Mare Moody - [blank]

"Why do you assume that your father didn't care?" He asks.

"He was never really around," I say, "sure, he was present but he always seemed to be in a far off world, ignoring all of us."

"Has your father been to a health care professional?"

I shake my head.

"Not that I know of," I say timidly, "why?"

"Well, if we know what your dad is suffering from, we can more correctly diagnose you."

This makes me slightly angry. He is assuming a lot of things.

"How would you know that my father has a mental illness?" I spit. Now my annoyance is starting to blossom. It must be his incessant writing.

"Genetically speaking," Dr. Simmons says calmly, "most mental disorders come from parents or grandparents."

I look at him. How would he know? He doesn't know my family. He doesn't know my father. Then I remember. That one goddamn phrase won't leave my mind. 'It runs in the family.' I always assumed that he was referring to my mother but could he have been talking about himself. This is all confusing me. My confusion from before was cleared up but now new confusion eats away at my head.

"It could have been from my mother," I tell him.

"True." Yet again, he scribbles on his notepad. Goddamnit.

"What are you writing?" I ask as I attempt to peer over the clipboard.

"Just your evaluation." He pulls the notepad closer to him so that I can't see anything, even if I tried just a little harder.

"Everything looks good?" I ask.

"Everything looks good." He replies staunchly.

Somehow, I don't believe him the slightest bit.

"What's wrong with me?" I ask, "why am I here?"

He puts the clipboard down on his knee and looks at me. He glare worries me. It isn't one of anger or mistrust. It is one of sympathy.

"Tell me, do you have mood swings?" He inquires, "like highs and lows?"

He moves his hand like a rocking boat trying to help me visualize exactly what mood swings are. I know what they are and I am starting to think he is moron. I don't think he wants me to think that of him.

"Doesn't everybody?" I ask.

"No," he says, "some people have more extreme highs and lows than others."

"Ok?"

"Have you ever been very low and sad?"

"Yes." I say. I would be dithered to release that information but it spills out of my mouth. I guess my brain has been waiting to tell someone for longer than I realized.

"Have you ever been very excited and emotional?"

"Occasionally?" These questions are bemusing me, "Why are you asking all of this?"

"Well," the doctor says as he places his clipboard next to him, "I'm trying to react a diagnosis here."

"For me?" I ask. "I thought I was just in here for the suicide."

"You are," he says matter of factly, "but there may be some underlying problems."

"I presumed that you were going to discover the reason why I tried and then let me sulk for 72 hours." I say.

"It's not that simple, I'm afraid." He sighs. "The reason tried could be a long term illness that has to be treated just like a physical illness."

I am baffled. They think I'm sick? I am perfectly healthy. I just tried something once and I hear voices that I have begun to control. This doesn't mean I'm permanently damaged.

"So you are just going to pump me full of medication so that I don't go burning down buildings?" I project back at him. The fire is starting to flicker in my stomach.

"That's not what I said." The doctor puts his hands up. I can't tell if he is surrendering, seeking to calm me or both.

"I'm afraid you are most likely schizophrenic." He says in the most commiserative expression.

I am taken aback. All of the times that I have heard these words, they are associated with serial killers and rancid celebrities. I can't be part of that group. I am not part of that group.

"I'm a murderer." I say strictly.

"Ana, only about twenty percent of schizophrenic individuals are in jail," he says, his eyes growing wide at my retort, "and as is, violence is not a symptom of this illness."

I look at him perplexed.

"All of those people who were violent in public had many more issues than just schizophrenia," he says, "don't let society tell you wrong facts."

I nod my head slowly. I think I understand what he is saying but it simply makes me more mad that people in this world are so ignorant like that. I can't believe that they would just assume who is and who isn't going to be a terror to society. But I'm also mad at myself for being driven by those stereotypes. I am also mad at myself for being like this. I am mental incapacitated. Now, it is on record too.

"So are you going to put me on some drugs?" I ask, annoyed.

"Normally we would," He says, "But we can't."

"Why not?"

"Because of your pregnancy." He gestures to my stomach. "we don't want to do anything that could hurt the baby."

"Ok…" I place my hands on my stomach. I don't know whether to be angry at myself or happy. Maybe medication would be good for me but at the same time, I'm glad that I have an excuse to not start right away.

"So," I test the waters, "nothing happens?"

"Nothing happens."

"But I'm still schizophrenic?"

"I'm afraid you always will be, there is no cure," the doctor says, "but we can get you on a therapy schedule during your stay here and when your baby is born, we can start medications."

I feel half relieved and half more scared.

You just had to ruin it.

I bet Noah sent you here.

I breathe deeply.

"Are they talking now?" The doctor asks. He picks up the damned clipboard again.

I nod my head.

"What I want you to do is take three deep breaths."

I nod my head slowly again. I didn't even realize that I had been giving myself therapy for all of these years. If breathing is all he can teach me then I guess I'm a lost cause.

"In for four…"

I breathe in. 1, 2, 3, 4.

"Hold for six."

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6,.

"Out for eight."

1, why am I doing this, 2, what is this even helping, 3, I just want to rip off my head, 4, I've already learned this, 5, I don't have enough air to actually breathe out to eight, 6, I don't want to do this anymore, 7, ugh, 8, Ok, I'm done.

As soon the last breath passes, I feel a peace come over me. It is warmth accompanied by a stillness.

"See? One did the trick for you." The doctor says as a smile comes across his face, "Every time you feel them start to talk, just do that. It'll shut them up real quick."

I smile. I guess it did work.

"So, part of this program is group therapy, recreational therapy, and personal therapy." He says, "You are required to do both."

He turns around and reaches up to his bookshelf. It is a giant wooden monster. The top of it brushes the ceiling and hundreds of book are neatly lined on the seven shelves that go all the way to the floor. He takes out a folder filled with little pieces of paper. He opens it and flicks through them for a second before pulling out a pamphlet. He hands it to me.

The cover is ridden with more happy families. I look up at him.

"More of these pictures?" I sigh annoyed.

"Hospital mandated." He shrugs.

On the cover, below the gagtastic cover work is the words: "St. Joseph's Psychiatriatric Program." I peel open the front flap and unfold it. Behind the first fold is a giant list of sponsors; majority of them being grocery stores. This is quite ironic considering that on the next page they advertise their overeaters anonymous group. The glossy feel to the pamphlet makes me uncomfortable. I'm not sure how many people have touched this and what they had been touching before.

I hand it back to him and reach for the hand sanitizer on his desk. I pump it twice on my hand and feel the coolest on my palms. Every draft can be felt on my hands until they are dry. It is honestly the weirdest sensation.