“They’ll find the right balance eventually. We can handle this.”
“It isn’t fair for me to ask you to handle this.”
She didn’t even seem to care that my mom and Paul were still in the room. I’d forgotten how good it felt to kiss her, and part of me hadn’t realized until that moment how much I’d missed her. She pushed the hair out of my face when we broke apart.
“I’m not asking for fair. Nobody gets fair. And who says it’s up to you to decide what I can handle?” she asked.
“Me.”
“Well, you’re an idiot.”
“Maya—”
“In the email, you said you loved me. Is that true?” I wanted to say no. I should have said no. But I couldn’t lie to her anymore.
“Yes.”
“Then how about that’s all that matters right now, because I love you, too.”
Then I said perhaps the dumbest thing I’ve ever said.
“I don’t care if you’re not real.”
Does any of this make sense to you? I know we’ve stopped meeting for now and we might stop having regular sessions altogether until my other doctors create a cocktail that works for me, but I can’t help but wonder what you actually think of everything I’ve told you. I can’t say that these therapy sessions have actually helped me, but then again I haven’t been doing them properly. So I can’t say they’ve really hurt, either.
JUNE 12, 2013
“What do you see?” That’s Maya’s new favorite question.
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“No. Of course I’m not sure. I’m crazy.”
“Would you tell me if you saw something?”
“Probably.” She hates when I answer like that.
“And the voices. Do you hear them now?”
“Yeah.”
“What do they sound like?”
“Right now they sound like you.”
“Idiot.”
“You know, part of me thought you’d be nicer to me now that you know there’s something wrong with me.”
“Well, then that makes you crazy and stupid.”
My girlfriend is not sweet. She’s not the type to bake me cookies or agree with everything I say in a sweet, singsongy voice. She does still spend a lot of time talking about things that aren’t exactly helpful. But she shows up every day after school and leans up against me while she does homework. Sometimes she doesn’t say anything. She just works. And every so often she’ll look at me and squint as if she’s trying to see the fog of crazy drifting out of my ears. When she can’t, she goes back to whatever she was doing.
I feel guilty letting her love me. Big surprise, I know. Don’t tell me I shouldn’t, and for Christ’s sake, don’t tell me that nobody “lets” someone love him. Because I do. I let her love me the way a girl lets a guy buy her dinner. I don’t fight it. I just accept that it’s going to happen, and I just sit back and let it. Because I need her more than I’ve ever needed anything. That’s unhealthy, right? You’re supposed to say that’s unhealthy. Go ahead. I’ll pretend you’re saying it.
Every now and then, I’ll casually mention sex because why not? I’m already an asshole. I might as well throw that out there, too. Just so she knows everything is working properly and we could, you know, if she wanted.
But she doesn’t want to. Not until we find the right drug. And she’s right, but still. It was worth a shot and it makes this quest for finding the perfect drug even more desperate.
She promised me nothing had changed, and for the most part, she was right. She didn’t treat me differently, but she did stop asking about my headaches. Now she does research on the latest drugs and compares notes with my mom, which is weird.
I won’t tell you I feel fine today, because I don’t, but it could be worse.
It’s nice to hear “I love you” from someone who doesn’t have to be here.
—
Today was a bad day. I yelled at Paul again for no reason. I couldn’t understand why I was so angry. Angry enough to scream obscenities at a man who hasn’t done anything wrong. The voices kept saying, Maybe we should think about sending him to a place that can handle him. But Paul didn’t say anything like that this time.
I could see that I hurt him, but I didn’t care. I was shaking, and he felt like a stranger in my house. He didn’t love me or want what’s best for me. He just wanted me to be quiet.
—
My mom walked in later and left a letter on my desk next to the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she made for me hours earlier. She wasn’t supposed to be walking around—her doctor had put her on modified bed rest—but Paul was out picking up groceries, so she walked in quickly, kissed me on my forehead, and left.
She knew I wasn’t in the mood to talk. I hadn’t been in the mood to do anything lately. And I wasn’t really in the mood to read, either, but I wanted to know what the letter said.
It was a few months old, dated December 20, 2012, and it was from Paul to the Archdiocese:
To begin with, I should not be writing this letter. The diocese has not produced a scrap of legal documentation giving you the right to expose the mental illness of a minor with no violent history. You have relied instead on prejudice and fear to prove your point. I would advise you to be careful; those are quickly becoming the hallmarks of the Catholic Church.
I have nothing but sadness in my heart for the people of Newtown, Connecticut. They are victims of a senseless crime carried out by a lost soul. My pity for the shooter extends only as far as a wish that he had received the proper medical attention he so desperately needed, but it certainly does not condone or excuse his actions.
I have already explained in previous letters the lengths to which my family has gone to treat this illness and to fully understand the depth of Adam’s medical needs. There has been no misrepresentation of fact. Every step of the treatment has been dutifully reported, not because we were required to do so by law, but because it is in Adam’s best interest to have the adults in his life as informed as possible.
You have threatened, yes, threatened to expel Adam because one among you has already revealed confidential information to a parent in a position of power, someone who feels that the issue of schizophrenia needs to be publicly addressed.
Perhaps they think it would be appropriate to force Adam out of school or raise the issue of his attendance to a vote? Or perhaps they won’t be satisfied until he is caged off from the others like a beast in a wildlife exhibit.
I met Adam when he was eleven years old. He could have rejected me completely, but he didn’t. By letting me into his life, he taught me that being a parent means becoming what your children need most. Right now, my son needs me to protect him from narrow-minded people motivated by fear.
I have faith that you will find the guidance you seek and respond justly in this matter.
God bless,
Paul Tivoli
Partner, SKINNER, BOLTON, HORROCKS & TIVOLI
Before you ask me what the letter means to me, I’ll just tell you that it isn’t actually a big deal that I cried, because I cry a lot now. The new drug they gave me is strong, and the most common side effects are lethargy, emotional outbursts, and a depleted sex drive. So tears are normal, but I still didn’t expect the letter to affect me like that. He’d never called me that before. His son. Like I belonged to him.