"I'm Not Crazy"

Prologue

It's the type of thing that hit suddenly.

One second, the entire world is in focus. You could be having a conversation, or you could be sitting at your desk quietly tapping away at the keyboard, or you could be in bed reading about some sort of Hollywood gossip that had never mattered. You could be in a classroom while a professor uses the phrase "with respect to," over and over again until you think your ears might bleed.

These normal and rational things are just things. They're not mountains. They're not trials or tribulations. They are real life. They are happening. They are a part of your normal, because you are normal. You're not different. You're not special. You're not challenged. You are exactly as you should be.

"Melody?"

I was choking. There was a tight squeezing sensation around my throat. I was being attacked by an unknown force.

How fast was my heart beating? How normal was that pace? How many beats per moment should there have been? Should I have been counting? Was there a way to count?

There was a knocking. Then the voice spoke again.

"Melody?"

I was in a bathroom stall; the type with fully closed doors instead of the big gaps. It was the one with the archaic white drawing of a wheelchair bound stick figure on it. The background was blue. When I burst in several minutes prior, I was unaware that I was taking the handicap stall, but in that moment I recognized just how wide open the space was. The support bar that I was currently using to hold myself up was also an obvious indicator.

"In and out," I whispered. "Deep breaths."

Use literally any of the coping skills they taught me. 

My name was not Melody, but the woman outside the stall door did not seem to know that. I thought that she should have known. She had no reason not to know. She had been checking me in every Monday and every Thursday at varying times for the preceding 5 weeks. It did not seem like learning my name should have been hard.

Every time I walked up to the desk, she said to me "Oh, Melody, right?"

I would say, "No, it's Charlie."

Then we would spend another minute trying to find my appointment slot because the name actually showed up as Charlotte and I was always mildly discombobulated just enough to say the wrong thing. It was often resolved by me stating my last name, which was  Everette.

We went through the ritual every single time. Neither of us had improved, so I supposed I couldn't judge her for her lack of growth either. I didn't even know her. She was just a receptionist. If anything, I should have been judging myself. I saw a Licenced Clinical Social Worker twice a week. I should have been growing. I should have been thriving.

The breathing had not improved. I was breathing marginally worse actually, because I was now aware that I was baselessly judgmental. I was also a failure because I had not improved. Maybe I was abelist too, because what if the receptionist was calling out the name Melody to bring my attention to the fact that a handicapped person was in need of this stall? What if I came out of this stall and found that she was having me discharged from my Licensed Clinical Social Workers care on the grounds that I did not care about disabled peoples right to the bathroom?

I was worried that I might be dying. My chest hurt and I could not breathe, which often indicates a cardiac event. I could have been having a heart attack. People panic themselves into a heart attack all the time. They say they died of fright, or something of the sort. The shock killed them.

"Breathe," I whispered again.

And it occured to me that people who were dying were not often able to speak. I could still speak, albeit quiet and strained. That was a good sign that I might survive.

That time, I was able to take in air. That time, I was able to remember that I came there on my own two feet. I walked into the lobby. I saw the teenage boy and the little girl waiting with their mother. I ran myself out into this bathroom, and I failed to reign in the tightening of my chest. I was real. I was alive. I was 21 years old. I had fingers and toes, even if they were numb. I could feel them if I tapped the way they taught me to do when I was still inpatient. I could walk outside alone now. I could live alone. I could bring myself to appointments. I was worrying the receptionist who thought my name was Melody.

Maybe I looked like somebody else named Melody?

I tapped my fingers like I was supposed to do. I had to stop leaning on the support bar to do so, but I managed it anyways. I noticed my hair was stuck to my neck in sweat, which was not pleasant, but it did give me something to feel. Feeling was very important. I needed to be able to feel things, even if the antidepressants made feeling my body much harder. I needed to be able to sense reality. I was real.

Eventually, I could breathe again. My cardiac event had left my stomach twisting in nausea, but I could still breathe. I breathed and I counted the inhales for a moment. Then I opened the door to the bathroom, and I found myself faced with a young woman who was probably my own age. She had dark skin and black hair that was styled expensively. I realized while looking at her that I didn't know her name, which made my stomach spin a little bit more.

"Melody," she asked. "Are you okay? Did you hear me in there?"

I thought about how she was my age. She was normal. She had a job that required a buttoned shirt. I thought about how if we had gone to school together as children, she would have thought I was weird. She maybe would not have spoken to me. Her parents, assuming they were normal, maybe would have asked her not to.

"Something has come up," I said, because I was allowed to say that. "I'll need to cancel todays appointment."

"There will be a missed appointment fee," she said. I couldn't read her face. I had never been good at anything like that. I could not tell you if she was resigned or tired or if she even cared at all.

"Okay," I agreed.

I left.

I walked home with wide eyes and a head that nodded ever so slightly the entire way. I couldn't hold still. I couldn't even really think. I went home to my own apartment, and I locked the door behind me so that I could sit in the silence in peace.

I tried very hard not to cry.