I Don't Want to Be Crazy

by Samantha Schutz

  I tell her, that’s not the point,

  Joelle was one of her best friends

  and if she needs me now

  I’ll leave work and get on the next train.

  I cannot believe that she is worried about my feelings.

  I don’t ask again.

  I tell her I’m walking out the door

  and will be there in forty minutes.

  Walking to the train station,

  I do not feel my feet hit the sidewalk.

  It is just after noon and the sun is so strong

  that there are sweat stains spreading under my arms.

  Time isn’t moving normally.

  I feel like it takes forever to lift one foot off the ground,

  bend my knee, and place my foot down again.

  On the train, I sit with my cheek pressed against the cool

  window.

  Long Island races past me, then Queens,

  then the web of black cables that leads to the train yards.

  When the train descends into the tunnels of Penn Station,

  the windows become mirrors

  and I can see how swollen and red my face is.

  Days later, at the funeral,

  Claire and I laugh through tears.

  Joelle would have never worn the white ruffled blouse

  and gold cross that her parents dressed her in.

  Claire says this is not how she will remember Joelle.

  Her face isn’t the right shape or color.

  But Claire insists that it’s better this way—

  that seeing Joelle like this will help her

  accept that she is gone.

  Claire speaks at the podium,

  but I cannot hear her.

  I see her mouth moving, but there are no words.

  All I can think about is how blond her hair looks

  against her black cotton dress.

  Joelle’s boyfriend is last to speak.

  He says yesterday he went to Joelle’s favorite restaurant

  and ordered a bowl of chicken soup

  for an empty seat.

  All I want to do is sleep

  and that makes me want to cry—

  makes me remember how bad it was first semester,

  when I hid under my blankets

  in the darkness of drawn blinds.

  I need sleep.

  I need silence.

  I need away.

  I want to rest my head,

  but I am afraid to sleep.

  I am afraid I will wake up screaming.

  I know it must be black under my eyes,

  but it doesn’t matter.

  Things like my face do not matter.

  This is different.

  This is not panic.

  This is sadness.

  I can do this.

  I will not get lost in the fog

  because this is real. Dying is real.

  It is dark at the playground

  and the only sounds are from the crickets.

  The air is cooler than usual, moist.

  I take my shoes off and swing.

  Nate watches me from under the monkey bars.

  I jump off, walk in the wet grass.

  Nate puts his arms around me from behind,

  kisses my neck, my shoulders.

  My bare feet dig into the cold sand.

  His hand touches my stomach,

  under my tank top,

  and I am electrified.

  He lifts my shirt up,

  exposes my chest to the cool air.

  All the hairs on my body stand up

  and I dig my feet deeper in the sand, ground myself.

  Nate is work.

  He is confused about everything—

  especially his ex-girlfriend.

  He thinks he still loves her

  and because I love him

  I say it’s okay if he wants to go back to her.

  Nate says he needs to take care of himself,

  says he cannot deal with romance,

  and a moment later his hand is reaching for my belt.

  I want to do whatever I can for him.

  I want to fix him, make him whole.

  I want to teach him

  that he doesn’t have to fear people.

  My actions are a lesson to him about love.

  I crave broken men.

  When I try to save other people

  am I trying to save myself?

  Am I covering up for my lack of strength

  by putting people back together?

  I am tired.

  I want someone to save me—

  build an intricate web

  and place it beneath me in case I fall.

  I feel better today.

  I know that Nate cannot be

  what I need him to be.

  The waiting, the wanting,

  and the desperation are familiar.

  It is all too real, too soon.

  My body cannot endure another Jason—

  especially not this one, his best friend.

  I’ve always wanted

  to have my hair braided—

  a whole head full of the long, skinny kind.

  And after a summer of work, I have enough money

  to go to one of those salons where only black women go.

  I won’t tell anyone how much it costs, though—

  it’s embarrassing that I would spend that much money,

  but I want a change.

  Rebecca goes with me to the salon,

  sits down on the leather couch and waits

  for eight hours as two women pull my hair and twist

  in fake pieces so the braids will be longer, fuller.

  When it’s done and I walk out onto the street,

  I feel people staring and it makes me uncomfortable.

  Rebecca reminds me that I can’t be upset.

  “What did you expect?” she says.

  “You’re a skinny white girl

  with a head of braids.”

  I’m not sure what my parents

  thought I would look like,

  but I can tell they hate it.

  That they want me to look normal.

  Part II

  i.

  Move-in day is like a sorority party.

  Rebecca’s friends and I are living in a suite.

  Rebecca and Rachel and Amanda and Tara are in doubles,

  Jennifer and I are in singles.

  There is so much laughing

  and loud music,

  and running from room to room

  to borrow a hammer or some tacks.

  I love that I have my own room,

  that I can do whatever I want to these walls.

  I am committed to making this space mine.

  I hang a giant tie-dyed tapestry over the back wall.

  It’s too bright, but I don’t care.

  My dad got me a futon and a rug

  and this space looks good,

  looks like me,

  and I am the only one with a key.

  Almost instantly the girls and I

  establish ourselves as a unit—

  we even call ourselves a herd.

  We plan our days around each other,

  meet for lunch,

  walk to dinner at the same time,

  go to the student center for coffee

  late at night.

  I think the best part

  is when we sit together doing homework.

  We don’t need to talk.

  It’s just nice to be around people.

  My anxiety is better,

  but it’s not great.

  I’ve been taking Klonopin for almost a year

  and my life has changed so much.

  I have fewer panic attacks than freshman year,

  but they are still there—

  waiting for me

  in the usual places.

  The dining hall is still the worst.

>   The second I walk in the door

  and swipe my ID,

  a switch goes off in my mind.

  As I walk around to find something to eat

  or someone to sit with,

  it feels like I am underwater.

  My limbs are heavy.

  Sounds are muffled.

  This swimming feeling,

  combined with the dim light of the dining hall,

  makes me feel faint.

  The thought of passing out

  makes me start to panic,

  makes me wonder if I have had enough to drink

  or if I have eaten enough

  so my body can function.

  I imagine being on line to get some pasta,

  my eyes rolling back in my head.

  I can see myself passing out,

  hitting the dirty tile floor with a thud

  and waking up with a crowd of people standing above me,

  thinking I am such a freak.

  One by one the girls all learn

  about my anxiety.

  I don’t need to come out and tell them—

  all they need is to be in the right place

  at the wrong time

  and see it happen.

  When Tara finds out

  she says that it explains a lot—

  that freshman year

  I was distant

  with everyone except Rebecca.

  She would always see us

  sitting in the dark, smoking,

  writing in our journals.

  She says that my unapproachability

  and independence from the group

  looked like maturity.

  But now she says she understands

  that I was that way

  because I didn’t work well in groups.

  She says that now

  she tries to get me one on one—

  that I am better that way,

  more focused.

  It means so much to me

  that she would go out of her way

  to see me alone,

  so she can get the best of me.

  I have a dream

  that I am walking in the woods

  and I find a stone temple

  with crumbling white pillars.

  I am standing inside eating tuna fish

  and realize there are tiny bones in it.

  I stand over a basin

  and start pulling wads of dry tuna fish

  out of my mouth.

  It is endless.

  No matter how much tuna I scoop out

  there is always more.

  Nate and I talk,

  but I am usually the one to call.

  I hate that he does that,

  but I have learned that I have two choices:

  either accept it

  or not be friends with him.

  I stare at the phone,

  start to dial,

  and hang up.

  I do this over and over.

  I don’t want to be the one to break first.

  I don’t want to be the one who needs him.

  It makes me feel like he doesn’t care—

  that I am not as important to him

  as he says I am.

  But I always break.

  I always call.

  And when I do,

  I forget

  how hard it was to pick up the phone

  when I hear his voice—

  hear him say my name.

  When we talk,

  he likes to hear about school

  and all the projects I am working on

  and how well I am doing.

  I think he looks up to me—

  with my focus

  and direction—

  because he doesn’t have that.

  At lunch Ann sits down with me

  and I am surprised

  at how easy the conversation is.

  She says how intimidated she was

  by me and Rebecca that weekend at Jennifer’s.

  She says there was an impenetrable vibe about us,

  but sitting here with me now,

  she doesn’t feel it.

  It’s weird to hear this again—

  to hear how I was perceived

  by people before they got to know me.

  Some of the girls thought I was a bitch—

  aloof, distant—

  but now they see the truth.

  The conversation shifts to guys

  and I tell Ann

  that Sean and I hooked up

  a few weeks ago and she laughs.

  She hooked up with him

  at the very beginning of freshman year.

  There is something about knowing this

  that breaks a wall between us.

  Just before Halloween,

  Rebecca and I are at a party in town.

  When things quiet down,

  a few of us move upstairs

  to another kid’s apartment.

  His name is Jeff

  and I’ve never seen him before.

  I would have remembered him.

  When I bend down to look at his books,

  he says Henry Miller is his favorite.

  I smile and tell him mine is Anaïs Nin.

  Henry Miller and Anaïs Nin were lovers.

  We talk for a while about them.

  I like the way this is starting—

  with Henry and Anaïs.

  I have the dream again,

  this time with taffy.

  I don’t know where I am,

  but it’s like I’m a magician

  pulling multicolored scarves out of my mouth

  and the taffy won’t stop coming.

  Ann and I go to a party in town.

  She drives us in her SUV

  and seeing her sitting behind the wheel

  makes her look even more petite.

  The party is wall-to-wall people,

  and even though it’s cool outside

  the apartment is warm and stuffy.

  We find seats and watch people shuffle by

  to find a drink or a friend.

  Ann takes off her jacket

  and then tugs at her turtleneck,

  tries to give herself some air.

  She pulls her blond hair off her neck

  into a ponytail.

  She looks uncomfortable,

  but I figure it’s because of the heat.

  Some people I kind of know come by

  and Ann barely says a word.

  It’s like she’s not here.

  Her green eyes grow wide

  as she sinks lower and lower into the couch.

  I lean over and ask if she’s all right.

  She shakes her head no.

  Without a word she stands up and puts on her jacket.

  She asks if I’ll be able to find a ride home,

  and when I say yes, she says she has to leave.

  I tell her to wait, but she says she’ll be okay.

  She leaves before I can say anything else.

  She doesn’t look back.

  I can’t believe that I just watched

  someone else have a panic attack.

  Now I see Jeff on campus all the time.

  Every time I turn around, there he is—

  sitting on the green,

  getting coffee at the student center,

  walking through the English department.

  He is like a ghost

  who has materialized just for me.

  The first time I go to Jeff’s alone,

  I stand at the door to his apartment, wait

  to catch my breath

  before I ring the bell

  because I was too scared

  to take the rickety elevator.

  We talk for a long time.

  It is one of those conversations

  that should be awkward

  but isn’t,

  and when we kiss

  it is p
erfect—

  except for the shaking.

  It starts in my stomach

  and goes to my legs

  and teeth.

  I shouldn’t be cold.

  Jeff is next to me,

  on top of me,

  under me.

  Later, in bed, I peer over his head,

  watch his cat claw at old issues of the Times

  and then crawl into bed

  over our legs.

  And when I crawl

  out of bed

  to sleep on the floor

  because he is a violent dreamer,

  the cat takes my place beside him.

  As I smoke

  and sit with bare knees pressed to my chest,

  the cat glares

  between my legs,

  and I wonder

  if I didn’t have the braids

  would Jeff have ever noticed me?

  As Ann and I get closer

  to the dining hall for dinner,

  I know I can’t do it.

  I can’t go in.

  I had a panic attack in Lit class in the afternoon

  and I am tired.

  My body can’t take another one.

  I can’t go in there

  with all that noise,

  and the sounds of forks banging against plates,

  and the hum of people,

  and those dim lights.

  Ann and I sit outside for a while.

  She knows what it’s like

  and tries to calm me down.

  She puts her hand on my back and rubs,

  but I can’t do it.

  I feel weak for not being able to go in

  and do something so simple, so normal,

  but I am tired

  and I just want to go home.

  Since the night I saw her have a panic attack

  things have been different.

  She comes to me,

  red-faced and crying,

  to help her calm down.

  I reassure her

  that she’s going to be okay,

  that she’s not going to die,

  I feel her forehead, tell her she’s cool,

  and smooth down her fine blond hair.

  She does the same for me.

  She becomes the voice of reason

  when there is none.

  When I feel myself on the edge

  and I don’t know what else to do,

  I call her.

  We do for each other

  what we cannot do for ourselves.

  When it is happening we are in another place

  where the rules of reason do not apply.

  We need a voice from the outside

  because our own voices cannot be trusted.

  We met too late,