I Don't Want to Be Crazy (5 page)

It is a new semester.
Everything is hidden
under the snow.
In my advisor’s office
I am talking about credits
and fulfilling requirements
when I look out the window
at the parking lot and the woods,
and there, carrying a box,
wearing a jacket that is too thin,
is Jeff.
I grab my stuff
and tell my advisor that I’ve got to go—
that I’ve seen a ghost.
I go down the stairs two at a time,
past the Education Department,
and out the side door.
I don’t even put on my jacket.
I catch up to him as he is getting in the driver’s seat.
He says his trip got delayed
and now he’s finally finished packing up his stuff
and heading back to the city.
I can’t believe that he’s been here all this time,
that I never knew,
that he never called.

Valentine’s Day is shit.
It makes me remember elementary school
and how we made cards out of doilies and glitter.
The teacher would staple little mailbox pouches to the wall
and carefully print our names on them.
Somehow I never got as many notes as the other girls.

The only person I can think about is Nate
and how I wish things were different.
I want to send him something.
I want to do something special for him,
but nothing seems right—
everything seems too big.
Finally I settle on sending him one Hershey’s Kiss.
I feel good.
This is good.
It is the right thing.

My therapist says I am better.
My psychiatrist says I am better.
I think I am better.

I am counting down the days
until I finish tapering off my meds.
The bottle of pills is nearly empty.

Five yellow pills,
bits of confetti
that have settled
after a party.

Four yellow pills,
lined up in a T.

Three yellow pills,
a miniature pyramid.

Two yellow pills,
jaundiced eyes staring at me.

One yellow pill left
and it is the best
and scariest feeling.

I am nervous about life
without medication.
It’s a catch-22
to take someone with anxiety disorder
off medication.
Just knowing that I won’t have it in my bag
or in my blood makes me anxious.
I wish there were some way to take me off it
without telling me.

I wonder
if things really have changed,
or if it is the pills.
I feel strong
for doing this,
but it makes me wonder
if I am dependent, weak.
I have so many conflicting emotions.
I am scared,
but mostly proud.

There’s this guy in my poetry class
who is amazing.
I dream about him almost every night.

Walking to class one day I tell him
he was in my dream last night
and he smiles like it’s good news.

A few days later I see him in a bar
and we talk about dreaming.
He wishes he could remember his dreams.
I tell him about how I keep a dream journal
and how when you first wake up,
you can’t let yourself think about anything
besides what you were dreaming.

Days later, we hang out late after a party.
It is nearly five and we stop at the gas station
so he can buy cigarettes and I can buy a lotto ticket.
I am feeling lucky.
The ticket machine isn’t on yet
so we wait and walk through the aisles.
He buys me a red Ring Pop and I think
it’s the best thing anyone’s ever given me.

At his apartment he asks how the Ring Pop tastes
and when I say, “It tastes red,”
he smiles and kisses me
to see for himself.

I can’t stop shaking as we make out.
I ask him if he can feel it
and when he says no, I am surprised.
To cover up for how crazy I am,
I tell him I am cold
and we take a hot shower
and come back and pile on the blankets,
but that doesn’t help either.

I promised myself that I wouldn’t live at home again
so I am going to live with Claire
and her parents in the city for the summer.
I have a job working at the same office as my sister
and it’s just a few blocks from Claire’s house.
My only responsibility
is to earn money to go to Paris next spring.

Work sucks.
I am the token somewhat-blond
receptionist at the door.
I work nine to five,
have lunch with Audrey and my sister every day,
do busywork at my desk,
and calculate how long it will take
to earn money for Paris.

One afternoon
my boss calls me into his office
to tell me that my skirt is too short.
He doesn’t say it
and then let it go.
He goes on and on.

I try to end the conversation,
but he won’t let it drop.
On my way out of his office
he reaches into his desk
and pulls out German chocolates
wrapped in colored foil.

Now if I come into the office in the morning
and do not go directly to his office
he calls me at my desk
and asks why I haven’t come to say hello.

In his office one afternoon,
he tells me he took one of my coworkers out for dinner,
that he does that with his staff from time to time.
He asks if I would like to go to dinner
and I say yes, without thinking.
But as the word comes out of my mouth,
I wish I could take it back.
As he hands me chocolates, I wonder
if he’s ever asked my sister to dinner
or given her chocolates.

Later in the week
he asks when we should go to dinner.

I try to maneuver around the subject.
He asks where we should go.
I feel trapped.
How could I go out with him?
I’m nineteen and he’s in his fifties.
What would we talk about? Golf?
I don’t even know what to say
to my father when we have dinner alone.

I can’t stop thinking about it
and he won’t let it drop.
He asks me nearly every day.
I never wear skirts anymore—
no matter what length—
and my stomach knots
every day before work.
Now when he gives me chocolates
I throw them out.

I ask my new therapist
how I can make him stop
and she says to tell him I thought about it
and that it makes me uncomfortable.
She emphasizes the word uncomfortable.

She says if a manager hears that word,
he’ll get the point and back off.

In his office the next day,
I tell him what I have rehearsed,
but it doesn’t work.
He wants to know why I changed my mind.
I tell him that when he asked,
I spoke too quickly,
and that I was sorry,
but I thought about it
and it makes me
uncomfortable.
Maybe he missed that word the first time
so I say it again.

Now instead of asking me out every day,
he wants to know who I talked to,
who changed my mind.
I have headaches every day,
my stomach is always upset,
and all I can think about is my sister
and how I feel guilty
for getting the attention.

I barely see Nate this summer.
I visit him a few times downtown
while he paints.
We talk about how he’s going to Spain
for the fall semester
and he shows me a painting he did
and points to this one part,
a bridge, and tells me he thought of me
when he painted it.
It is so sad
how knowing something
so small
can make me so happy.

New York City skyline
at night, twenty-seven floors up.
In my head I can hear it like a chant,
like a dare.
Jump.
Jump.
Jump.

I don’t want to jump,
but I feel like my body will betray me
and I will swing my legs over the balcony railing
and push myself onto First Avenue.

I cannot trust this body,
or maybe this is what I really want.
Maybe this is the truth.

Backed up against the brick wall,
I hold on to the handle of the sliding door
with one hand and trace the space
in between the rectangles with the other.

I run inside the apartment,
slam the door shut, and get into bed.

The bathroom light is on
and the door is open.
I hear it again, stronger.
You will get up and put your head in the toilet.
What will my parents think in the morning
when I’m found dead,
head in the bowl?

In my head I hear,
This is not a choice.
I tell myself over and over,
I am stronger than you,
stronger than you,
stronger than you.

I get out of bed and run to the bathroom.
I switch off the light
and lock the door from the outside.
I am stronger than this,
than you,
than what you think I am.

This is not real.
Not real.
Not real.

I am scared of myself,
I tell my therapist.
I tell her what happened on the balcony
and how I felt like I was at war
with my body.
I don’t think
I want to kill myself, I say.
She tells me this is common
for people who have anxiety disorder.

It’s good to know
that I’m not the only unsuicidal person
thinking about killing herself.

I see Jason
for the first time
in a long time.
We go swimming
and dive around each other
like curious fish.
The lifeguard watches us and smiles.
Jason picks me up and throws me around.
Where it’s too deep for me to stand
I put my arms around Jason’s neck
and my legs around his waist.
Our bodies are still a perfect fit.

There is too much movement.
I bring my stuff from Claire’s apartment
to my parents’ house.
I get a fresh box of garbage bags
and pull out the plastic bins.
It’s time to pack up again.

Rebecca and I make a pact.
Since this semester Ann is in England,
Rachel is in Italy,
Tara is in Australia,
and Jennifer is in France,
we are determined
to make new friends.

My first new friend is going to be Robyn.
She and I met last semester
while she was showing her new tattoo
to some friends we had in common.
We started talking
and I showed her my poetry.
She loved it and said
she wanted to turn one of my poems
into a book for one of her design classes.

At the beginning of the semester
Robyn makes good on her promise.
She wants to know
which poem she can have.
I give her a few to choose from
and she picks one about
going to Jeff’s apartment for the first time.
She tells me she wants me to give input about layout
and even wants to take photos of me
to illustrate the book.

On Thursday afternoon
when neither of us has classes,
we pack up her camera and props
and go into town to Jeff’s building.
Robyn wants to take photos of me
in the elevator and on the stairs.
I’m a little nervous.
That guy from my poetry class
lives in this building too,
and I haven’t spoken to him
since we hooked up.
What if he sees me?
He’ll think I’m a stalker.

Robyn and I laugh.
We feel like we are on a covert mission
as we sneak into the building.
Every time we hear someone
on the stairs or calling the elevator

I cringe.
When we finish I can’t get away
from the building fast enough.
But it’s fun being with her
and playing like little kids.

Things are good this semester.
I’ve been off medication since last spring
and my life has mostly gone back to normal.
I haven’t seen the inside
of a therapist’s office in months.
Most of the time I just daydream
about going to Paris with Rebecca
and how it’s going to be.
I think about all the countries I am going to see
and how romantic it will be to wander new streets.

I’m tired of how repetitive things are here.

Jason comes to visit
and I’m not sure if it’s to see me
or his other friend who goes to
school here.

Robyn and I go to a party with Jason
where his other friend will be.
It’s not a crowd I would hang out with
if he weren’t here.

At the party, Robyn and I wander around the house
as Jason makes friends
with everyone in the room.
Robyn and I go upstairs
and before I can even take a seat,
Robyn is gone.

I find her outside on the porch.
I ask what’s going on,
and she says she needs to leave.
I don’t understand.
She says that when we walked upstairs
she saw a guy she has a crush on doing coke.
She’s crying,
and I don’t understand.
Her reaction is too intense.
She says that a year ago
a friend of hers was really depressed,
got into coke,
and killed himself.

She says she can’t be here.
I flip into action mode.
If she needs to leave,
then we will leave right then
and walk the mile back to campus.
Part of me doesn’t want to leave Jason.
I never get to see him, but this is more important.
I find Jason, tell him we’re leaving,
and tell him to call me
when he wants to come back to my room
for the night.

Robyn and I are walking,
arms around each other,
and she tells me about her friend.
I try to get her to think about happy times
they had together and she calms down
a little.

We only get a few blocks
when we hear Jason behind us.
As the three of us walk back to campus
we pass a giant pile of leaves.
It is calling to be played in.

Jason dives in first,
then Robyn,
then me.
The leaves smell amazing,
dried and smoky.
We look like little kids
as we swim around
and toss leaves at each other.
I can’t remember the last time I was this happy.

Jason and I drop Robyn at her dorm
and go back to my room.
This is it.
We haven’t talked about it,
but it’s hard to imagine we won’t hook up.
After all these years
this will only be the third time
we’ve spent the night together.
When I change for bed,
I just turn around,
let him watch me.

We get into the twin bed,
and I feel like I am sixteen again.
Jason picks a bit of a leaf out of my hair
and that starts us kissing
Kissing him is like kissing myself.
He was my first boyfriend—
I learned to kiss from him.
He tastes the same as he did
two and a half years ago.
His body is different, though.
There’s more muscle,
more strength.

We fall asleep for a while
and when I wake up
I look at him sleeping
and just smile.
A spell has been broken.