wheel came off the mechanism of my breathing; it rasped and scraped in my chest, loose, broken. I hugged myself.
I wanted to cry, but the risperidone wouldn’t let me.
Okay, so that’s basically the bad stuff out of the way. I mean, apart from me trampling all over your heart but … Okay, that’s not all the bad stuff out of the way.
I mean more: that’s the important bad stuff from before you. And I’m going to have to start summarizing a bit now; otherwise I’m never going to get this finished before Wednesday, and I figure I have to give you two days to read it. Your dad said you were going to college Saturday, so Friday is my last chance.
So …
Hmm …
JUST SKIP TO WHEN YOU WENT HOME, CASSIE.
That was the voice, speaking to me right at this moment, as I type this. I hear the voice again these days, but she’s my friend now. I know, I know. I’ll explain. Honestly, this will all make sense.
Anyway, she’s right.
So:
I went home from the hospital some number of days later. Maybe ten days. I had a prescription for risperidone and another for paroxetine, which is an antidepressant that has a super-high incidence of suicide in those trying to come off it—a fun little fact the doctor didn’t tell me at the time. You can just assume that I met with Dr. Rezwari quite a few times when I was in the hospital but we didn’t really talk about anything. She just gave me risperidone and referred me to a counselor in the town to talk about my mother, when I was ready to.
And that was it. They discharged me.
Luckily, when I came back from the hospital, you and Shane weren’t there. It would have been amazingly awkward if you had been. You were out somewhere, working on the piers, I guess. I don’t know what my dad told you about where I had been; maybe he didn’t tell you anything, I mean, it’s not like he is accountable to the people he rents the apartment to.
Anyway, I was glad you weren’t there.
No offense.
From the side window in my room, I could see a small corner of the beach. Just a sliver—between the roofs of two houses, crisscrossed by telephone wires. A V-shaped fragment of ocean. I sometimes used to focus on it and pretend I was on a ship floating over an endless ocean. It was something Mom taught me to do, when I was worried about something.
I tried it, that first day home, but I didn’t have the energy.
That day and the next, I just lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I also tried reading—there was no voice to tell me not to, or at least the voice was quiet now; muffled—but I couldn’t get past page one of any book I tried.
I heard Shane come home at sunset. Dad was still at Donato’s. I looked out the front window of my room. Shane set himself up in the yard—he unfolded a lawn chair, sat down, and cracked open a beer. There was a six-pack by his feet. He didn’t do anything; he didn’t read or listen to music or call anyone. He just sat there and slowly drank the beers. Shane has the kind of mind that people who have had a mental illness envy.
A couple of hours later, a white Ford F-150 with the Piers branding on it pulled up to the sidewalk. I saw you get out of it and walk over to Shane. He stood up, walked over to the pickup, and spoke to you for a bit. Then he gave you a high five. You joined him—he pulled up another lawn chair—and he handed you a beer. You were wearing a Piers uniform—khaki chinos, a pale denim shirt with the logo showing the two piers on the pocket. A CB radio was clipped to your collar.
He’s not gutting shrimp , I thought. Because you wouldn’t have been driving that branded pickup truck if you were. I wondered what job you had gotten at the piers. I was interested. I watched you and Shane, drinking your beers, chatting. It was calming, somehow. But then you saw me at the window, and I ducked down, ashamed.
You must have thought I was such a weirdo.
The next morning I had my first outpatient appointment at the hospital.
I wanted to cry, but the risperidone wouldn’t let me.
Okay, so that’s basically the bad stuff out of the way. I mean, apart from me trampling all over your heart but … Okay, that’s not all the bad stuff out of the way.
I mean more: that’s the important bad stuff from before you. And I’m going to have to start summarizing a bit now; otherwise I’m never going to get this finished before Wednesday, and I figure I have to give you two days to read it. Your dad said you were going to college Saturday, so Friday is my last chance.
So …
Hmm …
JUST SKIP TO WHEN YOU WENT HOME, CASSIE.
That was the voice, speaking to me right at this moment, as I type this. I hear the voice again these days, but she’s my friend now. I know, I know. I’ll explain. Honestly, this will all make sense.
Anyway, she’s right.
So:
I went home from the hospital some number of days later. Maybe ten days. I had a prescription for risperidone and another for paroxetine, which is an antidepressant that has a super-high incidence of suicide in those trying to come off it—a fun little fact the doctor didn’t tell me at the time. You can just assume that I met with Dr. Rezwari quite a few times when I was in the hospital but we didn’t really talk about anything. She just gave me risperidone and referred me to a counselor in the town to talk about my mother, when I was ready to.
And that was it. They discharged me.
Luckily, when I came back from the hospital, you and Shane weren’t there. It would have been amazingly awkward if you had been. You were out somewhere, working on the piers, I guess. I don’t know what my dad told you about where I had been; maybe he didn’t tell you anything, I mean, it’s not like he is accountable to the people he rents the apartment to.
Anyway, I was glad you weren’t there.
No offense.
From the side window in my room, I could see a small corner of the beach. Just a sliver—between the roofs of two houses, crisscrossed by telephone wires. A V-shaped fragment of ocean. I sometimes used to focus on it and pretend I was on a ship floating over an endless ocean. It was something Mom taught me to do, when I was worried about something.
I tried it, that first day home, but I didn’t have the energy.
That day and the next, I just lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I also tried reading—there was no voice to tell me not to, or at least the voice was quiet now; muffled—but I couldn’t get past page one of any book I tried.
I heard Shane come home at sunset. Dad was still at Donato’s. I looked out the front window of my room. Shane set himself up in the yard—he unfolded a lawn chair, sat down, and cracked open a beer. There was a six-pack by his feet. He didn’t do anything; he didn’t read or listen to music or call anyone. He just sat there and slowly drank the beers. Shane has the kind of mind that people who have had a mental illness envy.
A couple of hours later, a white Ford F-150 with the Piers branding on it pulled up to the sidewalk. I saw you get out of it and walk over to Shane. He stood up, walked over to the pickup, and spoke to you for a bit. Then he gave you a high five. You joined him—he pulled up another lawn chair—and he handed you a beer. You were wearing a Piers uniform—khaki chinos, a pale denim shirt with the logo showing the two piers on the pocket. A CB radio was clipped to your collar.
He’s not gutting shrimp , I thought. Because you wouldn’t have been driving that branded pickup truck if you were. I wondered what job you had gotten at the piers. I was interested. I watched you and Shane, drinking your beers, chatting. It was calming, somehow. But then you saw me at the window, and I ducked down, ashamed.
You must have thought I was such a weirdo.
The next morning I had my first outpatient appointment at the hospital.
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