Seeing Through The Crazy

A very bad story I had to write for English class; it was supposed to be a modern-day fairytale.

One, two. One, two. One, two. Tap. Tap. Tap. My eyes zero in on the boy sitting in front of me, drumming his pencil on the tabletop, beating out an annoying rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap. The pink eraser hits the desk, bounces off, hits it again. One, two. One, two. His incessant drumming is making it difficult for me to concentrate on the presentation the teacher is giving us. If I don’t pay attention, I’ll fail the exams, again. And if I fail again, I’m back to that place. The psych ward. The crazy ward. That won’t happen.

Tap. Tap. Tap.  Is that boy out to get me? Is he plotting, trying to make me fail, so that I’ll get put back there, because I’m “not coping”? The rest of the period drags by, the boy doesn’t stop tapping. I barely take any notes.

“Strike one,” I think to myself. I know that my mom will go through my binders at the end of the day. She’ll question my about the lack of notes. And she’ll tell me that, unless I keep my grades up, she’ll send me back there, just like the doctors want. Just what they all want. For me to be locked up, out of sight, so they can forget I ever existed.

Crazy Caitlyn. Crazy, crazy Caitlyn. Drugged up on meds until she can’t see through the pill-induced haze. Drugged up on meds until she can’t think, can’t act. Drugged up on meds until she has no free will. They’ll keep upping the doses until I’m nothing more than a vegetable. A puppet they can control. They’d like that, to be able to control my every move, every thought, every action. Doctors and their labels. Doctors and their meds. They have a box to check, a category, for everything.

            Having trouble sleeping? Take two of these. The sleeping pills giving you headaches? Take two of these as well. Tired of therapy? Here’s a pill for that. Tired of pills? What did you say? You’re already on twelve? That’s okay; we have a pill for that.  Feeling down? We have a disorder that applies to. Tired of being put in boxes? That’s a disorder too.

            Doctors and their disorders. Depression. Schizophrenia. Schizoaffective disorder. I’m sick of the boxes. Sick of the pills. Sick of the disorders. I’m sick of being sick. There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s real. The people who follow me home, they’re real. Their fingers lift the bedroom window latch. Their bodies slither through the gap between the ledge and the glass. Their voices taunt me. They are as real as the hand I hold in front of my face.

···

            It’s late now. Dark has fallen by the time I reach home.

            “You’re late,” my mom comments, running her fingers through her salt and pepper hair.

                        “Yep,” I reply without explanation. If I told them what had happened, they would send me back to the hospital for sure. So I won’t tell them of how I ran along the muddy riverbank, feet sinking into the squishy muck, until I made it to the top of the bridge.  Of how he was sitting there, perched on the railing, just like he is every afternoon. Michael Connary, the boy who jumped. Everyone knew him. Had heard of him, had class with him, had been friends with him. He was always…there. A solid reality.

Michael Connary, the boy who was always sitting on the bridge, every afternoon without fail. He was always there, until one day, he wasn’t. The boy who jumped. I won’t tell them how Michael was waiting for me, perched on the thin wire railing that was strung up to keep you from stumbling and falling into the deep river that was rushing below. I won’t tell them of how he asked me, implored me.

“Jump Catie, jump.” 

I won’t tell them of how he took my hand, and pulled me over to the edge, so that the waist-high metal railing was the only thing keeping me from the water below.

“Jump,” he insisted, “jump. You need to jump.”

I won’t tell them of how I almost did. Of how I came so close to stepping over the railing. Of how I came so close to jumping. When Michael told you to do something, you always did it. I won’t tell them, because telling them that would get me back in the hospital so fast my head would spin, drugged up on so many meds that I wouldn’t be able to think. I won’t tell them of how, just before I jumped, I turned and ran. Just like I do every afternoon. Heart pounding, feet racing, running.

···

The night passes the same as it always does. He comes again, sits on the edge of my bed. “They tell you you’re crazy, Catie, don’t they?” he taunts. “Crazy, loco, insane. That you’re crazy for seeing me. Crazy Caitlyn. You’re broken, psychotic, beyond repair. So they stuff you with pills. They’d be happy to be rid of you. Your parents wouldn’t have to pay for medication anymore. The doctors wouldn’t have to pretend to care. No more questionnaires, no more prescriptions, no more disorders, no more people telling you that you’re crazy. Jump, Catie, jump. Next time, jump like I did.”

···

And just like it always does, night fades to morning. Breakfast. The pills, lined up in their colorful display. Blue, orange, red, pink, white. Though their outsides may be different, underneath, they’re all the same. If I take them, they will slip into my system, dissolving into flowing, twisting ribbons that climb into my brain, pulling plugs, detaching wires left and right. Staining my blood like ink as their poison flows through my veins. The pills make me feel empty, detached, sluggish. So, just like I do every day, I slip the pills into my mouth, fold them under my tongue, and pretend to have swallowed them.

···

I’m running again, my eyes glued to my watch. 3:58 PM. I won’t be late, not today. The mud of the river bank tugs and pulls at my sneakers, but I keep running, yanking my shoes out of the squelchy mud with every stride. 3:59 PM. I dash up the stairs and there I stand, hands on knees, panting. 

“On time today, I see,” Michael commented.

I glance up, and he is where he always is, perched on that thin wire railing.

“Don’t plan on me making a habit of it,” I muttered, still drawing in gasping breaths as I try to recover from my sprint.

“I missed you today, Catie.” he said sadly, a frown on his pale face. “Why must you go to school? Why must you leave me? I have your best interests at heart. I can teach you so much more than they can.” he slid down off the railing and made his way over to me, brushing his hand back through thick, raven-black hair, before taking my hand and pulling me upright. “Listen to me Caitlyn,” his voice was soft and urgent now. “Listen. Come with me. Take my hand and we’ll jump together. It doesn’t hurt. Dying doesn’t hurt. It’s easy. Just a few steps. And then everything will be over. No more pills, no more doctors, no more people telling you you’re crazy.”

As he was talking, he had been slowly pulling me over to the edge, and now I was leaning against the wire, only a few cables keeping me from plunging into the river below.

“Jump,” I thought to myself. “I could do it. And then everything would be over. Done with.” I hesitantly place my hands on the railing.

“Come on, Caitlyn.” Michael coaxed, stepping over the barrier himself, long, thin legs clearing it with ease. “I’ve spent so much time with you on this bridge. Remember the hours we spent here, the days? Remember all the stories and the laughter? The tears and the silence? After all the times you’ve visited me, talked to me, don’t you trust me? You trust me, right? Trust me when I tell you this. Jumping is good. Good. Just a few more steps, come on.”

“Hey, you,” a sharp voice cries out, and I flinch, startled.

I whirl around but Michael is already gone, disappearing into the cracks in the wooden planks that make up this bridge.

“What do you think you’re doing? You could have fallen in, leaning so far over.” A man in a dark grey jacket is hurrying towards me. He is hunched over to shield his face from the wind that is whipping around us, but he straightens as he nears. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, with light brown hair and tired eyes.  “Are you crazy or something?” he asks, exasperated. “If you fell in, you could have died. And out here in nothing more than a t-shirt. It’s February, for Pete’s sake, not the middle of July. ”

Crazy. That word always seems to come up sooner or later. Crazy Caitlyn. It’s like I have a huge neon sign hung above my head, proclaiming to the world that I’m certifiably insane.

“Are you even listening to me?” his hand closes around my wrist, and he pulls me away from the edge of the bridge, dragging me to a bench.

“Michael, where are you?” I think to myself. “Why must you always disappear when I don’t want to be alone, yet come when I do?”

“Hey, are you okay?” the man asked in a slightly softer tone. I guess he finally noticed I wasn’t speaking.

“Umm…yeah, fine.” I replied distractedly. Why did he have to come? I was so close. Yet he came and scared off the only person who would even talk to me. And now he was pretending like he cared. I’m just a random stranger he found, nearly falling off a bridge. As he said, I’m crazy. Why does he care if I’m okay? I’m nothing to him.

“Are you sure?” he persisted. “Because, you don’t look okay. You’re pale as a ghost.”

“What is it to you if I am?” I snapped back.

The man just let out a sigh. “I’m Jason,” he said. “And you are..” he trailed off, waiting for a response.

“Caitlyn.” I replied.

“Nice to meet you, Caitlyn.” he extended his hand for me to shake.

I glanced down, looking at the spindly fingers before me. He had a piano player’s hand, fingers long and thin, like twigs. Slowly, hesitantly, I took his hand in mine, and shook it.

The man, Jason, sat down on the bench beside me. Every bone in my body was screaming for me to run, to get out off there, to take off and never stop. But I stayed. I don’t know why, but I did.

“So, are you going to tell me why you were hanging half way off a bridge in nothing more than a t-shirt in the middle of February?” Jason asked, looking over at me.

I just stared out across the water, saying nothing. Maybe if I ignored this annoying stranger, he would just go away. He had no right to pry into my business.

 “Do you come here a lot?” Jason asked.

“Yeah,” I replied. Short, one-word answers. That’s all I would give him. Maybe then he’d leave me alone.

“It’s pretty here, isn’t it?” he commented offhandedly.

“Yeah,” I agree.

Time passed, the two of us sitting awkwardly on the bench, me gazing at the river and him staring at his hands. Michael never returned.

“It’s late,” I finally say. “I should go home.”

“Yeah, probably,” he agrees.

­­­­···

When I reach home, the pills are already waiting for me, lined up on the table. One by one, I take each one of them, folding them all under my tongue before depositing them in a container I have specifically for this purpose. It’s full of these little capsules of poison, for this is a daily routine. As long as my medicine disappears, my parents don’t check.

···

Days stretch to weeks, which turn to fortnights.  My grades begin to slip. Every night, Michael visits me. Every morning, I tuck the pills under my tongue, folding them into a hidden cave. I refuse to take the doctor’s poison, refuse to be a puppet. Every day after school, I take off towards my bridge, sprint down the muddy riverbank, and arrive scarcely before 4 PM. Some days, Michael is waiting for me with his constant, “jump.”  Other times though, Jason is there, sitting on a bench, reading a novel or a newspaper. On those days, Michael doesn’t show. I’ve started to talk to Jason. Or rather, started answering the questions he asks me. With him, I’m not crazy Caitlyn. I’m just plain, old, regular Caitlyn, like I used to be. No visions, no pills, no doctors. Michael said it’s only because he doesn’t know me for me, and, if he did, he wouldn’t talk to me again. But I’m not so sure. Jason seems like a decent guy.

Today it’s Jason, not Michael, who waits for me as I reach the bridge. He sits on a bench, nose buried in some sort of novel. He looks up as I approach, peering at me over brown-rimmed spectacles.

“Good afternoon, Caitlyn,” he says.

“Good afternoon,” I reply. I take a seat next to him, staring out at the river. It is calm today, sunshine sparkling off the smooth surfaces and it gurgles and bubbles along.

“So, tell me, what do you want to be when you grow up?” Jason asks. Our conversations always start like this, him asking a random question, I answering.

“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. I haven’t give much thought to it. I’m more concerned about staying out of the psych ward than life after high school. Two more D’s and I’m back there again. I ignoring my racing thoughts and return with a question. “You?”

“I want to be a doctor,” Jason says. “I’m in medical school right now. I want to be able to help people, to make them better.”

But I don’t hear what he says. I stopped listening at the word doctor.

Doctors, with their sharp needles. Doctors with their diagnostics. Doctors with their pills. Doctors, doctors, doctors. Doctors are bad. They don’t care about you. All they want to do is make you dependant on pills. So they tell you there’s something wrong with you, even when there isn’t. Doctors, doctors, doctors. He’s a doctor. They’re everywhere, trying to get into my mind, trying to becomes my friend, just so that they can poke at me and prod at me and try to diagnose me. Doctors.

“I don’t believe in doctors,” I say, and I take off running. Faster, faster, faster. Feet pound-pound-pounding on the ground. And as I run, Michael joins me, keeping pace as I sprint down the riverbank.

“I was right,” he crows to me. “I told you not to trust him. Crazy Caitlyn. He’s just like everyone else. You don’t matter to him. You’re only a diagnosis, that’s all he cares about. You’re nothing.  He’s a doctor. He wants to lock you up, keep you in that prison forever. He wants to make you his puppet. You must never trust doctors, Caitlyn, Never. You can only trust me. I and I alone will never deceive you. I am your only friend. You need me, Catie, you need me.”

“You left me,” I choke out as I run, breath coming in short gasps. “You promised me you’d never leave and you left. You jumped, Michael. You jumped and left me here all alone. Forever, remember that? What happened to forever?” I’m crying now, tears blurring my vision, but I keep running. “You promised forever. Why should I trust you now?”

“Caitlyn,” Michael starts, but I cut him off.

“Does eight years mean nothing to you? We spent every single afternoon together. And then you just up and left. I came to the bridge and you weren’t there. I found your body, cold, lifeless, broken. And you have the nerve to tell me to jump too.” My voice is cracking as the tears grow heavier. “You left, everyone always leaves. Everyone. Trust no one, you say, ” I stumble, tears clouding my vision so that I can’t see anymore, salt water stinging my eyes. “No one includes you as well.”

I am home now, tripping, stumbling up the front steps, yanking open the door, running to my room. Betrayal, hurt, anger, fear, my emotions twist and contort, changing faster than I can keep track of, a swiveling whirlpool of overwhelming feelings. I can’t take it, it’s too much. I reach into my pocket for the container of poison I always carry, willing to take one of those small, awful capsules just to stop feeling. But my hand meets only empty space. It isn’t there.  My pills, they’re gone. They must have fallen out of my pocket as I was running. I start to panic. That was over a weeks worth of pills. What if someone finds them? What if someone takes them? Oh no, there’s a name and address on the vial I’ve been slipping them into, an old pill jar. What if someone brings them here? I’d be caught for sure. And I’d be back in the psych ward. Locked up and drugged until I can’t think. I sink to the floor, rocking back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Anything, just anything to calm the panicky feeling in my chest, to stop the choking terror. I’m not thinking. Not feeling. Not coping. Not functioning.

Crazy, crazy Caitlyn. Rocking back and forth. Loco, insane. You’re crazy, Catie. Cuckoo. Demented. Delusional. Worthless. Idiotic. Crazy, crazy, crazy.

The voices grow louder and louder. Chanting, chanting, chanting.

Insane. Kooky. A lunatic. Demented. Mental. Nuts. Crazy, crazy, crazy. Crazy Caitlyn.

“STOP!” I scream. “Stop!” I’m hysterical, sobbing, bashing my fists on the walls, pulling my hair, anything.

Crazy, crazy, crazy.

Michael’s here now too. His voice joins theirs, stronger though, louder.

Worthless. Insane. Deserves to die.

Jump. Jump, Catie. Jump. Do it, now. Get up, run back to the bridge, and jump.

Crazy, crazy, crazy.

Jump, jump, jump.

Through the haze of voices, I hear a doorbell ring in the distance. Almost unaware of what I’m doing, I get up, stumbling down the hall.

Crazy, crazy, crazy Caitlyn.

I yank the door open and Jason is there, pill bottle clutched in one hand.

“H-how did you get here?” I manage to ask, the voices quieting to a hushed din now that there is someone else around.

“Clozapine,” he says, not answering my question. “A powerful antipsychotic used to prevent hallucinations. Often used to treat schizophrenia.  I learned that in my first class. But you haven’t been taking this, have you?” He brushes past me, inviting himself into my house, closing the door behind him. “Caitlyn, why do you have a bottle of these pills that looks as though you’ve put them in your mouth but then spit them out?” he questions.

I don’t answer. I can’t. Everything is happening at once. I can’t even think.

“Caitlyn, do you have schizophrenia?” he asks, this time his tone a little less confrontational.

I nod.

“Why aren’t you taking your medication?” he asks.

“Because I don’t want to,” I reply in a shaky voice. “I don’t have a problem, I don’t need medication.” I’m not sure why I’m answering his questions, not sure why my mouth won’t be quiet. He’s a doctor. I don’t listen to doctors. But he’s also Jason, who has listened without judging.

“Don’t have a problem?” he sounds a little incredulous.

“They’re real. The voices are real, not some hallucinations. They’re real people, I can see them. I don’t have a problem. I don’t need medication. The doctors only give me the medication in order to subdue me, to make me their puppet. I told you, I don’t believe in doctors.” My mouth seems to have a mind of its own, I can’t stop the talking.

Jason leads me over to a couch and sits me down. “Caitlyn, how long have I known you?” he asks me.

“Umm…six months,” I answer, unsure of where this is going.

“Trust me when I tell you that you’re an amazing, wonderful girl. But Caitlyn, you need to get help. You tell me you’re hearing voices and then say you don’t have a problem. I’m sorry, but it’s either one or the other. You choose, it can’t be both. In the half a year I’ve known you, have I ever led you astray?” he questions.

“Well, no,” I reply.

            “Why don’t you believe in doctors?” he asks, changing subjects.

“Because,” I say, “I don’t trust them. All they ever do is give me pills and lock me up and tell me there’s something wrong with me. I’m not crazy.”

“Caitlyn, I want to be a doctor so I can help people. That’s why all those people became doctors. They all want to help you. Just listen to me, hear me out, okay? Its okay to trust doctors, it’s okay to ask for help. Schizophrenia is a mental illness. When you’re sick, what makes you better?” he waits for me to answer.

“Well…pills,” I say hesitantly.

“Exactly. But how are the pills they give you supposed to help you if you won’t take them? If I give you a Tylenol, it will only lower your fever if you take it, right?”

“Yeah,” I quietly agree.

“So you need to take your medicine,” he insists.

“Well, it’s more than just hearing voices,” I admit. And, against my better judgment, I tell him everything. About Michael, who is supposed to be dead but who I can see, who urges me to jump like he did. I tell him of the taunts, how he visits every night, I tell him everything. I tell him of how I found his body the day he jumped, of how we had been friends, best friends, for years. I tell him of how I can’t trust doctors because all they do is lock me up, give me more pills, and try to take my will away, just like they did Michael’s. Of how the pills and hospitals and diagnoses made him jump. Of how they were going to make me jump too, because I couldn’t take it all either. And as I say it aloud, everything sounds a little crazy. It all makes sense in my head, but it sounds crazy when spoken. As I’m talking, my mom comes home. She sits and listens and starts crying. I look at the tears streaming down her face, think of the sleepless nights, and realize I don’t want to go on like this any longer. I’m not living, I’m coping. It’s not the same. I’m barely getting by.

            “Caitlyn,” Jason pulls my attention back the present and out of my thoughts.

            “That sounds crazy,” I mutter to myself, “I sound crazy. Am I crazy?” I ask Jason, my voice catching on the last word. Maybe it’s true, maybe I am crazy Caitlyn, maybe I should be drugged up on meds, locked up to protect everyone else.

“Not crazy, no,” Jason answers, taking my hand in his, “You’re not crazy, Caitlyn. You just have an illness. It’s the same as the flu.”

“But people with the flu don’t hear voices,” I shoot back.

“True,” he acknowledges, “ they don’t. But that’s just because the symptoms are different. Your schizophrenia is a problem though, and, just like with the flu, if not treated, it can kill you.”

            I sigh and twist my hair around my fingers, my mind finally coming to the same conclusion that the doctors reached months ago. “I need help, don’t I?” I admitted.

            “Yes, you do.” Jason agreed.

 

···

Three months later, I sit in a chair, across the desk from my therapist. I’ve been working with her ever since I finally asked for help. She’s one of Jason’s professors. I’ve been taking my medication and I spent two weeks in the hospital so they could get the dosage just right. I’m happier than I have been in a while and Michael has stopped visiting me. I smile to myself.

“Why are you smiling?” my therapist asks.

“Because things are finally getting better,” I reply.

 

Author's Note

What do you think? Are there any things I could work on improving? Any feedback would be appreciated.