I Don't Want to Be Crazy (7 page)

Rebecca and I are in Florence with Robyn.
We have two weeks of spring break ahead of us.
We are armed with Eurail passes,
giant backpacks, a list of hostels,
and a bottle of sedatives.

First Florence, Venice, and Rome,
then a train from Rome to the south of France,
an overnight train from Nice to Barcelona,
and possibly south in Spain.

Rebecca and I are a good team.
She doesn’t care enough to do research
and I’m a control freak.
I have our trip planned out.
Nearly every day is accounted for.

I’m nervous to go
after what happened in Provence,
but we made all these plans
and there are so many places I want to see.
Knowing that I have pills in my backpack
makes me feel safer.

On the way to Robyn’s favorite restaurant,
the panic hits and I start crying quiet, slow tears
because I do not have the strength to do this again.
We are walking up a cobblestone street
and I look over at Rebecca and shake my head,
hang it low.

Some people love dusk—
the blue-gray cloud
that covers everything.
It makes my eyes roll back in my head,
makes my head swim.
It makes me cold.

At the restaurant
we order the tasting menu.
Slowly, plate after plate,
the food comes.
I feel crushed by time.
I don’t see how I can make it
through all the courses
without screaming.
My stomach is cramped.
I am going to be sick.

In the bathroom
I assume the familiar position—
chest pressed against my thighs,
staring at the tiles.
I take out the bottle of Lexomyl
and swallow a few little teeth
and shut my eyes.

I imagine them making their way
down my throat,
into my stomach,
and dissolving
into my bloodstream
and traveling to my brain.

Someone is outside, knocking,
waiting to get into the bathroom,
but I don’t think I can move.
I don’t think I can get off this seat
and go out there,
in the dark
with all those people
and all those courses.
Deep breaths.
Deep breaths.

I get off the seat
and put a wet paper towel on the back of my neck.
I am not sure how long I’ve been in here,
but I am hoping that somehow
I have missed the rest of the courses
and Rebecca and Robyn are ready to leave.

When I return to the table
it is set with the same course as when I left.
I am quiet and shaking,
waiting for the pills to hit.
When the shivering and shaking stops,
I know that I will be okay,
but my jaw is still tight
and my knees are knocking
and the only thing I can do is
stare at the candle flame
because it is constant.

Hearing new languages
and walking strange and unfamiliar streets
makes my head spin.
I should be happy and calm and vacationing
but instead I am taking sedatives.

It’s hard to be in such close quarters
with someone who doesn’t understand.
Robyn has never seen this side of me.
We met last semester
when things were good.
I’m afraid that Robyn thinks
I am being overly dramatic,
and that what is happening isn’t a big deal.

“Claire, whatever that doctor gave me isn’t cutting it.
I need something else.
I’m in Italy, and I don’t know how
I’ll find a doctor who speaks English.
No, I’m on a pay phone, you can’t call me back.
Call your mom and ask her.
She’s a therapist and knows about drugs.
I’ll call you back in a little while.
I just need a name of a drug—
something she thinks would work,
so I can go in there and tell the doctor what I want,
what I need.”

Xanax 1 mg
is like a roller coaster,
like whiplash.
I am okay for a little while
and then I snap back.

In Venice, I try to swallow it.
I try to push it down
to the pit of my stomach,
under my feet.
I have to pay attention.
Every moment
I must be on guard.

The coast of Italy blends back into France.
There is nothing but sky and water
and each is changing shades
of the same color.

This was supposed to be
one of the best times of my life
but it has been a nightmare
that only pills can stop.

I cannot explain how significant it is
to be tracing the outline of the coast.
I like this feeling
of being on the edge of something so big.

There is so much that I am supposed to be saying,
so much that I am supposed to be doing,
but instead I am sitting here picking
at my wounds, bringing up blood,
and looking behind my nails
to see what I have scraped up.

From the coast, everything gets put into perspective.
Going past thousands of homes I get smaller.
Looking at a sea that never seems to end
makes me disappear too,
but in the middle of all this
there is a small island
with a wooded mountain
with a house at the top.

Looking at myself
in a fragmented mirror in the bathroom
of the Hole in the Wall bar in Vieux Nice.
An eye here,
lips there,
all misplaced and disjointed,
all make sense.

Two days with Xanax.
Two days without attacks.
Maybe this is the best way—
twice a day,
little white pills for calm and quiet,
for sense of a composed face
in a broken mirror.

We are on the overnight train to Barcelona
and I am nervous that Rebecca and I don’t speak Spanish
and we aren’t sure where to get off the train.
Early in the morning, before dawn,
we switch trains at Port Bou.
I see a group of young American guys
and figure one of them knows where to go.
We talk to them for the rest of the ride
and when we get off
they insist that we all stay at the same hostel.

When we get there
there is only one room left
with beds for five people.
We are stuck with them
because I wasn’t confident
that we could manage on our own.

Rebecca and I spend the day
at Park Güell, designed by Gaudí.
All the structures rise up from the earth
like someone watered them and they grew.
I know this is the most beautiful place I have ever been,
but I cannot enjoy it.

That night the guys and Rebecca and I
are supposed to be going clubbing near Las Ramblas,
but as it gets later and we start to get ready,
I can’t decide
if it would be worse to stay behind
with no one to talk to,
or to go, fearing I will have a panic attack.
But mostly all I can think about is Rebecca
and how I am ruining her spring break.

Even though I don’t want to be alone,
it would be worse
to make Rebecca stay with me.
I insist that she go with them and have fun.
I have a book,
a CD player,
and a new box of Xanax
that I talked a pharmacist into giving me.

It is hard being alone,
sitting on the balcony
and watching the people below
being normal
and having fun.

I try to take a hot shower, to relax,
but the bathroom is filthy
and the water won’t stay hot long enough
to enjoy it.
I must remember
all bad nights come to an end.
The pain eventually goes away.
I have cried more in the last two days
than I have in the last year.
The attacks keep coming,
and it hurts worse than anything else
that I can’t stop them.

I take a Xanax,
get into bed,
hair still wet,
and cry until I fall asleep.

It’s dark when I wake up
and they are back.
The guys are joking around,
being drunk,
trying to get me to get up,
but it’s the middle of the night
and I was finally somewhere
that wasn’t terrible.

One of the guys starts jumping on my bed
and another opens a can of beer
and it sprays all over me.
I feel like I am with a bunch of children.
All I want to do is sleep
and be left alone
and the only thing I can do
is scream and curse at them.

I realize that it has to be done.
I have to leave Barcelona,
go back farther than Paris or New York.
I tried to tell myself that it was going to be okay,
but it is not.
Even with the pills,
the terror still comes.

I don’t think I look like myself anymore.
I feel like I tried to ignore too much
and now I am here shaking
in some strange city.

I don’t feel connected to my body.
I feel racing and suspension all at once.
My breath is never even.
I have cold hands and knots in my stomach
that barely let up after another pill.
I have to face the fact that
it
is still there
and that may mean explaining to my parents
why I am home from France early,
and going back to therapy,
and getting new pills
because I am back to the point
where I will try anything.

It is finally time to accept
that I am not as solid
as I would like to believe.
I cannot go on like this.
Each new attack damages me so much
that I am searching
for that perfect black hole
where I can hide out until it stops
and I can emerge into the sunshine
with only rubble at my feet.

So afraid to go outside,
to be happy,
to be with other people
because they do not understand what it is like.

I am fearful of romantic dinners,
huge crowds, dusk—
of normal things—
afraid to be loved,
the one thing I want most.
Maybe it’s because I don’t think that I deserve it
because I am not that perfect
little girl that I was supposed to be,
well manicured and well groomed,
because I have nervous breakdowns,
and take pills,
and keep moving.

I am tired
and two years overdue
for a nap that can fix this.

The decision has been made.
Rebecca and I will go back to Paris
for a few days to gain peace and quiet,
to see if I can continue traveling
without losing my mind.

This is one of the hardest decisions
I have ever had to make—
next to the first time I went on medication—
because it’s admitting
that I am sick.

I am up early,
letting Rebecca sleep in
before we leave—
a consolation prize.
I go for a walk
even though I am scared I’ll get lost.

I need air.
I need to move.

I cross the square
and walk down the street.
Each step I take is small, cautious,
but it feels good
to be able to do this,
to be brave
and be alone.

I go into a perfume shop
and breathe it all in.
It feels good
to be overwhelmed by scents
and not fear.
The smells are comforting.
Heavy ones make me think of my mother.
Spicy ones, my sister.
Sharp musk, my father.
Some are like clean laundry,
others like lemons.
I find one that smells like honeysuckle—
like my parents’ backyard—
and
buy it.
I deserve a present.

It’s a sick joke,
making this decision,
disappointing myself,
disappointing Rebecca,
accepting defeat
and finding all the trains to Paris booked.

This is a nightmare.
Spain is a cage.
I told myself that getting out would help,
and now I can’t.
We are back at the hostel
and my tail is between my legs

On the phone in Paris with my parents
I cover the receiver as I cry.
“We’re back because we pushed ourselves too much—
tried to do and see too much too quickly.”
This is too hard.
“We are exhausted.”

I am exhausted.
“We are going to hang out in Paris for a few days
before we go to Biarritz.”
I am going to try and pull myself together.
“Yeah, everything’s great.
Love you. See you in a few weeks.”
I don’t think I can do this.

I don’t want to leave Paris.
The thought of traveling makes me sick
and even after two Maalox
my stomach still isn’t calm.
As Rebecca and I search through the travel guide
to find somewhere to stay,
I know that I don’t have the strength to leave Paris,
to pack a bag and board an uncomfortable train.
But I am going.
I know if I don’t leave Paris this weekend,
if I can’t find it in myself to try,
I will die.

From the Biarritz train station,
we take a bus
to the middle of nowhere—
not even a place to get a bottle of water.
We wait
for the next bus
that will take us to the coast.

On the next bus,
we ride through dried up, flat land
and I think, I don’t know how
I’m going to survive
the next few days.

It’s absurd
that this is a struggle.
We are staying just a few minutes
from a gorgeous beach
in a hostel that looks like a tree house.
This is a dream.

Students dream about this.
I dreamed about this.
I am lucky enough to have this chance,
to have parents who will pay for me to be here,
and it is all wasted.

I don’t want to let on to Rebecca
that things aren’t good,
so I try to stay quiet,
and take my pills
like a good little girl.

We spend the rest of the day on the beach
and the night at the hostel bar.
There are people here
from all over the world.
There is one guy
who keeps looking at me
and when I go over toward him
he motions for me to sit down.
He is French and deaf.
I know the sign language alphabet
so we sign our names to each other.
We sit together for the rest of the night.
He reads lips,
and we draw pictures
and make gestures to communicate.

It takes so much energy and concentration to be with him
and understand what he is trying to say
that I forget
what is wrong with me.

After a week in Paris
I go back to normal.
I ride the metro to class,
wander the city,
feel trapped in my body,
eat dinner with my family,
spend all my money on clothes.

My parents are here.
They are staying at a fancy hotel
across from the Louvre.
I take the elevator up to their room
and follow the flowers on the carpet
to their door.
I feel like I am going to explode.
I am so happy to see them,
but I am scared
it will make me crack.
Everything I have been holding in—
everything they don’t want to know—
will come gushing out
and never stop.

My father opens the door.
For the first time in my life
he has grown a beard
and I’m surprised
at how gray it is.
He looks so different
that it’s hard to focus on him.
My mother is on the bed.
The first thing she says is,
“Why did you do that to your hair?”
The gates break
and I am crying.
Why would she say that first?
How will saying that
do anything but hurt my feelings?
My father tells me it looks cute
and runs his hand over the back of my head
where it’s really short.

We spend the week together.
During the day we go to museums.
We go shopping.
We go out to dinner.
My mother speaks a little French,
but I am our navigator.
I can feel their pride
as I order our food
and talk to salespeople in French.
Robyn is also in town
and she’s staying at my apartment.
I spend my nights with her
going to bars and clubs.
I am constantly exhausted
and on the edge of panic.

At the end of the week
my parents and I are in a restaurant
and my stomach is a mess.
I stare down at my full plate
and think, I have never been this tired.
I cannot even chew.
My body is empty
and no matter what I give it,
it is not enough.

I tell my parents I am sick.
I need to leave.
When the proprietor clears my untouched plate
she is confused and offended.

She wants to know
why I didn’t eat anything
and it takes all my energy to reassure her
that I’m not leaving because of her food.

My last week in Paris
I get mail.
The envelope is small
and the handwriting is perfect,
yet masculine.
I turn it over.
There is no return address—
only a New York post office stamp
and my parents’ zip code on the front.
It is from Jason
or Nate.
I hold it in my hands,
weigh it,
trying to figure out who it is from—
who I want it to be from.

I sit down
and open it.
Folded up into a neat square
are three notebook pages
filled, front and back.
I take in the handwriting.
It is Jason’s.
My heart sinks.
I wanted it to be from Nate.
But when I flip it over to see the signature
I see I am wrong.
I read the letter
over and over
and over
and don’t even tell Rebecca
what was written in it.
It is mine.

I’m leaving France before everyone else.
Most people are going to travel
or at least spend their last days in Paris partying.
As soon as classes are over
I am getting on a plane.
I can’t stay here anymore.
I need to go home.
I need to go to sleep.
I need to sit still.

Ann found an apartment for us
for the summer by school.
Each day I am going to ride my bike
for a half mile, past all the mansions
and lawn jockeys, to work at school
in the Events Department.
Everything about this summer
is going to be quiet
and slow.