my family would be better off if I killed myself. They weren’t singing any words that I recognized, but I hummed along for a while until the tune sort of floated out of me. I didn’t notice my mom step through the doorway while I was doing this, but when I looked up, she was smiling, her hands clasped over her belly. She said the baby liked my voice. I didn’t argue with her.
—
Yes, of course I have something planned for Valentine’s Day. It’s tomorrow. Do you have something planned? You’re the one married with three kids. It’s almost expected that I am going to do something because Maya and I are young and stupid and can celebrate this holiday by watching a crappy movie, eating a crappy dinner, and ending the evening with inappropriate touching.
I’m not sure why it’s relevant to you if I have a physical relationship with my girlfriend. Maybe you get off thinking about it. I wouldn’t be surprised. You seem like the type to have weird fetishes like that, but to answer your question, no, we have not had sex. We have done everything else, though, which makes us far from innocent, I can assure you. And it usually happens during Academic Team matches.
Since she doesn’t know I go to therapy every Wednesday, she doesn’t have to know what I tell you. In fact, it’s better that she has no idea what we talk about. It can stay between us. There’s no reason for me to feel guilty about writing this to you, but even as I write this, I feel Rebecca cringe. She doesn’t like secrets, but she also really doesn’t like it when I talk about Maya. It makes her feel uncomfortable, like it’s a betrayal of trust or something. But here’s the thing: I feel guilty sometimes about not talking to you.
The least I can do is be completely honest here. This is still my free space, where I can write anything that comes to mind, anything that needs to be evaluated. It’s nice having a place to work this stuff out.
But you don’t care about that. You want to know what I do with my girlfriend and how it makes me feel. Every damn time. And how do you feel today, Adam? I have to give you credit for continuing to ask the same question and continuing to wait for a verbal response. You are stubborn. But you know what? I think it would be better if everyone in the entire world stopped asking people how they feel and starting talking about what they think. Nobody gives a shit about feelings. They are useless, pathetic wastes of time for believers in astrology and unicorns.