Нед Виззини - It's Kind of a Funny Story

When I couldn’t sleep, though, it sucked. I’d think about the fact that my parents weren’t going to leave me much money and they might not have enough to send my sister to college and I had a history assignment to do and how come I didn’t go to the library today and I hadn’t checked my e-mail in days—what was I missing in there? Why did I fret so much about e-mail? Why was I sweating into the pillow? It wasn’t hot. How come I had smoked pot and jerked off today?—I had developed a rule: on the days you jerk off you don’t smoke pot and on the days you smoke pot you don’t jerk off, because the days you do both are the ones that become truly wasted days, days where you take three steps back.

I started to work in phases a little bit. For three weeks I’d be cool, fine, functional. Even at my most functional, I wasn’t someone you’d pay a lot of attention to; you wouldn’t see me in the halls at school and go “There he goes, Craig Gilner—I wonder what he’s up to.” You’d see me and go, “What does that poster say behind that guy—is the anime club meeting today?” But I was there, that was the important thing. I was at school as opposed to home in my bed.

Then I’d get bad. Usually it happened after a chill session at Aaron’s house, one of those glorious times when we got really high and watched a really bad movie, something with Will Smith where we could point out all the product placements and plot holes. I’d wake up on the couch in Aaron’s living room (I would sleep there while he slept with Nia in the back) and I’d want to die. I’d feel wasted and burnt, having wasted my time and my body and my energy and my words and my soul. I’d feel like I had to get home right now to do work but didn’t have the ability to get to the subway. I’d just lie here for five more minutes. Now five more. Now five more. Aaron would eventually get up and I’d pee and force myself to interact with him, to get breakfast and hold down a few bites. Nia would ask me “You all right, man?” and one Saturday morning, while Aaron was out getting coffee, I told her no.

“What’s wrong?”

I sighed. “I got really depressed this year. I’m on medication.”

“Craig. Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.” She came over and hugged me with her little body. “I know what it’s like.”

“You do?” I hugged back. I’m not a crier; I just look it; I’m a hugger. Cheesy, I know. I held the hug as long as I could before it got awkward.

“Yeah. I’m on Prozac.”

“No way!” I pulled back from her. “You should have told me!”

“You should have told me! We’re like partners in illness!”

“We’re the illest!” I got up.

“What are you on?” she asked.

“Zoloft.”

“That’s for wimps.” She stuck her tongue out. She had a ring. “The really messed-up people are on Prozac.”

“Do you see a therapist?” I wanted to say “shrink,” but it sounded funny out loud.

“Twice a week!” She smiled.

“Jesus. What is wrong with us?”

“I don’t know.” She started dancing. There wasn’t any music on, but when Nia wanted to dance, she danced. “We’re just part of that messed-up generation of American kids who are on drugs all the time.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think we’re any more messed up than anybody before.”

“Craig, like eighty percent of the people I know are on medication. For ADD or whatever.”

I knew too, but I didn’t like to think about that. Maybe it was stupid and solipsistic, but I liked to think about me. I didn’t want to be part of some trend. I wasn’t doing this for a fashion statement.

“I don’t know if they really need it,” I said. “I really need it.”

“You think you’re the only one?”

“Not that I’m the only one . . . just that it’s a personal thing.”

“Okay, fine, Craig.” She stopped dancing. “I won’t mention it, then.”

“What?”

“Jesus. You know why you’re messed up? It’s because you don’t have a connection with other people.”

“That’s not true.”

“Here I am, I just told you I have the same problem as you—”

“It might not be the same.” I had no idea what Nia had; she might have manic -depression. Manic-depression was much cooler than actual depression, because you got the manic parts. I read that they rocked. It was so unfair.

“See? This is what I mean. You put these walls up.”

“What walls?”

“How many people have you told that you’re depressed?”

“My mom. My dad. My sisters. Doctors.”

“What about Aaron?”

“He doesn’t need to know. How many people have you told?”

“Of course Aaron needs to know! He’s your best friend!”

I looked at her.

“I think Aaron has a lot of problems too, Craig.” Nia sat down next to me. “I think he could really benefit from going on some medication, but he’d never admit it. Maybe if you told him, he would.”

“Have you told him?”

“No.”

“See? Anyway, we know each other too well.”

“Who? Me and you? Or you and Aaron?”

“Maybe all of us.”

“I don’t think so. I’m glad I know you, and I’m glad I know him. You can call me, you know, if you’re feeling down.”

“Thanks. I actually don’t have your new number.”

“Here.”

And she gave it to me, a magical number: I put it with her name in all caps on my phone. This is a girl who can save me, I thought. The therapists told you that you needed to find happiness within yourself before you got it from another person, but I had a feeling that if Aaron were off the face of the earth and I was the one holding Nia at night and breathing on her, I’d be pretty happy. We both would be.

At home I got through the bad episodes by lying on the couch and drinking water brought from my parents, turning the electric blanket on to get warm and sweating it out. I wanted to tell people, “My depression is acting up today” as an excuse for not seeing them, but I never managed to pull it off. It would have been hilarious. After a few days I’d get up off the couch and return to the Craig who didn’t need to make excuses for himself. Around those times, I would call Nia to tell her I was feeling better and she would tell me she was feeling good too; maybe we were in synch. And I told her not to tease me. And she would smile over the phone and say, “But I’m so good at it.”

In March, as I had eight pills left of my final refill, I started thinking that I didn’t need the Zoloft anymore.

I was better. Okay, maybe I wasn’t better, but I was okay —it was a weird feeling, a lack of weight in my head. I had caught up in my classes. I had found Dr. Minerva—the sixth one that Dr. Barney and I tried—and found her quiet, no-nonsense attitude amenable to my issues. I was still getting 93’s, but what the hell, someone had to get them.

What was I doing taking pills? I had just had a little problem and freaked out and needed some time to adjust. Anyone could have a problem starting a new school. I probably never needed to go to a doctor in the first place. What, because I threw up? I wasn’t throwing up anymore. Some days I wouldn’t eat, but back in Biblical times people did that all the time—fasting was a big part of religion, Mom told me. We were already so fat in America; did I need to be part of the problem?

So when I ran out of the final bottle of Zoloft, I didn’t take any more. I didn’t call Dr. Barney either. I just threw the bottle away and said Okay, if I ever feel bad again, I’ll remember how good I felt that night on the Brooklyn Bridge. Pills were for wimps, and this was over; I was done; I was back to me.