The facts are that a twenty-year-old man shot his mother and then walked into an elementary school and opened fire on children and teachers. Just destroyed them for no reason, as if they were in the way of something.
The discussion about guns is happening again, but nobody seems too concerned about changing any laws.
Nothing changes the fact that those kids are dead, forever.
My mom is a pretty sensible person and might’ve been crying a little bit about the gruesome deaths, but mostly she was crying about me. She watched the coverage on the news, and I just knew. Because this guy had mental problems and who knows what kind of demons whispering in his ear. She was afraid for me.
There might be a witch hunt of every person with a mental illness. It would be easy to make the homeless schizophrenic community disappear. No one would notice they were gone. And then the people who talk to themselves. The poor bastards who are bipolar. Everyone with severe behavioral problems. That is Mom’s nightmare. That someday someone will come for me and she won’t be able to stop them.
When I got back to school after Christmas break, we all talked about it. The first mass was dedicated to the victims and their families. A little, terrified-looking second grader who could barely see over the lectern read the Prayers of the Faithful. She spoke in a tiny voice and said, “For the victims of the Sandy Hook shooting and their families. Lord, hear our prayer.”
When she was done speaking, there was this terrible emptiness. She was probably the same age as the kids who’d died, and I felt this overwhelming sadness that must have shown on my face, because Maya touched my hand.
Of course we had to talk about it when we got back to class. We’d have to openly discuss every detail of the event so we’d know what to do if anything like that happened here. There’s no way the nuns would let us escape a long, drawn-out safety discussion accompanied by a prayer for the victims, because why not? We pray for every other stupid thing. I can’t imagine why praying for the dead would be any less ridiculous. It was maybe half a second after the prayer that the class started talking about the shooter.
“What was wrong with him?” someone asked.
“They’re not sure. Mental problems, they think.” Sister Catherine’s eyes did the tiniest of double takes in my direction as she said it, but she turned away quickly. Rebecca was sitting on Sister Catherine’s desk at the front of the room, looking furious. If she’d been real, she would’ve thrown something at her. Then again, if she’d been real, I wouldn’t be crazy.
That was when I heard it.
“Why didn’t the fucker just kill himself if he was so miserable?”
I didn’t see who’d said it, but I heard it. It was in a stage whisper, but Sister Catherine’s head snapped up as she hissed “Who said that?” in a deadly voice. Her mouth stretched into a thin line as she glared out at the class.
No one moved. No one said a word. The phrase just hung in the air above us.
Why didn’t the fucker just kill himself?
And for a second, I was angry because whoever had said it has no idea what it’s like to lose control. They don’t know what it’s like to be haunted by your own mind. They don’t understand the mad desire to make the voices stop even if it means doing what they tell you to. But I had to stop myself because I realized my reaction was in sympathy of the killer, and I didn’t want it to be.
When the bell rang, Sister Catherine caught my attention and waved me over to her desk as quietly as possible. She waited until the class had cleared out before she spoke.
“They didn’t mean you, Adam,” she said quickly. Most of the time I can forget that the teachers know my secret, so it was odd having this discussion.
“They did,” I said. “They just don’t know they meant me.”
She shook her head. “There is no justification for anyone to take their own life. That power belongs to God alone.”
“Then maybe he should have taken that guy out before he killed those kids,” I said. Sister Catherine looked like she was looking for the right words, but I didn’t want her to feel like she needed to comfort me. “It’s okay, Sister. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
In this situation, whoever had said that in class was right. He could’ve just offed himself. No one else would’ve had to die.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget that feeling, when I learned what someone would say if they knew my secret. What they really thought about people with my condition. Not the fake comforting words they’d give that other people would hear. The real words in their heart.
If they knew I was a threat, they’d tell me to kill myself. They’d think I was a monster.
—
On Monday I’d received a friendly reminder notice from the office to check in with my student ambassador. Naturally, I tossed it in the trash. Nobody was actually monitoring my participation in the student ambassador program, but I was supposed to be having weekly meetings with Ian. I guess the prospect of these meetings disappeared when I shoved his naked ass into a crowded hallway. It’s a shame because I think we were really starting to hit it off.
The weird thing was he’d been unusually quiet since then. I didn’t worry about it until today, when I passed him in the hall after class. Instead of walking past me like I didn’t exist, he stopped and looked at me with a weird expression on his face, like he knew something I didn’t.
When I walked to the bathroom in the hallway next to the church, he followed me in and took the urinal next to me and started to take a leak. I usually avoid conversation with other guys while I have my dick in my hand, but Ian was unfazed. It was the first time I’d been this close to him since the shower incident.
“Tragic what happened in Connecticut,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, watching his lip curl and waiting for him to get to the point.
“People with problems like that. We should just round them up and shoot ’em, you know? That way nobody gets hurt.” He zipped up his pants and clapped me on the back, but not before turning to the JESUS LOVES YOU/DON’T BE A HOMO graffiti on the wall and saying, “That’s been there forever. Someone should really clean it up.”
I felt my body go cold.
—
Sometimes I forget you’re there. I write these notes and spill my guts and sometimes it feels like you really hear me. Other times it feels like I’m just writing to nobody.
So I’d like to take this opportunity to say that I don’t like guns. I don’t own guns and I don’t have any desire to shoot anyone ever. I don’t play violent video games, mostly because I’m bad at them. I don’t even really like laser tag.
Amen.
DOSAGE: 3 mg. Same dosage.
JANUARY 16, 2013
Yes, I understand that you want to know how I hurt my hand. And I get that this isn’t how therapy works. I’m not getting the full benefits of the session by talking to you through these “diary” entries, because therapy is a conversation, not a dissertation. You listen to me, we talk about what I’ve said, and then we make a plan to do it all over again the following week, and nobody ever gets fixed.