by M. Billiter
“You don’t want people to think of him differently.”
The fight that raged inside me suddenly surrendered. “Exactly.” My heart rate slowed and my breathing evened out. “That’s exactly it. I don’t want anyone to think of my son differently, or to look at him strangely, or to talk behind his back, or”—I thought of Ben’s ‘schizo’ comment—“call him names.”
“Mom, I get it.” She pulled away enough to look at me. “I haven’t told any of my friends either because it’s none of their business. But I’m your daughter and Branson’s sister. This is my business. I’m in the same situation you are. I understand. That’s why we have our jokes to break the ice, to lighten the load. I’m not criticizing you or your parenting, I just want you to understand what’s happening.”
“I know. I do. I just get….”
“Crazy?” She flashed me a wild smile.
“Yeah. I get crazy when it comes to Branson and protecting him. I’ve kept so much in for so long that I forget I’m not alone in this and that my other children are living through it too.” I rolled my eyes. “That is crazy.”
She hugged me tightly. “Mummy, it’s okay.”
“It’s not, but I’m trying to get a better handle on it. Thank you for being the adult when I wasn’t.” I kissed the top of her head. “I’ll be honest, I’m not sure how much levity I can bring to this, but I can try.”
Carson smiled. “The next time you see Branson, just be there. Don’t try to evaluate it or fix it or overthink things. Just be there for him.”
I thought of his incubator and staying by his side throughout the night. “I can do that.” I gently pulled away from her. “And I can definitely do one of your blueberry muffins right now.”
I started toward the kitchen with Carson laughing on my heels when the front door abruptly opened. Bandit came barking around the corner, and Carson and I turned toward the foyer.
Branson stood motionless in the doorway, faint hazel eyes locked onto mine.
He needs me. He’s afraid. He’s expecting me to yell.
Instead, I smiled at my beautiful blond-haired warrior. “Late night, huh?” I said. “Us too. Come have a muffin with your sister and me.”
23
Branson
“I don’t know what happened,” I said to Dr. Cordova.
My mom sat beside me on the couch in his office. When I walked into the house this morning and told her how I ended up on the side of the highway in someone else’s car with no knowledge of how I got there, she didn’t lecture, yell, or cry. Nothing will shut a parent down more than finding out your son is a certified psychopath. She'd grabbed her car keys and we'd headed straight to Dr. Cordova’s office.
“One minute I was asleep at my girlfriend’s house, and the next thing I know I was on the side of the road with someone else’s car, a cop thinking I was drunk, and my girlfriend and this dude bailing me out.” I didn’t even look at my mom. “I swear I’m not lying. I don’t remember how I got into the car or nothing.”
I was waiting for my mom to correct my grammar, but she didn’t. She just sat motionless. She only said three words to me when I confessed what happened: "I love you." How anyone could love me at that point was beyond me, but I’d take it.
“What you experienced is called a fugue state.” Dr. Cordova didn’t mince words, just laying it all out there immediately.
“What’s that?” I asked, leaning forward on the couch.
“A fugue state is like a blackout. A person functions, but has no memory of what happens or is happening.”
“So getting into someone else’s car and driving without any conscious memory of it is completely normal?”
The panic in my mom’s voice made me sad. She was scared, and I understood. So was I. I didn’t understand what was happening to me, and I was afraid my chances of getting better had passed. I was crazy, and I’d always be crazy.
“There’s nothing normal about a fugue state, but it is a symptom of his illness. This is the second occurrence where Branson has lost track of time.” Dr. Cordova flipped through my file that was starting to look more like a novel. “He first reported blacking out at school and coming to in the boys’ restroom.” He looked at me.
“Yeah, but that was, like, maybe five minutes that I don’t remember. This was like a lot longer.” I ran my fingers through my unwashed hair. It felt sticky and gross, and I was sure it smelled just as bad. “I don’t even know when I left Dakota’s house, or how I got the car or anything.”
Dr. Cordova nodded. “Dissociative fugue states can range from hours to days, with periods of unplanned travel and wandering involved.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I said.
He shook his head. “No, I’m not.”
I didn't know why I'd even asked. The man was as serious as a heart attack. No bedside humor, strictly fact. “So what do we do? Because I don’t want that to happen ever again.”
“I had discussed with your parents about starting you on an antipsychotic medication. The next step was discussing medication options with you. You aren’t currently taking any psychotropic drugs, like heroin, cocaine, meth—”
“No.” I blurted, and again I expected my mom to jump my shit, but she was practically mute beside me.
“What about marijuana?” he asked.
I looked up at the doctor. “Yeah, but I haven’t smoked pot in a while.” I elbowed my mom. “I told you I’ve smoked pot.”
She nodded.
“Okay, just so you know, with your kind of ailment, alcohol and pot could exacerbate it, particularly pot,” Dr. Cordova said. “High levels of alcohol can also affect it. The pot can really mess with your prescriptions.”
“No more pot.” I laughed, and surprisingly my mom did too. I reached for her hand and held it. “I’m sorry,” I said under my breath.
She shook her head. “It’s not your fault.”
Yeah, that’s what Dakota said. So who do I blame, then? It’s my body. It’s my mental health.
“What are some of the concerns you have?” Dr. Cordova directed the question to my mom.
“I don’t know how to help him.” Her voice was so shallow and low. It made me want to hold her and tell her I was okay and that I’d be all right. That I’d get my shit together and never be a problem again.
“There’s a support group. The National Alliance for Mentally Ill, or NAMI. It’s inexpensive to join, and there’s a Wyoming chapter.”
I didn't think it was the answer my mom was expecting to hear, because she barely registered a response. I felt the couch shake slightly, and when I looked at her, she was crying. I squeezed her hand.
“Oh, Mom.”
She shook her head. “I’m okay.” She leaned forward on the couch. “Okay. So this is new ground. And I guess what I don’t understand is how do you know if this is real?”
“Real?” Dr. Cordova repeated.
“I’m sorry. I know this seems insensitive, or perhaps completely inane, but how do you know if what Branson is saying is real? That he’s not just making it up to get out of trouble?”
“Ask Branson. Have him answer,” Dr. Cordova replied.
“I wouldn’t make it up,” I said quickly.
“Okay, but how do you know, from a medical standpoint, if it’s real?” my mom pressed the doctor for an answer that was more concrete than the one he was giving her.
Way to go, Mom.
“When what is real?” Dr. Cordova asked.
He either wasn’t getting it, or he was refusing to answer.
“His diagnosis. I don’t even know what it is,” she said. “I’m still….”
“There are a lot of illnesses, like bipolar disorder and schizophrenia, that become clearer in adulthood but are less clear in adolescents,” he said.
You could have heard a pin drop from how quiet it was in the room. Both my mom and I were riveted to what he had to say, because honestly, it was the most the guy had given either of us about what was causing me t
o black out and end up in strange places.
“But some of the symptoms Branson has are much more on the schizophrenia spectrum. Hearing multiple voices, the kind of thoughts that become very intrusive, wanting him to do things, almost like a command hallucination—it’s not typical of people with a mood disorder. Usually if it’s something like depression, the hallucinations would only be singular, not multiple, it would be limited to mainly putting you down or calling you names, everything that's more consistent with saying you’re a bad person and you need to die. With mania, you can get some of that, but you don't have manic symptoms. You don't have the rapid speech, the grandiosity, hyper energy, overly cocky, not needing sleep.” He took a long pause. “Branson’s symptoms are more typical of schizophrenia.”
Schizophrenia? That can’t be right, can it? I didn’t look at my mom. I didn’t want to see her reaction.
“My suggestion is to start Branson on a low dose of Geodon,” he said. “He’s been having more symptoms than he originally reported. I don’t know if he’s shared that with you?”
Thanks, Doc.
“No, he hasn’t,” my mom said and then turned to me. “What other symptoms?”
“More intrusive thoughts.” My tone was clipped and short. She doesn’t need to know every detail of my morbid life.
“I want to start him on sixty milligrams,” Dr. Cordova said.
“How often do I have to take this?” I asked. “Like for four weeks?”
“Every day. We’ll get to the length of time in a moment.”
Well fucking awesome.
“Sixty milligrams is still a low dose, so we'll have room to go. The target is not to create side effects but try to control the intrusive thoughts,” Dr. Cordova explained.
“The side effects are important to me, because if I gain any more weight, I won’t be cool with that,” I said.
The doctor nodded. “Weight gain is one of the potential side effects of Geodon.”
“Is there something else I can take? Any other options? Because I’ve already gained ten pounds from the antidepressant you prescribed when you gave me the wrong diagnosis.” My anger was uncontrollable. “So if you’re going to give me more medication, you better make sure it won’t affect my athletic performance and make me gain more weight.”
The doctor crossed his legs. “I understand your concerns. I did not prescribe the antidepressant you’re currently on, though I have kept you on it because you responded well to it and it’s helped alleviate your depressive symptoms. But with your illness, often when the depression lifts, the psychosis becomes stronger. You’ve experienced more auditory and visual hallucinations and now more fugue states.”
Just make sure not to mess up this time. I’m not going to gain weight every other week or I won’t stay on this shit.
The doctor uncrossed his legs and looked at my mom. “Branson already has a lot of things going for him.” He then volleyed his attention to me. “You have good social skills. You’ve been successful. You’re smart. You haven’t ventured into alcohol.” He paused.
And we all laughed.
“Okay, with the exception of your fugue states where you may or may not have drank, normally you’re not venturing into alcohol,” he amended, then leaned back in his chair. “Those are all positive qualities. The people with schizophrenia who struggle the most are the ones who are premorbid early on. They start out as kind of a loner, they don’t take care of their hygiene, and they're very socially awkward and withdrawn. That’s one of the things you don’t have. And the other thing that hasn't happened, which is extremely huge, is that you haven’t been put into a hospital for it.”
Hospital? Oh fuck no.
“At some point you might,” he hedged, “but hopefully not.” He paused. “Particularly if you stay on top of things.”
I barely said, “Okay,” and my mom practically screamed, “We’ll stay on top of it.”
“I’ve had some kids where we’ve gotten things going pretty well early, and as far as I know they’ve never seen the inside of a hospital, nor do most people ever know they have the illness.”
If no one ever had to know I have this….
“The hospitalization, would it happen because he went off his medication, or the symptoms got worse?” my mom asked.
“If it ever got so bad that Branson wasn’t sure he could keep himself from hurting somebody or hurting himself, or just that his illness got so much in the way that he couldn’t function,” he replied.
I took a deep breath. I’ve gotta keep this shit in check.
“You seem so calm with this diagnosis,” my mom said to me. “It doesn’t scare you, Branson?”
It terrifies me. I shrugged. “No.”
“As a mom, it’s….”
“It's one of those illnesses that, when people hear the name, it's considered a serious psychiatric illness, but so are severe depression and manic or bipolar depression.”
“It’s just so misunderstood,” my mom said, as if she had grasped what we'd just been handed when I knew damn well she hadn’t.
“It is misunderstood,” Dr. Cordova agreed. “And part of that is because historically, there’s not a clear understanding of the illness.” He looked toward me. “You ended up with yours sort of late in adolescence, and that’s about the time frame that many can start getting their symptoms into adulthood. The thing that predicts the worst outcome of schizophrenia is not staying on top of symptoms and not being compliant with medication.”
He took a long pause and held eye contact with me. I figured he was trying to unnerve me, but at that point, nothing spooked me anymore.
“Sometimes what happens is you’ll get on the medication and you’ll think, ‘I’m doing so great’ because you’ve gotten rid of the symptoms, and then you'll just stop taking your meds. But the symptoms could sneak up on you, or come back really fast—we just don’t know. You may go off the meds for a while and it may not be a big deal. But you don’t want to ever go off your medication without the aid of your psychiatrist. I would suggest we go a good full year without symptoms, and I don’t think any psychiatrist would disagree, before we think we could go with a lower dosage.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Sometimes you may need more, but the odds are you’re probably going to have to be on meds most of your life.”
And there it was. My death sentence. I wasn’t just crazy, I was confined to a life of medication, shrinks and, by the looks of it, the pity of my own mom.
“You want the meds to work without causing problems,” Dr. Cordova said.
“Are you all right with that?” my mom asked.
As if I have a choice.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
24
Branson
Halloween. Great time to dress up as someone you’re not and party with a bunch of people you don’t know.
I glanced in the full-length mirror in my mom’s room, repositioning the police hat so it would fit more squarely on my head. My shaggy hair seemed to stick out on the sides, no matter the adjustment. I tucked the thin, shitty navy-colored costume shirt into the matching pants and ta-da, I was a cheap cop or bachelorette party stripper. It depended on how I wanted to look at things, and since Dr. Cordova put me on crazy pills, I was seeing things a little more clearly.
“Aaron, are you about ready? The girls are almost here.”
Of course, there was no reply. He was probably working on his hair, though I didn't know why since his hair was going to be covered with a firefighter’s helmet. I shook my head and pulled the aviators from the front pocket of my shirt, sliding them over my eyes.
Damn, I look hot. Maybe Aaron was right when he said taking care of myself paid off.
Tonight’s going to be perfect. I’m feeling great, and I get to grind against Dakota all night in her slutty police uniform. Halloween is the best.
I was still admiring myself in the mirror when Bandit started barking. “Looks like the girls are here.” I hurried to the door and swung
it open.
“Officer Dakota, reporting for bootie!”
My girlfriend was stunning. Her long black hair fell down to her exposed breasts that were playing peekaboo from her naughty police uniform, her long, slender legs capped off by boots that she'd borrowed from my mom. A pair of handcuffs were strapped to her narrow waist, and if at all possible, her aviators looked even better than mine. I saw my reflection in the tinted mirrors and smiled.
“Can’t wait to use those handcuffs tonight.” I smirked.
“You wish.” She placed her hands on her hips and looked sassy as hell.
Behind Dakota, Chelsea was dressed in a fireman’s outfit that barely fit her more athletic body.
“Goddamn, girl! You are looking suh-weet!”
I turned in the direction of Aaron's loud voice and started laughing. He was wearing a pair of baggy black jeans held up by thick, red suspenders. To complete the look, my dorky brother had smeared something all over his face and bare chest. A fireman’s hat sat lopsided on his round, melon-sized head.
“What the hell are you wearing?” I stared at him.
“Charcoal, bruh.”
I rolled my eyes. “What…?” I didn’t even know what else to say I was laughing so hard.
Chelsea wrapped her arm around him. “Ah, don’t tease Aaron. I think it’s cute.”
My mom suddenly appeared in the front room, standing off to the side and seeming hesitant. I looked down at her hands and noticed her cell phone clenched tightly in her fist.
“Hey, guys, photo time,” I announced.
She looked at me and softly smiled. Three weeks ago, I was driving during a blackout in a stolen car, but now she seemed to be smiling a lot more. Maybe it was Halloween, or maybe it was the meds. I didn't know for sure, but it was good to see her smiling regardless.
The four of us lined up in front of this mammoth-like table that was tougher than stone and had been my French grandfather’s. The legs on the wooden table were thick, dark, and etched with carvings that made it look like it belonged in a haunted house. But my mom loved the old piece of furniture, so we pretended to like it too.