"I'm Not Crazy"

III.

The last place I lived before moving to Los Angeles was a transitional housing unit for young adults who were discharged out of the hospital. I stayed there for two years, which was relatively standard for the program. Before that I'd been oscillating between troubled teen programs, inpatient stays and group homes. I found transitional housing to be lax by comparison to the others. The rules were flimsier and the freedoms were wider than I'd come to expect.

I was allowed to participate in school.

Troubled teen programs and inpatient stays were very unconcerned with standard education. Normally they considered schooling to be something that could wait. Our wellness was paramount to prescribed schooling standards, they'd tell us. Learning could wait. This time was about strengthening our character, not our minds. It was by the grace of my caseworker alone that I was able to get my GED while inpatient. I was lucky she was so diligent in that regard. Other kids were stuck waiting for their parents to step in, but being represented as a ward of the state had its own perk for me. I would not be cast into the world without any skills. I could read.

Enrolling in community college online still had to wait until transitional housing. I moved in shortly after I turned 18. It took a few weeks or even months after that for me to get brave enough to suggest my desire for education to the staff, and another stretch of time for them to take it as a valid request. It was something to be debated. I wanted to go to a campus in person. They wanted me to just focus on doing schoolwork on the computer. They could help more that way, they argued. It was a more controlled environment.

Their desire for a controlled environment was probably why things were so stressful for me now. I wasn't locked in anymore. I was free to do as I pleased. I could come and go, skip things, and participate with the world at me leisure. Where before it was a matter of permissions granted, now it was all out chaos and constant choices.

"You're late," the therapist said.

I swallowed. I focused on a poster behind her on the wall, which depicted two birds waltzing. The cushion beneath me on the sofa felt uncomfortable, and smelled too strongly like febreeze.

"Not that I mind," she added. My eyes fell back to her, and really her face wasn't near as critical as I had thought when I first walked in. It was more neutral, and emotionless if anything. "But I know one of our goals for you was rooted in time management, so I wanted to bring it up. You've been notably late for our last few sessions."

I stayed silent. I wanted to respond, but the words were stuck in my throat. Language was just so hard.

"And you actually skipped last Thursday," she said.

I nodded. I waited for her to bring up that I had arrived before leaving their bathroom in a panic. The office lady probably debriefed with her. It was probably noted in my chart. It probably warranted a phone call to someone else who didn't think I deserved freedoms.

An entire weekend has passed since I'd taken that little pink shot with Bird, the bartender. I had not gone back to the bar, but I hadn't made much progress in my life otherwise. The job applications remained a thing of unaccomplished goals. My homework was only half done, with essays begging to be written. I'd been sleeping with the lights on every day. I was imagining rain on sunny days; begging for it, really.

"Are you still taking your medications Charlotte?" The therapist pressed.

I did like her. I know it seems like I maybe didn't, but I found her to be a very gentle person, and I appreciated that about her. Gentleness was an under appreciated state of being. I liked that she was factual, but non judgmental. I liked that her face was staunchly unintimidating. She was young and had dark hair like I did. Familiarity is easier to stomach. It's maybe why I'd chosen her.