Call Me Crazy

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

“Mr. and Mrs. Baker, I’m glad that you could join us today,” Dr. Stacey says with a genuine smile.

It’s been a month since my meltdown in history class. A month without a blade of any kind, not even a butter knife. A month of therapy, observation by Dr. Stacey and the other staff of Mercy Psychiatric Facility, a place of supreme beauty and relaxation… if by beauty and relaxation you mean it looks as though the groundskeeper has been on a ten-year vacation and the interior of the building has started peeling its own paint out of utter despair. So, basically, a month in a hospital that really should have been demolished, along with many of the other nut jobs left inside of it. A month of deciding the best course of action for treatment. One month and my life is forever changed.

“Do you know anything about bipolar disorder?” she asks my parents.

“We know that it is classified as a mental disease,” my dad answers in his businesslike manner. He is holding it together by a thread, I can tell. I know he hates coming to the crazy house. It only reminds him of how royally screwed up I truly am.

Dr. Stacey nods. “That is correct. It is a mental health condition caused by certain chemicals in the brain being imbalanced.”

“What do we do about it?” My mom asks in that hopeful voice. The one that always makes me feel like if I didn’t give her the answer she wants, then she will give me the why did you just kick my puppy look. “Give her some medicine to fix the imbalance?”

“Not exactly,” Dr. Stacey begins.

“What do you mean ‘not exactly’?” My dad, oh-so-helpfully interrupts. I see his frustration growing as his shoulders become impossibly tenser. “She’s been here for a month. What the hell have you been doing with her?”

Great dad, I think to myself, way to make me feel like a broken lawnmower that’s been sitting with all the other broken lawnmowers waiting for the mechanic to adjust my carburetor.

The pinched expression on Dr. Stacey’s face is one I know well. She’s about to let my dad have it, and I can’t help but slump down in my chair to get comfortable for the show.

“Mr. Baker,” the doctor’s voice is rigid now; all compassion and understanding removed from it and her. “Patients who suffer from bipolar disorder experience severe mood swings that cannot simply be fixed. Tally isn’t a broken toaster that simply needs a new part.”

I went with lawnmower, doc, I think to myself with a smirk, but whatever floats your boat.

“In severe cases, it can be similar to schizophrenia,” Dr. Stacey’s sharp voice fixes my attention back on her. “It can be difficult to diagnose because people often seek help only when they are depressed. It’s not like I can just open up her skull, grab a wrench, and start tightening the loose screws.”

Whoa, hey doc, I grumble inwardly, let’s not get carried away with the crazy analogies. She obviously doesn’t hear my objections because she continues on her merry way.

“The mood swings caused by this disorder can last for months, sometimes years at a time. As you can imagine, it isn’t something we can just straighten out.” Her jaw clenches tightly on those last words and I’m pretty sure that if her eyes can shoot lasers, they would be frying my dad right about now. She takes a deep breath and glances over at me. I’m thankful that the look on her face changes from the ‘I’m about to fry you’ to one of hope. To her, I’m not just a lost cause or something to be straightened out. I avoid looking at my parents. I didn’t want to see the pain or fear in their eyes—the same pain I saw the night they brought me to Mercy. I didn’t ever want to see those looks on their faces ever again.

“She’s just going to be like this forever?” My dad asks, and I’m not surprised by the horror that widens his eyes.

Dr. Stacey didn’t acknowledge his question. She just keeps on plowing with her information spill. She’s clearly decided that attempting to rationalize with my father’s irrational view of my disease is futile. “The main thing you need to know is that bipolar disorder is very treatable. But it can take a while to find an effective combination of medicines. Tally can lead a normal life if she remains on her medication and does therapy as needed. She will likely have to have her medicine adjusted periodically over time. But as long as she takes care of herself, she will be able to manage the disease rather than the disease managing her.”

My parents are silent. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mom shift nervously. My father is motionless. I can’t tell what thoughts are running through their heads. I try not to shift in my own chair, but the silence is beginning to make me uncomfortable. Finally, my mom speaks, and her words rip wider the already bleeding hole inside of me. They still didn’t get it. Damn people, I nearly scream out, how hard is this? I mean, they have degrees and crap, why aren’t they able to grasp the fact that this was just how I am. Am I suddenly so unlovable?

“How long will she be this way?” my mother asks. Her voice trembles with the obvious tears that fill her eyes, like a swollen lake, no longer able to handle any more rain from the sky.

I feel the familiar rush of anger that has been out of my control and grip the arms of my chair to keep from jumping up and telling them both to go to hell. I grind my teeth in an attempt to keep my mouth shut and try to take slow breaths like Dr. Stacey showed me.

Dr. Stacey sidesteps the questions and continues with her explanation of my diagnosis. “We are beginning a combination of medicines that have proven to work well for other bipolar patients, and we hope that it will help level her emotional swings. It takes several weeks for the medicine to reach a therapeutic level in her system, so we won’t know for about a month if the medicines are going to help. My suggestion is that she stays here through the summer. She needs to learn how to deal with the emotions that make her feel out of control in a healthy way.” Her face grows serious. “I need you to understand that your daughter is not defective, she is not fragile or broken, though she may feel that way. What she needs most from you, is for you to treat her normally. If you make her feel like there is something wrong with her, then you will hinder her therapy.”

“I’m right here, you know,” I grumble.

Dr. Stacey gives me a brief smile. She is very good at dealing with my surly, attitude and I have to admit that there are days that I purposely try to provoke her, though I don’t understand why.

My mom turns to look at me. Her face is blank. Any emotion a mother might show for her daughter in such a difficult situation is absent, and I feel it to the depths of my messed-up soul.

“We love you.” Her words are clipped and sound about as full of love as a dried and wasted desert is full of water. “We expect you to do your best to fix this,” she continues, “so that another embarrassing situation doesn’t arise again.”

I nod, but I don’t speak. I know if I do, I will break down completely. The depth of my anger has suddenly reached the deepest chasm of my soul, and I wonder if there will be any way to come back from it. How do you forgive the very people who gave you life and once looked at you with such unconditional love that you were sure you could never question it? How do you accept the fact that your parents, the only people on the planet who were supposed to take you as you were, with all your crap—because let’s face it, genetics had to play a part, so some of your crap was their own doing—have failed you? My temper, at this point, no longer can be assuaged. Like a bull that has been poked with a hot poker one too many times, I have reached my limit. It takes every ounce of self-control that I honestly didn’t know I have, and a month ago wouldn’t have had, to remain seated in my chair continuing to face these two people. But seated, I do remain.

When the meeting is over, my parents both give me awkward hugs, but there are no promises to call and check in, and no lies of understanding how hard everything must be for me. Mom passes on a letter from Natalie, my best friend, and tells me that she’d be by later that week. Like the last waiting puppy, I watch as yet another person walks away from my cage, unwilling to take me home. As my parents leave, I’m surprised a whine of sorrow doesn’t squeak out of my throat as I swallow back the tears. I know I will only be able to hold them for a short while longer. The dam of emotions is nearing the breaking point and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

“Tally,” Dr. Stacey’s voice stops me before I can exit her office, and I nearly scream in frustration. I need to go, to get away before the good doctor witnesses the loss of my humanity. The monster that is my disease is about to take over. Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, I am changing, and I am powerless to prevent it. I turn almost mechanically to look at her, and I can instantly see that, as usual, she sees much more than I want her to. I foolishly believe she can’t see the beast that lives inside of me, but there is no hiding it from her.

“It’s okay to be angry; it’s what you do with that anger that matters.”

In other words, I better not let my alter ego go on a murdering rampage. My eyes are empty. I know they are empty because I am empty. I am empty, and nothing seems to fill the void. “Whatever you say, doc.”

Her lips purse as she gives me a solemn nod. “How about you take some time to yourself? You can spend time in your room or anywhere else you can find some peace.”

I’m surprised by her suggestion because we aren’t typically allowed much alone time during the day. Doc says it’s because alone time fosters self-pity and depression. Personally, I think they just like watching the crazies interact with one another. It can be quite entertaining when a yelling match ensues over who was using the colored pencils first. Yes, I said colored pencils. Scary, believe me, I know.

I make it back to my room without incident. By the time I walk in, my breathing is shallow, and I’m biting my lip to keep back the tears. Tears make me angry because they are just one more reminder of how broken I feel. I shut the door behind me and slide to the cold, hard floor. Pulling up my long sleeves, I stare down at my arms. The cuts are almost all healed, but the scars left behind will always be a silent reminder that I am fragmented, unable to be solid and whole. I will never wear short sleeves again. I close my eyes and search for something inside me that I recognize, anything to remind me that I haven’t always been this way, that I haven’t always been such a mess. I don’t even recognize myself anymore, and every day, a part of my soul seems to fade away. The worst part, the absolute worst part, is that I don’t understand why I feel this way. Why do I feel like the end of the world is one step away? Why does breathing hurt, and why does despair seem to be my only friend? What has happened that could possibly make me feel so completely and utterly damaged? My parents haven’t always been so cold and distant. They have never been the most affectionate people, but they aren’t so awful to cause me to have a complete and total meltdown of outrageous proportion.

I bang my head against the door as I begin to feel the constant rush of emotions that I don’t know how to restrain, boiling up inside. I don’t want to be this person.

“WHY?!” I finally give in and scream. I let the monster loose that has been clawing at my skin from the inside, leaving scars to match those etched on the outside. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?!” I rock back and forth, though I know I should stop. I tell myself to stop, but I can’t. The flood gates are open, and nothing will close them until I am utterly exhausted. I grip my hands into my hair and pull, feeling a slight measure of relief from the emotional agony as the physical pain briefly distracts my fragmented mind. I release my hair and begin to scratch my arms until blood appears and skin gathers under my nails. I don’t care. I just don’t want to feel anything anymore. I don’t want to hurt inside. I’d rather hurt outside. I hear myself screaming incoherently until all that is left are whimpers.