“Listen, Sister Catherine is going to ask you to be on Academic Team. I overheard her telling another teacher after class about how you memorized all those prayers.”
“That loser group that does decathlon tournaments?”
“That’s us,” she said, raising an eyebrow. I think at that point I made a lame attempt to apologize for calling her a loser.
“Please,” she said, ignoring me. “We’ve embraced it. Plus you have to have an extracurricular here. If you don’t play an instrument or a sport, it’s Academic Team.”
“So I don’t have a choice, actually.”
“Well, you’re tall. Do you play basketball?”
I laughed and then abruptly turned it into a cough when Sister Catherine looked my way. I’d been recruited once to try out for the team at my old school, but I have no coordination. I can barely put my spectacles on without poking myself in the eye. It took less than ten minutes for the team to realize that I was basically useless unless they needed someone to hold the hoop.
“I’ll get your number from you later so I can text you the meeting spot for practice,” she said.
“Just give me yours,” I whispered.
“I don’t have a pen or anything,” she said.
“I’ll remember.”
“Of course you will,” she smirked. I tried not to look pleased with myself when she told me her number and I memorized it.
Sister Catherine did ask me to join the team later that day. Since I had no religion homework to worry about, I could use that time to memorize facts, she said. Awesome.
Meanwhile, Rebecca was doing pirouettes at the front of the classroom, her blond hair swaying like spun gold while a choir of voices sang “Amazing Grace.” It distracted me for a minute until I saw Sister Catherine’s eyes flicker to mine. I thought I’d covered it up pretty well, but she’d noticed. There was a moment of understanding between us but also a warning that I had been obvious. I took a deep breath and focused all my attention to the front of the room until the end of class.
I sent Maya a text later that day. It took me ten minutes to write it, and all it said was “Hey, this is Adam.”
A second later, she responded with “Thx.”
When Paul picked me up after school, he didn’t say much, but he drove through McDonald’s for shakes. He’s still afraid of me. But it feels like he doesn’t want to be.
My pocket buzzed when we were pulling into the driveway, and I saw that Maya had sent me another text.
“Welcome to the loser group, by the way.”
I think she likes me.
DOSAGE: 1.5 mg. Same dosage. Adam appears to be opening up about his illness. Some increased hostility regarding therapy. Still refuses to communicate verbally.
SEPTEMBER 26, 2012
Your comments about my diary seeming “too self-aware” to be authentic are bullshit. This is just me. You’re just pissed that I won’t talk to you.
It’s actually kind of annoying to be quizzed by your therapist. You asking me what I know about schizophrenia is like me asking you what you know about dressing like an arrogant snob. I know it because I live it.
Here are the facts, which you already know, but I’ll tell you anyway because I want to appear clever and I’m desperately seeking your approval. Obviously.
“Schizophrenia” is a Greek word that literally translates to “schizein” (to split) and “phren” (mind). But it doesn’t mean split personality. And it doesn’t mean multiple personalities. The “split” refers to a rift between mental functions.
It is a cornucopia of shit, basically. Which you already know.
Never goes away. Never gets normal. And never lets you relax.
Side note: Your jacket is stupid. You shouldn’t wear plaid. Also, I hate your hair. Is that mousse that you’re using to make it so wavy? Knock it off. And your fly was unzipped for the entire hour of our last session, but I didn’t say anything because (1) I didn’t want you to think I was staring at your junk, and (2) I don’t talk to you, and that would have been really difficult to mime.
Here’s something you don’t know. My great-uncle Greg had it. He was my grandmother’s brother, and the thing I remember most about their relationship was that my grandma liked to pretend he was normal. She never made it sound like he was anything other than a normal man with problems. I never even heard the word “schizophrenia” mentioned when anybody talked about him. I’m not sure that was helpful, but it was a different time and people had less sympathy for diseases that weren’t killing anybody. Plus my mom said Uncle Greg was never diagnosed. If he hadn’t had a family, he probably would’ve died on the streets.
I liked him. He was soft-spoken. Never complained. There wasn’t a mean bone in his body. He was the kind of guy who hid money in library books when he returned them and always let people go in front of him in line at the grocery store. And he played the piano better than anyone I’d ever heard. He taught himself and could pretty much play by ear.
Since he lived with my grandma for most of his life and had no real expenses, he taught piano to kids who couldn’t afford lessons. Sometimes they would pay him in vegetables from their gardens. Sometimes their moms baked cookies. Once, he came home with a scarf one of his students had knitted for him, and he wore it every day for a month. In July.
But the point is, if they wanted to learn, they left knowing how to play.
I really wish I’d wanted to learn back then.
He died around the time my dad left, but I’ll never forget the thing he said to me when he was trying to teach me how to play. He’d overheard my mom telling my grandma about me getting teased at school for something stupid. This was way before they knew anything was wrong with me.
“Most people are afraid of themselves, Adam. They carry that fear everywhere hoping no one will notice.” Before I could ask him what that had to do with anything, he laughed. He had a ridiculous laugh, like a horn that sort of exploded out of him at odd moments. My mom said it was a big hit when I was a baby.
Even though he was never diagnosed, I know he was like me. The difference is that he was really kind, and it doesn’t matter how crazy you are if you’re a genuinely nice person. People will forgive you.
—
You asked me once what I was afraid of. I didn’t answer because I didn’t feel like it. Talking about it makes me sound lame. But it’s late and I can’t sleep. And the thing that creeps into my mind when I can’t sleep is here.
You’ve probably noticed by now that I’m capable of defending myself against anything that might actually stumble into my room in the middle of the night, but my fists are still clenched and my eyes are still searching for the source of the scratching noise beneath my floorboards because there is a part of me that still believes that what I see and hear is real. That something is trying to get me.
I remember a story I read once about a man who thought the people on his train were trying to kill him. He’d convinced himself that they could read his thoughts and were going to drag him off the train at the next stop and bludgeon him to death.
He locked himself in the bathroom for over an hour. When the train finally reached the next stop, he ran screaming from the compartment before leaping for the station platform, missing it, and cracking his head open on the snowy bank below.