I Don't Want to Be Crazy

by Samantha Schutz

  Since the age of three I’ve been on a track—

  preschool, elementary school,

  middle school, high school, college—

  with never more than a summer in between.

  I wish I could have waited

  between high school and college.

  I wish I could have moved more slowly,

  but that wasn’t part of the plan.

  I have found myself talking about the weather a lot.

  I think that means I have entered the real world,

  that I am an adult,

  because now I have awful gaps in time

  to fill as I wait for trains and elevators

  to take me to places I do not want to go.

  This city is ugly

  and the concrete is hard on my feet.

  Everyone pushes and is angry

  at the people who push them.

  I am not happy.

  I am not unhappy.

  I am frozen somewhere in the middle

  that is so much worse.

  I am NOWHERE.

  Nothing is happening

  and I am getting more and more sad.

  Is this what all the years of schooling were for?

  To prepare me for this

  sense of being stuck in the middle?

  What was the point?

  No one said I was going to be this sad.

  No one said I would still be crying.

  I am so lonely.

  Every day is the same—

  trying to move slower than the rest,

  to not be so angry,

  so serious in the morning,

  to not make myself crazy.

  I stand on the packed subway

  jammed in, pushed too far

  to hold on to the sticky poles.

  There are bags pressing against my thighs,

  hands touching mine,

  a man’s chest against my shoulder.

  I would stay on the subway longer,

  let the crowd rub up against me

  as the subway rocks,

  but I have to get to work.

  I don’t think that I am happy,

  but then again, I don’t know.

  Sometimes I get so caught up

  in the process of living—

  of eating, dressing, taking the train to work,

  that I don’t give it enough thought.

  Maybe happiness is being content.

  But is this really it?

  I am only twenty-one.

  I have been out of college only a few months.

  I don’t want to have a job

  that I think is merely all right.

  But then I see street sweepers,

  men polishing marble floors,

  people selling magazines and nuts on the street,

  and I think I am a spoiled brat.

  I must have only been in remission

  these last few months

  because now the anxiety is back.

  It made me stay home from work

  and spend the day tiptoeing around myself—

  not eating too much, or too little,

  and drinking liquids, tons of liquids,

  until I am hydrated, bloated.

  Maybe this is happening

  because I have grown tolerant

  of my medication.

  Maybe too many new things are happening.

  Maybe this is just me,

  and this is how my whole life will be.

  I am scared

  that I do not really want to get well,

  and that I am the greatest obstacle to my recovery.

  Why would I do this to myself?

  Why would I inflict this much pain,

  turn my life upside down,

  twist my stomach in knots,

  run from friends, family,

  even from entire countries?

  Shit, I feel sick.

  All this makes me sick.

  I am a good person.

  I know I am beautiful

  and that I love

  and that I care.

  It’s the world, right?

  The world has the problem, not me.

  From Spain to the world—

  I will not take blame for any of this.

  I am in a house with three other people

  and none of them can see me—

  see what I am going through.

  It’s late and I am in bed.

  I should be sleeping,

  but it feels like my body is on fire.

  The longer I stay by myself

  the hotter I burn.

  I go to my sister’s room,

  but she’s not there.

  I go past my parents’ room

  and quietly down the stairs.

  My sister is always up late watching TV.

  I know if I tell her

  it will make the burn less hot.

  I stand there and just look at her.

  The corners of my mouth turn down

  and I am crying,

  shaking my head,

  telling her that I am freaking out,

  that I can’t sleep.

  She makes room for me on the couch.

  Her arm is around me and she is touching my hair.

  Telling her makes it better.

  Knowing that I don’t have to go through it alone

  makes it less painful.

  We watch TV for a long time

  and she scratches my head

  and I cry until I am tired

  and can go upstairs

  to sleep.

  Sometimes

  when I am walking down the street

  I feel like a giraffe,

  with my knees pointed backwards.

  As soon as the train doors close

  I know this is a mistake.

  My heart is racing.

  I can’t breathe.

  And this might be it.

  This might be the time

  that I cross the line

  from outpatient to inpatient.

  I can’t sit still.

  I can’t be on this train.

  I look out the window

  and take long, slow breaths.

  I wish I had water.

  I wish I had something to read.

  Long

  slow

  breaths.

  I shouldn’t be on this train.

  I should be at home.

  I want to get off at the next stop

  and have my sister come and get me.

  No.

  Deep breaths.

  I promised Rebecca

  I would go to a party with her.

  No.

  I can’t do this.

  I can’t go to a party

  and pretend to be normal.

  I am bouncing my foot

  up and down

  because at least that is something.

  We are almost to the city,

  but it is taking too long.

  I am going the wrong way.

  I should be going home.

  I call my sister,

  tell her I am having a panic attack,

  tell her I don’t know what to do.

  She tells me to calm down.

  She tells me she’ll come and get me from the city,

  but I want there to be someone with me

  here, now.

  I don’t want to wait.

  I can’t wait

  for her in Penn Station,

  with all those people going past me

  on their way to parties, and plays, and bars.

  And what if she drives so fast

  that she gets into an accident?

  No.

  I’ll take the train back.

  I call Rebecca,

  tell her I’m sorry,

  but I can’t do it—

  I have to go home.

  I don’t even need to change trains.

  This train is going back where it cam
e from.

  But I have to wait—

  wait for everyone to get off

  and a new set of people to board,

  wait for the conductor to announce the stops.

  It is taking forever.

  I am rocking back and forth a little

  as if I were listening to music,

  hoping that my movements

  will propel this train into action.

  Finally, the bell rings

  and the doors shut.

  For a second I feel trapped,

  but I try to keep quiet inside

  and remember this is what I want.

  The ride back is better

  than the ride there

  because I know I am going home.

  I know that my sister will be there,

  that my parents will be there,

  and that I will be safe,

  but I am not there yet.

  I have twenty-five minutes to go.

  I want to get home as quickly as possible,

  but the feeling of the speeding train is scary.

  It feels like we are going too fast,

  like the train is going to fall off the tracks,

  land on its side, and crush us all

  and these few people in the car with me

  will be the last faces I ever see

  and I wonder if we get into an accident

  and if I am dying

  if I will have enough strength left

  to call my parents and sister on my cell phone

  and tell them I love them.

  I sit with my mother on the couch and cry.

  She puts her cool hand on top of mine

  and pats me lightly.

  She looks back at me, sad.

  It feels good that she knows,

  that my father knows.

  They want to know how they can help.

  They ask me what I need

  and they hug me longer

  and it makes the pain less intense.

  But it is still there,

  relentless.

  We sit in the living room

  with the lights dim and we talk

  about taking me to a hospital.

  They want to know if I want to go.

  They want to know if I want to stay.

  They want to know if I want to eat,

  but I have no wants.

  I just lie toppled over on the couch

  with my feet still on the floor

  and my cheek pressed

  against the sticky leather cushion.

  I cry and wonder

  how I’m going to fall asleep

  because sleeping means waking

  and going through all this again.

  ii.

  I am in that familiar seat

  with a stranger staring at me

  expecting me to tell him all my stories.

  This sucks.

  I barely get through a sentence

  without crying.

  Like always, I start at the beginning.

  As I give the speech, I think

  I might as well make a recording

  since I keep having to repeat myself.

  I am twenty-one years old.

  Blah blah.

  I was diagnosed with anxiety disorder

  when I was seventeen.

  Blah blah.

  I have been prescribed blah blah and blah

  and now I am back at the beginning

  at home

  and freaking out.

  Serzone 300 mg

  is my prize for going back into therapy.

  Going to see the new therapist

  is a pain in the ass.

  I take the train home from work

  then the bus or a taxi for a mile.

  My father picks me up afterwards,

  when my face is puffy from crying

  and my clothes are sticky

  from all the sweating.

  I’m not sure I like this therapist.

  He talks too much—

  sometimes it’s about his kids,

  sometimes about his other patients.

  I try to be objective,

  but I never see his point.

  He tells me he is going to teach me

  how to breathe.

  He says it is the key

  to managing my anxiety.

  He gets out from behind his desk

  and sits next to me on the couch.

  He puts his hand on my stomach

  as he counts for me

  and tells me to take deep breaths.

  I don’t like that he does this,

  but I am not sure what to say.

  I am in overload.

  I know that.

  I can rationalize and pick apart

  all the things that are wrong—

  all the things that are making me freak out,

  but that doesn’t make the feeling go away.

  I feel like crap.

  I have my period.

  I am exhausted.

  My great-aunt died.

  I hate my job.

  I feel stuck at home.

  One at a time

  these things aren’t a problem,

  but when they’re piled on

  it leads to disaster.

  Three steps forward

  and two steps back.

  It looks like I am making progress,

  but I feel the backward pull—

  pulling me toward how things used to be.

  Now the attacks are snowballing.

  One panic attack leads to two, two leads to three

  until I am back in the dark place

  where I hate everything.

  Work sucks.

  When I get back from taking the day off

  to go to my great-aunt’s funeral,

  my boss doesn’t even ask me who died.

  I don’t want to be here.

  I don’t want to have to take the train home

  with all those other depressing commuters.

  I wish I were at home, in bed,

  but instead I am here,

  filing and making copies.

  A new girl just started in my department.

  She looks like a pixie

  and moves around the office

  with almost no sound.

  I know it would be nice

  if I offered to show her

  around or go over office procedures,

  but I don’t have the strength to do

  anything for anyone but myself.

  Thanksgiving sucks.

  We are at another fancy hotel,

  except this place is not serene.

  There is a glass ceiling

  that makes the screaming kids

  sound even louder.

  The food comes, but I am not interested.

  To avoid scrutiny

  I work my way around the plate clockwise.

  First, turkey.

  Fork up.

  Take bite.

  Fork down.

  Take sip of water.

  Now, potatoes.

  Fork up.

  Take bite.

  Fork down.

  Take sip of water.

  Maybe if I move at regular intervals

  no one will notice that I am dying.

  The more I see this therapist,

  the more I dislike him.

  Last week I told him

  a story about when I felt like a slut,

  but he didn’t understand.

  I am still a virgin—

  how could I feel like a slut?

  Today we talk about

  how I need to be more organized.

  He suggests I get a planner just like his.

  He takes it out, shows it to me,

  and tells me all the places I can buy it.

  He goes on about it for twenty minutes.

  I keep trying to change the subject

  but he is oblivious.

  N
o one ever tells you

  that it’s okay to not like your therapist

  and that you don’t have to keep seeing him

  just because someone recommended you or

  because he takes your insurance.

  After a week of trying to figure out

  how to dump him,

  I leave a message on his

  machine, saying that things just aren’t working out

  and spend the day wondering

  if he thinks I’m passive-aggressive.

  I am filled with such sadness

  and I am so tired

  that I could die.

  The only music

  I can stand to hear

  is Billie Holiday.

  I cannot face my friends,

  or anyone else,

  and I sat for so long in the shower

  that my hands are raw and cracked.

  I do not feel like myself,

  and if this is me,

  then something needs to change.

  I fear my whole life

  will be exactly like this—

  seen from behind my eyes,

  never touching.

  I am scared to sleep.

  I am scared to eat.

  I am scared to move.

  And all this turns my stomach

  and reminds me how alone I am

  and how pitiful it is

  that I need someone to love me,

  to wrap me up and make me feel safe,

  and how pathetic it is

  that I can’t find someone, anyone

  to do that for me.

  I am waiting

  in the waiting room

  of the new therapist’s office.

  There is a drawing on the wall

  of a guy in a strange hat.

  This is not an ordinary drawing.

  This is a portrait.

  I am supposed to know who this is.

  I search his face.

  Nothing.

  When I look at his hat again

  I realize it is in the shape of windmill.

  This is Don Quixote—

  a deluded literary character

  who fights for the honor of a woman

  who doesn’t exist

  and does battle with monsters

  that are really windmills.

  I’m going to like this therapist.

  Each week I get more and more medicated.

  On my first visit, the new therapist

  raises my dose of Serzone 100 mg.

  The next week, I am not any better

  and I get another 100 mg.

  One more week,

  another 100 mg.

  600 mg and I am maxed out

  and things still suck, only now,

  I am having problems with my balance.

  Now I must taper off

  the same way I went on.

  Tuesday, 600 mg.

  Wednesday, 500 mg.