I'm Not Crazy

I Am The Fool

I walked along the nice, clean, pristine tile floor, colored as white as the snow. The mental ward of the hospital was always kept nice, clean, and pristine, so as not to upset the obsessive compulsives who feel the need to clean or organize, and to keep the germaphobes from panicking.

I entered into the lounge, where all of the 6 patients were held for right now. They were kept to a tight, strict schedule, and right now they were socializing.

They were all young, and I could pick out each one. The suicide attempt, a boy with a slit across his throat, with curly brown hair and green eyes, and a huge, ironically goofy smile. The anorexic, the skinny girl with long, dark hair and blue eyes. The Asian boy with anxiety sat in the corner, flipping into the pages of a book rapidly, probably in a nervous habit, with hard brown eyes and hair as black as volcanic rock. The mute, whose pink lips were pursed together as she sat next to a window seat, silently scribbling in a notebook, blond hair strewn about and brown eyes darting around the page. The schizo with blond hair and blue eyes was walking around the room, aimlessly looking at the walls in his strange mental state. And finally, the self-abuser, slits across her plump wrists, sat next to the suicide attempt victim, twirling her red hair in between her fingers.

The lounge was very comfortable. The floors were all grey tiles, and three of the walls were white, the east wall being made of entirely glass. Along the glass wall, a long, red couch took up that wall like a 40 foot window seat. The couch was adorned with multiple multi-colored pillows. To the west side of the room, there was a large kitchen, where the anorexic was now, beginning to pull out ingredients from the cabinets. The entire room was fairly modern, and in every corner was a small table and a vase full of orange lilies.

My presence in the room was now noticed, and the self-harmer was the first to say hello. She gave me a big grin and left her friend to greet me properly. Whe she reached me, she held out her hand for me to shake. I did as motioned, but I didn't listen to her name.

"I don't care about your name. It's your disease that matters." I responded. I could see it hurt her feelings, but I didn't care. I was right.

Despite her upset feelings, she introduced every person in the room, and again I heard none of their names. Or maybe I did, but they didn't matter.

I walked up to the schizophrenic, examining him. He noticed me, and gave a small, perhaps pitiful smile. "Why are you looking at nothing? There is nothing on the walls. You are crazy."

His faced twisted into pure sadness, but it was surprisingly not for himself. He pouted a bit, and in the kindest voice, said, "How troubled you must be to end up here." He placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "You'll feel better soon, you will get better. Don't give up hope."

He was the most gentle soul I had ever meant. There was more to him than schizophrenia.

He used his hand to turn me around to face the wall. Painted on the wall were beautiful murals filled with color. There were swirls and circles and shapes filled with golds, greens, pinks, and essentially every bright, happy color there could ever be. It was easily the most gorgeous work of art I had ever seen, painted by a brilliant artist with truly phenomenal talent.

"She painted it. Beautiful, isn't it?" The schizophrenic said, motioning to the mute. I couldn't tell if he was talking about the beauty of the patient or the beauty of her mind or the beauty of her work.

I slowly walked over to her, and she looked at me with big eyes. She never opened her mouth, but she gave me a small smile with her glossed, pink lips. I looked at her notebook, and the sketches she was drawing.

She was the most talented artist I have ever met. There was more to her than her inability to speak.

Suddenly, my nose was filled with an alluring scent, and I followed that trail of aroma to the kitchen, where the anorexic had apparently just finished a meal.

"It's very fast and easy to make. I just thought I would welcome you. It's chicken with cooked in red wine with some melted cheddar and honey mustard sauce. I've been told it's quite delectable." She told me shyly, passing me a plate of a small piece of chicken. I cut up a piece and took a bite.

My tastebuds took me on a dazzling roller coaster of amazing flavor. It was sweet and slightly tangy, the chicken was cooked perfectly.

She was the most amazing cook I had ever met. There was more to her than her anorexia.

A boy walked to my side, the anxiety sufferer. He took a bite of her food, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. "Quite delectable, again you have succeeded in your culinary practices."

The anorexic blushes slightly, looking down. "Oh, it's nothing...but thank you." She turned her head to me. "You know, he is the most intelligent of all of us."

The anxiety sufferer shrugged his shoulders. "I have an IQ of 163. I am technically a genius, and it is true that I can hold very intelligent conversations. Tell me, I am re-reading the book Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. I personally think it is quite the brilliant book in itself. What do you think of it?"

Then I found myself conversing with this boy about a book that I had known little about. I had issues understanding the metaphors in the book, but I had been able to comprehend it. But this boy understood every word. He even critiqued some technological impossibilities in the book and gave me a real chance-percentage that the events in the book would occur.

He was the most intelligent person I had ever met. There was more to him than his anxiety.

The other two people I hadn't met yet, the suicide attempt and the self-abuser walked up to us.

"Don't you think it's funny that he was named after Chinese currency? Oh! I have a good joke about China. Would you like to hear it?" The schizo asked eagerly. The anxiety boy shared his head, holding back a grin.

I nodded my head, and the boy excitedly continued. "Okay, how do you start a Chinese joke?"

I motioned for him to continue. He tried not to laugh at his own sense of humor as he very seriously said, "By checking over your shoulder." He then slowly looked around the room cautiously, earning giggles from the people in the room, especially the self-harmer. The he spotted the anxiety sufferer and screamed.

"OH GOD THERE'S ONE RIGHT THERE!" He yelled. Everyone was hysterically laughing by now, and the anxiety boy tried his best not to laugh, but ended up just smiling and shaking his head.

This boy told the funniest jokes. There was more to him than his suicide attempt.

The self-abuser finally stopped giggling and told the suicide attempt, "You are by far the funniest person I have met." She turned her attention to the anxiety sufferer. "And way to be a good sport about it." She then looked at me. And her face contorted as if she was remembering something.

"Oh!" She approached my slowly. "And I know you were being rude before, but we all know that you don't mean it. You're just going through some stuff of your own right now, but you'll get past it. We all did, you will too."

That was the kindest thing anyone had every said to me.

She was the kindest person I had ever met. There was more to her than her self-abuse.

As I looked at each of the six people in front of me, I realized that I had underestimated all of them. I didn't know them.

There was more to them than their mental illnesses. They are not who I thought they were.

I remembered all their names now. Annabelle the cook, Bailey the artist, Carrie the kind, Xavier the comedian, Yin the genius, Zeke the gentle. ABC and XYZ.

No. No. No. I had always seen things just how they are. I only saw the facts or the flaws or the numbers and letters or the big picture but I was wrong. A mental illness didn't define a person as I once thought. I was wrong I was wrong I was wrong.

I slowly backed away, just moving backwards until my back met a cold flat wall. I felt myself slide down it, and I curled into my own little ball of self-loathing. How could I have been wrong?

"Oh no, don't panic. Why-Why don't you tell me your name?" Zeke asked.

"My...I'm society." I introduced myself.

I am society. And I was wrong.