They looked happy, and I turned away to watch the doctor finish the last stitch, because it felt like their moment.
Maybe it’s time to increase the dosage again.
When we got home, my mom and I had a long talk about what happened and what it might mean. Paul sat quietly, chiming in every so often to offer an opinion or agree with my mom. That’s the nice thing about Paul. He knows how to have a serious discussion with someone without putting them down. It’s nice to watch him talk to people. I guess that’s why he’s a good attorney. Anyway, it was decided that we’d talk about increasing my dosage.
I still played tennis with Dwight on Monday. It’s my left hand, so I’m fine. He’d already asked me at school how I’d hurt it, but he didn’t seem satisfied with any of my answers.
“So tell me again why you were running in the library?” he asked.
“Because I’m an idiot,” I said.
“Yes, I know, but seriously,” he said.
“I just felt like running.”
“In the library?” he asked.
“Yes. In the library.” He looked at me funny for a minute and then shrugged. Sometimes I wonder how much Dwight notices about me when we’re together. Once in a while I feel like he sees me do something slightly off, but he never says anything. He just lets it slide. Part of me wishes I could tell him. The rest of me thinks that’s a bad idea.
You asked what I thought about being a big brother. I haven’t had time to really think about the baby as a real person yet. I guess I just hope that the kid doesn’t mind that I’m messed up.
DOSAGE: 3 mg. Recommend an increase in dosage. Not yet approved.
JANUARY 23, 2013
Caaaaan’t sleep. Again.
It sucks when you can’t sleep. It should be the easiest thing there is. I mean you just have to lie there and let it happen to you, but still it dances just out of reach. It’s been like this since I was little, but it got worse when I was diagnosed.
But then, this is a common complaint among my people. We can’t sleep, because if we do, the government agents plotting to kill us will slip into our bedrooms and modify the tiny metal chip they’re using to track our thoughts.
In my case, the insomnia is a symptom of the drug. Sometimes it makes sleeping feel like a chore, which is a drag because I love to sleep.
Which brings me to the reason I missed school on Monday. Instead of sleeping on Sunday night, I made muffins, cookies, two pies (apple and blueberry), and lemon bars—mostly because my room had been too crowded and noisy. Even Rebecca looked uncomfortable with everyone in there.
The creepy guy with the bowler hat. The birds perched on the edge of my bed. The choir of voices that didn’t belong to anyone I could see. I listened for about ten minutes before I couldn’t take it anymore. Jason sat in my chair with his feet up on my desk and reminded me to keep quiet so I didn’t wake up Paul and my mom. He wasn’t really an appealing image with his bare butt cheeks nestled into my furniture, even if he was politely trying to stay out of everyone else’s way.
Rebecca followed me to the kitchen, her eyes tired, her face drawn. I pulled out all the baking ingredients while she found a comfortable spot on a stool and watched. I closed all the doors leading to the kitchen and pulled out a whisk. I knew I couldn’t use my stand mixer while Mom and Paul were sleeping. Especially if I wanted to avoid awkward questions until morning.
So I baked. I made shortbread cookies to dip in dark chocolate, tiny thumbprint peanut butter cookies, and really complicated little pinwheels with jelly in the center. I was in the zone. I couldn’t hear anything except the sound of my spoon scraping the side of the bowl. Blissful silence.
By the time I pulled the second pie out of the oven to cool, my mom was walking downstairs to have breakfast before work. Judging by her expression, I must have looked like hell.
That took some explaining, but honestly, it’s probably one of the least-crazy crazy things she’s seen me do. She was mad about the mess, which was understandable. There wasn’t an inch of counter space that wasn’t covered in flour. But rather than yell at me about it, she just started assembling platters of cookies for Paul to take to work. When he walked downstairs and saw the piles of baked goods, he raised an eyebrow to my mom, who shrugged her shoulders and handed him two platters to carry out to his car while she followed him with lemon bars. Paul was actually pretty good about ignoring stuff like this. He says the people in his office like when I bake.
“Leave the blueberry” was the last thing I remember saying. I didn’t make it back to my bed. I was more tired than I’d ever been in my life. The kind of tired you feel when you don’t know if you’re already asleep. And my head was aching. I managed to send Maya a text telling her that I was staying home from school and to “come over later for milk and cookies.” I immediately followed this with a text saying, “That’s not a euphemism for anything.” Though I secretly kind of hoped it was. Also canceled tennis with Dwight.
A few hours later, I staggered to bed, set the phone down on my nightstand, and let the choir sing me back to sleep. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew Mom would stay home from work, and for once this didn’t bother me. She was cautious and that was okay.
But for the moment, it was just me and Rebecca. She curled up against my chest and fell asleep.
—
So here I am again in the darkness of my room, with nothing and no one to distract me, and still I can’t sleep. I can’t stay home tomorrow because I was already out today and I have Academic Team practice. I wouldn’t be able to explain it to anyone, even though my mom would understand. So I’m writing to you because I’m so tired I feel drunk. I’m pissed that I can’t just doze off like everyone else, but I don’t want to take sleeping pills. I don’t need more medication.
Maya has been watching me more closely since the library incident, and I seem to be bumping into Ian more frequently at school. He definitely knows there’s something wrong with me, so it makes me wonder if he’s just waiting for the right moment to do something about it. Also makes me wonder how many other people are starting to notice, too.
Maybe I should be taking more pills. Pills for hearing voices. Pills for sleep. Then pills for anxiety about taking too many pills.
Yes, my hand is healing nicely. Thanks for asking.
DOSAGE: 3.5 mg. Increase in dosage approved.
JANUARY 30, 2013
You’re slipping.
I expected you to ask that question a long time ago. I mean, it’s been months now. What if I’d been dwelling on death all this time and you just now asked me about it?
Anyway, yeah, I used to think about death. Like I said before, my life was a scattered pile of crap when I didn’t know if anything was real. I guess for a while I thought about it because death seemed peaceful. More importantly, it seemed quiet. I crave quiet. You have no idea how much time I spend trying to block out the noise in my head.
There’s no privacy. Someone is always with you, always watching, always talking about something. When you have a man in a yellow suit asking you what time it is over and over and over again, eventually you want to answer him because you know that is what will send him away. But he’s not real. And other people can hear you when you answer his question, so it’s hard not to feel frustrated by that. I don’t need the attention.