I Don't Want to Be Crazy

by Samantha Schutz

In the shower the water sounds like an avalanche.

  That’s when I realize I am too high

  and that there is nothing

  I can do about it but wait.

  My mind is racing

  and I can’t stop thinking

  about how I am too high,

  and that it’s going to make me crazy,

  that it is going to make my heart stop,

  and that the water is too hot,

  and the sound of the water is deafening.

  I try to wash my hair,

  but I keep dropping everything.

  First the shampoo,

  then the conditioner,

  then the bar of soap.

  I can’t hold on to anything.

  Ann’s shower is on the other side of the wall.

  She bangs hard on the wall,

  yells to see if I am okay.

  I say yes,

  but I’m not.

  My therapist wants to know

  how my panic attacks serve me.

  I don’t understand.

  He wants to know what I gain from them.

  Gain?

  He thinks they serve a purpose.

  I still don’t understand.

  Is he saying that I do this to myself

  to avoid situations I don’t want to be in?

  To myself?

  I am crying as I talk

  and there must be little threads of spit

  connecting my upper and lower jaw.

  To myself?

  I have never heard anything so awful in my life.

  Thanksgiving with my parents

  is surprisingly easy.

  My parents decided not to make a fuss this year

  and take us to Montreal.

  We are going to stay in a fancy hotel

  and have dinner at a four-star restaurant.

  We stay in adjoining rooms

  and spend the day walking around the city,

  going to galleries, and shopping.

  Everyone is happy.

  Thanksgiving dinner is sterile.

  The atmosphere is nice,

  the food is good,

  but something is missing.

  There shouldn’t only be four of us.

  I would rather be at my parents’ house

  listening to my father yelling at my mother

  to sit down with her guests,

  and my mother yelling at my father

  to get out of the kitchen,

  and my mother’s friend trying to make it seem

  like her kids’ accomplishments

  are better than mine and my sister’s.

  I get back from the bars with my roommates

  and get into bed.

  I have the spins.

  I only had two drinks—

  it doesn’t make sense

  that I feel like I am on a rocking boat.

  I sit up and the spins go away,

  but as soon as I lie down again

  they come back.

  This feeling, the fact that I cannot make it stop,

  is making me crazy.

  It feels like I am having a panic attack,

  like I am not in control of my body.

  I go into the bathroom

  and sit down in front of the toilet.

  I’ve never had to make myself do this.

  I almost never let myself drink to this point.

  But tonight doesn’t make sense.

  I wasn’t even drunk.

  Maybe something else is wrong with me?

  Maybe I have food poisoning,

  or a virus,

  or something that doesn’t have a name.

  I stare at the tiles.

  I stare at the bowl.

  I stare at the hair on the floor

  that I should have cleaned up.

  I stick my finger down my throat,

  but it is not enough.

  I only gag.

  I try again,

  stick my finger down farther,

  be more brave.

  This time everything comes up

  and I can’t make it stop.

  The spins may be gone,

  but now I can’t control

  the spasms in my stomach

  that keep me retching.

  When I am done,

  I wash my face, brush my teeth,

  and go into Rebecca’s room.

  I am twenty years old,

  I should be able to handle this on my own,

  but I can’t.

  I don’t want to.

  For work-study

  I’ve been helping out an English teacher

  with copying and research.

  Now he’s planning a presentation

  for teachers from nearby towns

  and needs me to act out a scene from a book

  by crouching on a table like a monkey.

  It’ll be in the largest lecture hall on campus—

  one that I’ve had panic attacks in

  because it was always crowded and quiet

  and I was scared that people were looking at me,

  knowing I was freaking out.

  I can’t believe I agreed to do this

  and put myself in a position

  where people will definitely be staring at me

  while I do something ridiculous.

  I psych myself up for it all week.

  I tell myself that it will be a good experience—

  that it will help me get over some of my fears

  and that maybe

  it’s a step to reclaiming spaces

  that were once scary to me.

  When I am finally standing in the lecture hall

  and we are about to start,

  my hands are shaking.

  I am going to look like such an ass.

  But I tell myself, it’s okay.

  I am supposed to look like an ass.

  People are going to laugh because it’s funny.

  No one is going to think that I am crazy,

  but all these people’s eyes on me is uncomfortable.

  I don’t like being the focus,

  but I do it.

  Both hands on the table, then a foot,

  then the other foot,

  and then I am crouching.

  That’s it.

  It lasts a few seconds

  and is over.

  It’s not a big deal.

  People laugh because it’s funny,

  not because something is wrong with me.

  When it’s over,

  I am energized.

  I could do it again.

  Fuck this room—it’s

  just a bunch of seats

  filled with people I don’t know,

  people whose opinions of me don’t matter,

  people I will never see again.

  Winter break is death.

  It’s all I can see.

  A friend of the family has killed himself.

  I am sitting next to my mother

  when we get the call—

  the kind of call you know isn’t going to be good

  before you even pick it up.

  I loved Howie.

  When I talked about him

  I called him my cousin,

  but he was more like an uncle.

  He’s known me since I was a kid

  and has been there for everything—

  my bat mitzvah, my high school graduation,

  all the holidays, all the dinners.

  The morning of the funeral

  two of my parents’ friends are at our house.

  We are all going to the funeral together.

  Everyone has their idea

  about why Howie jumped out of his office window.

  My mother just read an article

  about how antidepressants have been linked to suicide

  and she thinks that must be what happened.

  My mother’s friend, a lawyer, thinks that his death


  must be related to Howie’s law practice—

  that Howie got into some sort of trouble

  that he couldn’t get out of.

  When I try to tell him

  that it is not for us to know,

  that is not for us to try to understand

  what Howie must have felt,

  he brushes me off, tells me I am immature,

  that people do things for a reason.

  Upstairs, my sister comforts me.

  She says she hopes that when Howie was falling

  he felt like he could fly.

  At the funeral

  his wife of three months

  makes noises that aren’t human.

  At the graveside

  his mother steps forward,

  fills the shovel,

  and slowly sifts the dirt over the casket

  as his father watches.

  ii.

  Going to the spring formal

  marks another ending,

  another thing that my friends and I

  will never do again.

  I watch everyone move around the banquet hall.

  They go from the bar to the buffet

  to the bar to the dance floor

  and back to the bar.

  Everyone is drunk and falling over themselves.

  My stomach starts, just like that.

  First there are sharp pains in my side

  that come and go.

  Then I get sweating hot

  and goose-bump cold.

  I take deep breaths and try to let it pass,

  but the pain deepens.

  I am going to be sick.

  In the bathroom

  there are girls in fancy dresses

  wiping their mouths after puking

  and fixing their makeup.

  I pull up my skirt and sit on the toilet,

  press my chest against my thighs,

  and stare at the tiles

  and wait to be sick.

  I wait,

  but nothing happens.

  The pain subsides and I get some water

  and go back to the patio where my friends are.

  They ask how I am, but it’s old news.

  They’ve all seen this happen before.

  When the pain comes back

  I ask my friends not to leave the patio.

  I tell them I’ll be back in a few minutes.

  In the bathroom

  I take my seat,

  put my chest on my thighs,

  my chin on my knees,

  wrap my arms around my calves,

  and get sick.

  When I get back to the patio

  they are all gone.

  I look by the bar.

  No one.

  I look by the buffet.

  No one.

  I was only gone a few minutes.

  Why wouldn’t they wait?

  I look on the dance floor.

  No one.

  I know they are still here,

  but this place is too big.

  I am never going to find them.

  I go back to where they were last.

  No one.

  I asked them to stay

  because I didn’t want to end up alone,

  searching for them.

  I can’t believe they would do this.

  They knew I was sick.

  They couldn’t wait five minutes for me?

  It’s loud and crowded

  and I am sick

  and I want to leave

  and I can’t believe them.

  When I run into some kids driving back to campus

  I ask to go with them.

  This is my out

  and I am not going to let it pass.

  As I am heading for the door

  I see Rebecca.

  I tell her I’m leaving.

  She’s confused about the urgency

  and why I am so mad.

  I ask her why they left the patio.

  She apologizes,

  says she didn’t realize everyone was getting up.

  But it doesn’t matter.

  I am taking my out.

  My whole life has changed,

  or at least I think it has.

  It’s hard to tell what would have been—

  what I would have been,

  if I never had anxiety disorder.

  I never stay out very late.

  My friends all understand—

  they are with me enough

  to see the complete picture,

  but when I am out with acquaintances

  they sometimes catch on

  and see that I am always the first to leave.

  It’s like a timer goes off in my head

  and I know it’s time to go.

  Maybe I am trying to outrun the panic.

  I figure if I’ve made it

  this long without panicking

  then I shouldn’t push my luck.

  There are other things that I do.

  I always have to be in control.

  If I am going out with friends

  I like to be the one who chooses where we go.

  I have to know what we are doing,

  where we are going,

  how we are getting there,

  and how long we’ll be staying.

  I don’t remember being like this

  in high school, before I was diagnosed,

  and I hate that I don’t know

  if all these things are me

  becoming me

  or me because of the anxiety.

  There’s a banner in the student center

  that counts down the days until graduation.

  Today the banner says thirty-two.

  I can’t believe this is it.

  This was college.

  It’s over.

  I am leaving soon.

  I try to send out my résumé,

  but it’s too soon.

  They all tell me to call back

  when I get home and can interview.

  But waiting is killing me.

  Don’t they understand?

  Don’t they remember what it feels like?

  I want to have things settled.

  I can’t stand the idea of not knowing.

  I can’t believe that I am doing this again.

  Graduation is in a week

  and I have to start packing.

  I have moved more than ten times

  in the last four years—

  I just want to sit still.

  I just want to be left alone.

  Senior Week is about to begin.

  I’m not looking forward

  to a week of organized drinking.

  If I could have my way

  I’d stay home with my friends

  and watch movies and bake cookies.

  The night before graduation

  my family and my parents’ friends

  go to dinner at a tiny restaurant.

  I am exhausted

  and this place is too dark and too loud.

  How do people expect you to eat in the dark?

  I am fading.

  My stomach is in knots

  and eating is out of the question.

  I do not have the strength for this.

  I am like a newborn

  who cannot even hold up her head.

  My father jokes,

  puts his elbow on the table

  and palm out for me to rest my head on.

  I lean against his warm hand,

  breathe in his cologne,

  and shut my eyes.

  Graduation morning is cold.

  The ceremony takes too long

  and all my friends and I

  are freezing in our summer dresses.

  There are too many speakers,

  too many names called,

  and in the end,

  we don’t even get our diplomas—

  that comes later, in th
e mail.

  There is hugging

  and pictures,

  and introducing my parents to

  friends and teachers.

  And that’s it.

  It is over.

  All that’s left to do

  is put my stuff in the car.

  Part V

  i.

  All those garbage bags

  and plastic bins are back in my room

  and instead of being yelled at to pack,

  I am being yelled at to unpack.

  It doesn’t seem right to be here—

  in this house,

  in this room

  with this stupid flowered wallpaper,

  but I have no where else to go.

  I have no money.

  I have no job.

  My parents allow me

  one week before I have to start job hunting.

  I want more time.

  I want to relax

  and be with my friends,

  but when the week is up,

  my dad leaves the classifieds in my room.

  I look for a job,

  but I don’t know what I want to do.

  I don’t know what I can do.

  I make phone calls and send out my résumé

  for jobs that I’m not sure I want.

  No one calls me back.

  After two unsuccessful weeks

  I take a temp job at a hedge fund.

  I’m not interested in finance,

  but it pays well.

  I make phone calls and copies.

  I go to the drugstore

  to get my boss’s prescriptions

  and look up what they’re for on the Internet.

  Weeks pass and all I learn

  is to stay out of my boss’s way

  when the stock market does badly.

  After a few weeks

  I get a job at a publishing house.

  The pay is terrible, but at least it’s a career—

  something I can see myself doing

  for more than a few weeks.

  The work is still crap.

  I still make phone calls and copies,

  but at least now

  the product is something tangible,

  something I can be proud of.

  I can deal with all the busywork,

  but my boss is awful.

  She rubs all my mistakes in my face

  like a dog that shit on the rug.

  She treats me like an idiot,

  like I don’t have the right to a learning curve.

  Most days I go home crying

  and my dad tells me

  welcome to the real world.

  Fall is coming

  and I feel like I’ve fallen off the map.

  It’s the first time in eighteen years

  that I am not getting ready to go to school.