I was staring, and his mother noticed and glared back, daring me to say something, which kicked my mom’s natural protective instincts into gear. They stared each other down for a moment before my mom asked, “Here to see Dr. Finkleman, too?”
The other woman nodded, touched her son’s head fondly, and eventually resumed her reading. They were no longer adversaries, just two women fighting the same battle, putting their faith in the same doctor. Cure my son.
I think about that waiting room more than any other spot because it’s our gathering place. The place where the crazies go. A group of us, seeing things no one else can see and following orders no one else can hear, because we have no choice. Our truth is different from everyone else’s.
I guess I should count my blessings because I could have been born in pretty much any other decade in history and been sent to a madhouse where the patients were caged and baited like animals. Places so breathtakingly evil that you don’t have to imagine hell. Asylums were nasty places.
This entry is a bummer, but count your blessings. At least you get paid to read it.
DOSAGE: 2.5 mg. Approved increase in dosage.
NOVEMBER 28, 2012
I used to think that Dwight’s ability to talk in almost every circumstance was annoying, but I’ve developed a respect for it. It is almost impossible to keep up a steady stream of conversation during a tennis match, but Dwight does it without getting winded or breaking a sweat.
He would be perfectly content talking forever without ever actually saying anything. But the nice thing about him is he doesn’t worry about how he looks to other people. He’s awkward. Pale. Skinny. He’s not the type to feel sorry for himself. And the weird thing is he’s happy all the time, which is why it was so odd to hear the unhappiness in his voice after gym yesterday.
We’d just finished our laps on the track, and most of the guys had already showered. St. Agatha’s does not have a long wall of showers like some of those locker rooms you might see on TV. They have individual stalls with hooks on the outside of the door for your clothes. Very classy…and phenomenally stupid for high school showers.
I’d been one of the last ones to finish the run, so when I walked into the locker room, all I could hear was Dwight pleading with Ian and four other guys to give him back his clothes.
“C’mon, guys,” Dwight said through the door. Ian was wearing his towel around his waist and holding Dwight’s clothes away from his body like a matador coaxing a bull into the arena.
“Seriously, guys. I’m going to be late for class,” Dwight pleaded.
“Not really my problem,” said Ian. He walked to the row of lockers right by the door to the main hallway and tossed Dwight’s clothes high out of reach. “Looks like you don’t have any options.”
Being tall and menacing has its advantages. I don’t think anyone saw me enter the room, so when I parted the crowd around Ian, there was silence. He was about to open his mouth to speak when I yanked off his towel and shoved him out the locker room door and into the hallway, holding the door tight so he couldn’t get back in. He pounded on it from the other side, and, curiously, none of the other guys in the locker room did anything to stop me. In fact, they scattered when I looked back at them.
Then the bell rang.
The sound of hundreds of footsteps echoed in the hallway, followed by laughter. I grabbed Dwight’s clothes from the top of the locker and handed them to him over his stall.
“You just pushed him into the hall stark naked,” he said.
“Yep,” I said. Dwight’s face split into a grin.
“How did he look?”
“Cold,” I said. “C’mon. We’re going to be late.”
It was probably immature and incredibly stupid, but some of the best moments are. I’d probably pay for it later. Still, no regrets.
Maya’s text later:
Maya: I saw Ian Stone’s white pimply ass today running past the gym. I almost went blind. I’m told you had something to do with that?
Me: You’re welcome. Love, Karma.
DOSAGE: 2.5 mg. Same dosage.
DECEMBER 5, 2012
My mom is pregnant.
DOSAGE: 3 mg. Approved increase in dosage.
JANUARY 9, 2013
Let’s just blow past the last thing I wrote for a minute. And while we’re at it, I see no reason to devote any time to my family vacation (we went to Hawaii) or my Christmas gifts (they got me the deep fryer I wanted). I got Maya a life vest and swimming lessons. She handwrote all of her grandmother’s Filipino recipes and gave them to me in a leather-bound book. Yes, of course I missed her while I was gone.
But none of that matters, because while I was gone, twenty kids and six adults were murdered at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut.
Around the world, this happens fairly regularly. People drop like flies by the thousands, and usually no one cares. No one here cares, anyway. Before you make that face, take a minute to acknowledge that I am right. Because, honestly, who cares about a bunch of dead people you don’t know? Nobody. Unless they’re kids. Then we care, because that sucks.
Mom and Paul didn’t tell me about the secret meeting they’d had with the school after it happened. I wouldn’t have even known about it if I hadn’t been looking at my mom’s phone.
In this case, the school knew someone they could be afraid of. They knew someone they could blame if the danger were present. The head of the school board (Ian’s dad) planned the meeting quickly after the shooting, because he needed to make sure no one else had to be notified, for legal reasons. And it was hard to do with Christmas only a few days away. Other parents wouldn’t want their kids going to school with someone like me. Someone with the potential to lose control. Most people wouldn’t even bother to research my condition or ask about my medication. They’d go straight to panic. I can’t say I blame them.
Even though it happened on the other side of the country, I immediately knew what it would mean for me.
He was one of us.
And an honors student. He even went to Catholic school for a little while.
Eerily enough, we even have the same first name. Adam.
Even if all those things weren’t true, there was no way the school would not want to talk with my mom and Paul. I knew they’d want to have a board meeting, perhaps a public inquisition to keep things Catholic.
They objected to the secrecy. They wanted someone to protest the fact that Paul had made it abundantly clear that no one at school was to know about my condition. Because then if an “incident” occurred, there would undoubtedly be the parent who screamed bloody murder because they had not been told that their child was attending school with a ticking time bomb.
Me.
This conflicts with the church’s actual teachings, though, which is highly inconvenient for them. The Bible teaches tolerance. I doubt that Jesus would have encouraged people to “out” me as a schizo. Does Let him who is without sin be the first to cast a stone ring any bells for anyone?
They don’t know much about the shooter yet. He could have planned the whole thing for months, gotten other people involved, notified the police ahead of time to bargain for something he wanted. But none of that seemed to be the case. They’re just speculating on the why. Which to me doesn’t actually mean shit.