Through a shattered window

Crazy

"Is there anything you would like to add before we end this session?"

Yeah, I would like to say that I'm crazy.

"No."

"Okay, then I'll see you next week." Jane, my social worker, said as I got up. I nodded and gave what I hoped was an encouraging smile. I made my way to the door, without looking back in order to avoid the awkwardness. What if she was looking at me weird? What if she was judging me? Was I walking weird? How does my back look? My palms were sweaty, so I attempted to subtly wipe them on my jeans. I reached for the knob, turned it, opened the door, took a step out, closed the door behind. I probably looked really stupid. But I had reached the hall. That was kind of a milestone to me. The door was a barrier of social connection, and I had closed that barrier, releasing myself of the chore of trying to not look stupid. As soon as the door had closed, I could immediately feel relief fill my body. No one to stare me down as I walked out of the room, looking stupid, as always. There was no one around, so I felt farely comfortable as I walked over to the waiting room. Where my mom was supposed to be waiting for me. I spotted her reading some kind of pamphlet that she had picked up off the shelf, it seemed to be some kind of awareness thing about smoking. I walked over to her. "I'm ready." I said. She smiled and put the pamphlet down. "I'm really considering giving up on smoking." she told me, giving a last glance at the pamphlet before we walked away. I quickly looked around the room, making sure that no one was staring at me. "That's a good idea." I said. I had nothing really to say. "When?" I asked, trying to show that I cared and was interested. "Oh, I don't know, don't stress me about it, okay?" She replied. I nodded. "How did it go?" My mom asked me. "Good." I said, giving another one of my oh-so-encouraging smiles. It was that same smile that I would give in any situation that had me at loss of what to say or do. In other words, ninety percent of the time. I didn't even really know why I had to see a social worker. Like I mean, my family life was alright. What else was there to say? The problem was within myself, really, and I didn't know what could be done about that, or if anything could be done about it. Fuck! I stepped on the crack. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Those fucking sidewalks. I hate them. I'm so fucked. Why the fuck can't I step on the fucking crack anyways? Oh wait, because I'm crazy. For the same fucking reason that I have to turn the light on and off-and on and off and on and off and on off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off-instead of just flipping the switch once. "Are you listening to me?" My asked, breaking me out of my thoughts. Thoughts. Those things thatI couldn't control, but that controlled my life. "What?" I asked. "What did you talk about?" she asked me. I shook my shoulders, "Stuff." I said, as I quickened my pace, trying to make it obvious that I was cutting this conversation. I reached the car, which was, very unfortunately for me, parked beside a stop sign. That bright obnoxious color that represented death. That color that I couldn't even pronounce. That color that always made me fear, when I saw it, or heard it, or anything that had to do with it, that someone nearby would die. Immediately I tried to impose the color white in my head, hoping to prevent the death that might be about to occur. It took all of my concentration as the color tried to seep it's way through my head. My mom unlocked the door, and I sat in the car, looking away from the stop sign, hoping that my mom would hurry up and drive away.

Yeah, I'm crazy, have been for a while. Crazy how? you ask. I don't know. See, I would talk about it to someone, but I'm scared. I'm scared that they'll send me to a mental institute or something. I'm scared that they'll judge me. I wonder every day, what the fuck is wrong with me? But I'm scared that if I talk about it, they'll confirm what I already know. That I'm crazy.