It took a while before my mind could process what had happened. There had been no warning in my head that she wasn’t real. I hadn’t thought it was strange that she was running away from me. She was wearing her school uniform, and even that hadn’t seemed out of place. The only thought in my mind had been to follow her.
What if Maya wasn’t real? I climbed back through my window and spent the night thinking I had invented her. Everything in my body hurt because I was so fixated on the idea that she might not exist. I was afraid to talk to my mom about it because I didn’t want her to know if my girlfriend was made up. I was almost positive my mom had asked about her before. She’d come to the house for dinner and studying. Mom knew Maya existed. She absolutely knew. The little voice in my head kept asking, Are you sure?
I got to school early and waited for her to show up. My head was pounding. When Maya finally arrived, I waited for someone to say something to her. Anything. I needed someone else to see her first and respond to her. Luckily, Sister Helen came into view, and I heard her say, “Good morning, Maya.”
“You’re going to get us in trouble if you kiss me like that at school,” Maya said when I finally put her down. “There are rules, you know. You can’t just go touching me whenever you want.” She smirked and twisted her hand into mine.
I’m not sure what you got out of this entry. Probably that I shouldn’t be left on my own and maybe that I need stronger meds, but I’d actually prefer that you thought I was just a horny teenager. If you could just pretend that’s all I am, I’d really appreciate it.
DOSAGE: 3.5 mg. Same dosage. No change.
APRIL 24, 2013
Look. You don’t have to try this hard. You could probably take a nap during these sessions and nobody would notice. I won’t tell anyone.
I’m touched that you went out of your way to try, yet again, to connect with me, but even if I was, you know, normal, an art exhibit was a risky move. So you could have wasted your time.
My mom was really glad you took me. You should have heard the way she went on about your innovative therapy style and how you really seemed to be reaching me. I think I have to care about the art itself, though. The fact that the paintings were done by someone like me doesn’t make them more beautiful and it doesn’t make the artist less crazy. I almost ruined everything as usual by not appreciating the first exhibit you dragged me to. To be fair, it was full of bent penis flowers. Huge paintings of bent, flaccid penises with crowns of petals around the tips making them look like the saddest flowers I’ve ever seen.
I really want to say the right thing about this stuff, so if you could just tell me what I’m supposed to be feeling, that would be awesome. I assume that I’m supposed to be comforted by the fact that these artists are able to show people what they see in their heads. Right? And because they are all schizophrenic, I’m supposed to be moved by their ability to reach beyond the limitations of their disease to create something beautiful.
The painting of the cat wearing glasses in the garden is supposed to teach me something about embracing the crazy. But what I really think is, Who cares about this cat? The answer is no one. No one cares about this cat. The artist barely cared about this cat.
I think I know what happened. My last entry worried you. You seemed different when you read my stuff this week. Like you were afraid I was losing my grip. But I’m not sure showing me art from other people like me is the way to go.
It’s creepy.
Why do they paint so many misshapen penises with flower petal hats? And that one guy, the one who painted all the cats. That guy is seriously messed up. The thing I really want is for the artist to stand in front of his painting and tell me what the hell he was thinking. If the cat is actually a submarine and the penises are actually people, then I’d like to know about it because looking at them on their own without any explanation is stupid.
And I seriously hate when other people tell you what the artist was really trying to say. Like the museum curator standing in front of the painting with the bent penis flower telling everyone that it symbolizes his detachment from the world of academia after he was diagnosed.
It’s a drooping flower with a penis for a stem. It could mean anything, or it could just mean he wanted to paint sad penises and used flowers to cover them up. Let the artist come out and say, Yes, this was a way for me to express my sadness after I was forcibly removed from my teaching post at Notre Dame for showing up on campus naked. It makes it more difficult if the artist is dead or too crazy to answer, but then we should just look at it. And that’s it. We shouldn’t pretend we understand.
I just want to hear it in their voice. I don’t want someone else who has no idea what their work means to speak for him. He probably spent the rest of his pathetic life trying to get people to listen to him. But they wouldn’t because he was crazy. So he painted instead. And rather than let him tell someone exactly what his work meant, they send some lady with a BA in art history and an ugly green blazer to do it.
But maybe you didn’t bring me there for the freak show artist part. Maybe it was the other exhibit you actually brought me to see. The culinary one.
I’d never seen food like that before. The cake towers were pretty impressive. And the rows of perfect fruit tarts that looked like jewels. I can see why they belonged in an exhibit. I’ve never seen food look so beautiful before.
It was a lot of color. Like all the cooks and bakers had gotten high and blasted their ingredients with psychedelic paint. But I liked it. I liked the way everything was stacked precisely, like an army of food.
The thing I like most about it is that I can do it. It isn’t inaccessible like most art. It was beautiful because it was real.
Anyway, thanks for taking me.
DOSAGE: 3.5 mg. Same dosage.
MAY 1, 2013
Yeah, I feel fine. Like I said, I’m better when I’m baking. It removes the distractions.
And cream puffs might sound easy, but they’re actually pretty technical. Even if you get the pastry part right, you never know if you’ve filled them enough. I had to cut a few of them open before I knew they were okay.
And I did it with an audience. Rebecca was watching me from her kitchen stool, smiling every so often at the ingredients. She frowned when the mobsters walked right into the kitchen and let off a couple rounds into the ceiling, knocking chunks off the wall and into the sink.
“Can’t ignore me forever,” the mob boss said. But I kept filling the cream puffs, and he eventually moved to the corner of the room to watch the festivities.
I think you probably know that I hadn’t exactly been looking forward to this baby shower. I wasn’t expected to serve food or entertain guests or participate in any of the absurd games, but the event itself was not what I’d call a good time. On the plus side, I have never seen my mom so excited for a party. And my desserts were amazing.