I Don't Want to Be Crazy

by Samantha Schutz

We spend the rest of the day on the beach

  and the night at the hostel bar.

  There are people here

  from all over the world.

  There is one guy

  who keeps looking at me

  and when I go over toward him

  he motions for me to sit down.

  He is French and deaf.

  I know the sign language alphabet

  so we sign our names to each other.

  We sit together for the rest of the night.

  He reads lips,

  and we draw pictures

  and make gestures to communicate.

  It takes so much energy and concentration to be with him

  and understand what he is trying to say

  that I forget

  what is wrong with me.

  vi.

  After a week in Paris

  I go back to normal.

  I ride the metro to class,

  wander the city,

  feel trapped in my body,

  eat dinner with my family,

  spend all my money on clothes.

  My parents are here.

  They are staying at a fancy hotel

  across from the Louvre.

  I take the elevator up to their room

  and follow the flowers on the carpet

  to their door.

  I feel like I am going to explode.

  I am so happy to see them,

  but I am scared

  it will make me crack.

  Everything I have been holding in—

  everything they don’t want to know—

  will come gushing out

  and never stop.

  My father opens the door.

  For the first time in my life

  he has grown a beard

  and I’m surprised

  at how gray it is.

  He looks so different

  that it’s hard to focus on him.

  My mother is on the bed.

  The first thing she says is,

  “Why did you do that to your hair?”

  The gates break

  and I am crying.

  Why would she say that first?

  How will saying that

  do anything but hurt my feelings?

  My father tells me it looks cute

  and runs his hand over the back of my head

  where it’s really short.

  We spend the week together.

  During the day we go to museums.

  We go shopping.

  We go out to dinner.

  My mother speaks a little French,

  but I am our navigator.

  I can feel their pride

  as I order our food

  and talk to salespeople in French.

  Robyn is also in town

  and she’s staying at my apartment.

  I spend my nights with her

  going to bars and clubs.

  I am constantly exhausted

  and on the edge of panic.

  At the end of the week

  my parents and I are in a restaurant

  and my stomach is a mess.

  I stare down at my full plate

  and think, I have never been this tired.

  I cannot even chew.

  My body is empty

  and no matter what I give it,

  it is not enough.

  I tell my parents I am sick.

  I need to leave.

  When the proprietor clears my untouched plate

  she is confused and offended.

  She wants to know

  why I didn’t eat anything

  and it takes all my energy to reassure her

  that I’m not leaving because of her food.

  My last week in Paris

  I get mail.

  The envelope is small

  and the handwriting is perfect,

  yet masculine.

  I turn it over.

  There is no return address—

  only a New York post office stamp

  and my parents’ zip code on the front.

  It is from Jason

  or Nate.

  I hold it in my hands,

  weigh it,

  trying to figure out who it is from—

  who I want it to be from.

  I sit down

  and open it.

  Folded up into a neat square

  are three notebook pages

  filled, front and back.

  I take in the handwriting.

  It is Jason’s.

  My heart sinks.

  I wanted it to be from Nate.

  But when I flip it over to see the signature

  I see I am wrong.

  I read the letter

  over and over

  and over

  and don’t even tell Rebecca

  what was written in it.

  It is mine.

  I’m leaving France before everyone else.

  Most people are going to travel

  or at least spend their last days in Paris partying.

  As soon as classes are over

  I am getting on a plane.

  I can’t stay here anymore.

  I need to go home.

  I need to go to sleep.

  I need to sit still.

  Ann found an apartment for us

  for the summer by school.

  Each day I am going to ride my bike

  for a half mile, past all the mansions

  and lawn jockeys, to work at school

  in the Events Department.

  Everything about this summer

  is going to be quiet

  and slow.

  vii.

  I am at my parents’ for a week

  before I move to school.

  It is strange to be back in the States

  and to have everything change so quickly.

  Life was so frenetic in Paris

  and as soon as I walked in my parents’ door

  everything came to a full stop.

  Back in my own country,

  with my own language,

  I still feel alone,

  like no one understands me.

  I spent so much time in Paris

  wishing I were home,

  in a safe place,

  but now that I am here,

  it is as hard as being away.

  I don’t know what to do with myself.

  It is hard to sit down and do nothing.

  I watch TV, do errands,

  but this pace makes me feel

  like my heart is going to stop.

  I sit in my room

  and reread my journals from high school

  and cry because my biggest problem then was Jason.

  How did I get so far from that

  and so close to this feeling in my belly—

  the feeling that this skin isn’t good enough,

  that it doesn’t quite fit,

  that anyplace is better than here?

  My parents see how battered I am.

  It is hard to miss.

  I tell them that the change of pace is too hard on me.

  That coming back was a shock to my system.

  My mother takes me to a family doctor

  to get a new prescription

  and tries to convince me

  not to move to school for the summer.

  But I have to go.

  I can’t stay here.

  Klonopin 0.5 mg.

  This orange bottle

  and these yellow pills

  are so familiar.

  In return for the prescription

  the doctor makes me promise

  that I will see a therapist

  at school.

  Thinking about Provence scares me.

  To me, walking up and down that path,

  bending over, grasping my head, crying

  because I couldn’t make it stop

  is the face of insanity—
<
br />   uncontrollable panic and fear,

  the nonstop rush and no way out.

  All I could think about

  was how I didn’t deserve this,

  and that I was a good person,

  and how much it hurt.

  I feel like a different person

  compared to that girl.

  I can barely recall the way it felt—

  a blessing, I suppose.

  Why would I want to remember it vividly?

  I have only a general sense of the pain,

  of not being able to control my body

  and my thoughts.

  All I ever wanted

  was to have control—

  to be in charge of myself

  and the rest of the world.

  When I look back at my pictures from Europe

  will I forget how much everything hurt?

  Will it all not seem so bad?

  Will the attacks be shorter?

  Will there be fewer?

  Will I have them at all?

  When I see a picture of me

  standing in front of a canal in Venice

  or waving at the camera in the markets of Florence

  and my color is a little off

  and I have only a half a smile

  will I think it is because the lighting was bad

  or the camera caught me

  just before I could smile?

  I have to be careful what I remember.

  It wasn’t all good.

  Things are already so different.

  My memory cannot be trusted.

  I want to be with Nate so badly.

  I want to sit down with him

  and have him put his arm around me

  and tell me that he loves me,

  even if he doesn’t.

  But I can’t even get him

  on the phone long enough

  to tell him what’s happening to me

  and how awful Paris was

  and how awful it is to be home,

  to be anywhere.

  I sit in the TV room and stare at the phone,

  wondering how long it will take

  for him to call me back,

  wondering how long

  before I can call him again.

  Like always I cave and call.

  I tell him I need him.

  I tell him I need him now.

  He tells me that he is waiting

  for one of his friends to come over—

  one of his stupid wasted friends.

  I need him.

  Why is not disappointing his loser friend

  more important than seeing me,

  helping me?

  He says, “Samantha,

  I know you are very angry with me,

  but I can’t do anything about it right now.”

  There is something about how slowly

  and calmly he says it,

  how he enunciates every syllable,

  that makes me slam the phone down

  over and over again.

  Now I’m back staring at the phone

  thinking how I’ve never hung up on anyone

  and how I never even got the chance

  to tell him what was wrong.

  My first apartment

  has thick brown shag carpeting

  that traps the heat and smells of cat.

  Like other apartments,

  we have pots and pans,

  but these are my pots and pans.

  That is my blender.

  This is my room.

  We have a balcony

  facing the town’s main street.

  Ann and I sit up there

  and watch the sun set.

  I blow bubbles

  just to watch the people below

  laugh and look around, confused.

  Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about eating,

  or how I’m not eating enough.

  I don’t think I’m getting enough nutrition.

  I bought some dietary supplement shakes,

  not the kind to make you lose weight,

  but the kind old people drink to stay healthy.

  Things are calm.

  I set my own pace here.

  I swim at the lake with friends,

  meet Ann and her boyfriend

  for happy hour after work,

  go to barbecues that last for hours.

  This is my routine.

  The only thing I don’t like

  is my bike ride home from work.

  It’s all downhill

  and the speed scares me.

  I have an appointment

  with a therapist.

  I spend the day before the appointment

  thinking about the things I am afraid of:

  That I will be alone.

  That no one will love me.

  But are these really the fears I worry about?

  What about not succeeding?

  Not pleasing my parents?

  Being left alone, with no one to help me,

  just in case something terrible happens?

  The new fear

  of not being able to get out

  has affected me worse than all the others.

  It is much more crippling.

  I cannot shake Provence, no matter how hard I try.

  But do I really try hard enough

  to take down my walls?

  I wonder if I am too close

  to even see what is written on them.

  This close, everything is just a blurry mess.

  The session with the new therapist is exhausting.

  We start from scratch.

  I tell him about myself,

  about my sister and my parents,

  the names of all the drugs I’ve taken,

  how my anxiety is worse at night,

  and that Europe was a disaster.

  We talk about how I fear

  losing control,

  how I fear embarrassment,

  how I fear fear.

  I try to be optimistic,

  but I can’t believe that I am back here,

  in this chair,

  telling all my stories, hoping

  that this time

  will be the last time

  I have to do this.

  Part IV

  i.

  Rebecca, Ann, and Jennifer

  and I are living in an off-campus apartment

  that’s a converted bed-and-breakfast.

  We each pay five hundred dollars a month

  and have our own bedroom and bathroom.

  I know this is not reality.

  My parents pay my rent

  and my credit card bills for food.

  My only responsibilities are

  to write poetry, take pictures,

  write papers, and take my medication.

  My life is so easy now

  and I wonder what it will be like

  in the spring when I graduate.

  What kind of job do I want?

  Where am I going to live?

  My parents have spent

  so much money on my education

  and I don’t have any idea

  what I am going to do when I leave here.

  I have the dream again.

  My sister and I are crossing the Pont Neuf,

  a bridge in Paris,

  when I realize my mouth is filled

  with tiny black rocks.

  I sit down and start spitting them out.

  I tell my sister not to worry—

  that this happens all the time.

  My therapist and I work

  on relaxation.

  He tells me to close my eyes

  and imagine I am in a comfortable, safe place.

  He wants me to focus on my breathing,

  but I can’t do it.

  I’m not ready

  to shut my eyes again.

  We talk and I ask

  if he knows any books tha
t would help me.

  I am eager to do something tangible

  to help my anxiety.

  He orders me an anxiety workbook.

  It will be filled with exercises

  and ways to take control of my anxiety.

  When it comes I never use it.

  The therapist sends me to a psychiatrist

  to manage my meds.

  This psychiatrist is not like the others.

  He wears faded jeans and black

  Converse sneakers

  that he puts up on his desk.

  He thinks Paxil will be

  better than Klonopin

  and I am in no position to disagree.

  Paxil 10 mg

  makes me want to vomit

  every hour of every day.

  When I brush my teeth,

  it makes me gag.

  When I put a pencil between my teeth,

  it makes me gag.

  The psychiatrist tells me to tough it out,

  that the side effects will pass.

  I give it two weeks.

  Serzone 200 mg

  is not bad.

  The hardest part is remembering

  to take it in the morning

  since I’ve always taken my meds at night.

  None of my friends can understand

  how the last three years went so quickly.

  It feels like the first day of freshman year

  wasn’t that long ago—

  like we just met and are still trying

  to find our way around campus.

  But now we are seniors.

  We are at the top of the heap.

  Everyone is looking up toward us,

  but I am looking back.

  I wonder how I could have done things differently—

  how I could have done things better.

  Did I take the right classes

  and have the right major?

  Did I choose English because it was easy for me

  or could I have pushed myself more

  and done something else?

  I think about how I never went out enough

  and how I should have been more social

  and gone to more parties.

  I think about girls who found love here,

  if only for a little while,

  and I feel like I missed out.

  Ann and I are home,

  alone in the apartment

  after a Halloween party,

  and I am high.

  I haven’t smoked pot in months,

  but I took a few cautious hits at the party

  since my anxiety has been better.

  Ann and I watch a DVD

  and eat doughnuts until we are stuffed.

  We say good night and go to our rooms

  to get ready for bed.