I Must Be Losing My Mind

Chapter 2

Two years later after extremely high intensity medicine and therapy, I had left the hospital, free to do whatever, as long as I promised to meet up with a psychologist every week and see a doctor once a month for a check up. And that was okay; I had medicine for whatever was wrong with my head. I didn’t ask; I just didn’t want a label. To be honest I was so relieved to be out of the care of Nurse Angie. I couldn’t trust her. She wasn’t my friend.

After having spent years in the hospital, I had a high-paying job at a company that made cameras. I didn’t get to build them; I worked in the offices, filling out paperwork and organising forms. I enjoyed it because it was repetitive, rhythmic work that required little brain power. Exactly how I liked things. No change, no deviation from routine, a familiar similarity from day to day and a schedule that I could work on.

I woke up early this morning. Rolling out of bed, I grabbed a clean towel and headed to the bathroom to shower. Once I got out, I scrutinized my pallor appearance in the mirror, frowning at the dark circles under my eyes indicating I hadn’t slept well in weeks. I took a deep breath, and rested my hands on the counter.

“My name is Matthew Webb.” I began, carefully watching my reflection. I looked down at the neat rows of amber pill bottles lined up in front of me, and grimaced further. “I am twenty six years old. I was in a psychiatric ward for seven years. I got released two years ago.” I placed the correct pills in my hand. I couldn’t bother learning the names, so I learnt them by shape and colour. Two pink circles. One white oval. Two blue capsules. I swallowed them, leaning under the tap to catch a mouthful of water and swallowing them down. I returned to my previous pose. “Josh Ramsay is a figment of my imagination. Josh Ramsay does not exist.”

They told me to say this every single morning. Just to remind myself. I’d been saying that for two years now. It still didn’t make it any easier to say.

It was a rainy Tuesday morning. I’d taken the bus to work today because there was a problem on the train lines, and I was a good quarter of an hour early. That was good; I had time to stop at the nearest Starbucks for a coffee before I had to get to my job. I pushed through the glass doors, checking my phone for email. I glanced up to see there wasn’t a line forming in front of the counter, and there wasn’t, so I headed to the counter.

“Hello, may I help you?” A young female voice rung out from in front of me. I smiled at her. The girl was obviously young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with curly brown hair and a huge smile.

“Hi, may I have a tall black coffee please?”

“Of course. Are you taking away or staying here?”

“Uh, no, I’m staying here.”

She punched some numbers into the cash register. “Okay, that’ll be two dollars ninety six please.”

I handed over a folded note and she gave me my change. Grunting thanks, I headed over to the waiting bar and continued to check my email.

“Tall black coffee!” A cashier shouted out, and I took the coffee and headed over to a soft armchair in the corner of the cafe, setting my coffee on the table and grabbing the silver laptop out of my messenger bag. Opening the document I was working on last night, I continued typing furiously. Soon enough, I was lost in thought, my brain working in keystrokes and Times New Roman. I find it easy to get lost in my work. It’s repetitive. Organised.

“Matt? Is that you?” I heard a voice from behind me. Turning around to see whose voice it was, my jaw fell open. There, standing in front of me, was a person who I thought had disappeared along with my days of the hospital. With soft black and blue hair falling into his eyes, the perfectly crystal blue eyes, the porcelain skin. Wearing the same white skinny jeans and shiny leather shoes and that stupid silver ring on his finger. This was an illusion. It must be. Josh Ramsay does not exist.