Нед Виззини - It's Kind of a Funny Story

“Now write down any ‘shoulds’ or ‘woulds’ that you felt about the event.”

“Like what?”

“Things that you regret about it, things that you feel would have made it go better.”

“Wait, uh, I don’t think I have the right kind of event.” I furiously erase my first statement, which is marked I . Instead of Ate pizza, I put down Threw up Mom’s squash and then for 2, I write Felt like I wanted to kill myself, all the while telling Keith to hold on, I messed up.

“Just put down ‘shoulds’ and ‘woulds,’” he reassures me.

Well, I should have held down the squash and I would have been full if I had. I put that down.

“Now put down only what you actually had to do in the event.”

“What I had to do?”

“Right. Because there are no such things as shoulds and woulds in the universe.”

“There aren’t?” I’m starting to suspect Keith a bit. For someone in Anxiety Management, he’s giving me an exercise that is fairly confusing and anxiety-provoking.

“No,” he says. “There are only things that could have turned out differently. You don’t have any shoulds or woulds in your life, see? You only have things that could have gone a different way.”

“Ah.”

“You never know what truly would have happened if you had done your shoulds and woulds. Your life might have turned out worse, isn’t that possible?”

“I don’t see how it’s really possible, seeing as I’m on the phone with you.”

“What you really have in life are needs, and you only have three needs: food, water, and shelter.”

And air, I think. And friends. And money. And your mind.

“So the next step in the process is to put down only what you actually had to do in your event, and then compare it to the shoulds and woulds you assigned yourself.”

“How many steps are in this thing?”

“Five. The fifth is the most important. We’re at four.”

“You know, I really, um—” I look at the piece of paper, covered with half-erased scribblings about pizza and squash. “—I think I should talk to the Suicide Hotline people because I still feel really . . . bad.”

“All right,” Keith sighs.

I’m worried that he thinks he’s done a bad job, so I tell him: “It’s okay. You’ve been really helpful.”

“It’s tough with young people,” he says. “It’s just tough. Have you called 1-800-SUICIDE?”

1-800-SUICIDE! Of course! I should’ve known. This is America. Everyone has a 1-800 number.

“That’s Helpline, they’re national. Then there’s Local Suicide Watch . . .” Keith gives another number.

“Thanks.” I write them both down. “Thanks so much.”

“You’re welcome, Scott,” he says. I hit OFF—these are the first calls I’ve made not on the cell phone in a long time—and type in 1-800-SUICIDE.

It’s really convenient that suicide has seven letters, I think.

“Hello,” a woman answers.

“Hi, I . . .” I give her the rap, just like I gave Keith. This woman’s name is Maritsa.

“So you stopped taking your Zoloft?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“You know, you should be on that for . . . a couple months, really.”

“I was on it for a couple months.”

“Some people stay on it for years. At least four to nine months.”

“Well, I know, but I felt better.”

“Okay, so how do you feel right now?”

“I want to kill myself.”

“Okay, Scott, now, you know you’re very young and you sound very accomplished.”

“Thanks.”

“I know high school can be tough.”

“It’s not that tough. I just can’t handle it.”

“Are your parents aware of how you’re feeling?”

“They know I’m bad. They’re asleep right now.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the bathroom.”

“At your house?”

“Yes.”

“You live with them?”

“Yeah.”

“You know, when you want to commit suicide, we consider that a medical emergency. Did you know that?”

“Ah, an emergency.”

“If you feel like that, you need to go to the hospital, okay?”

“I do?”

“Yes, you go right to the emergency room and they’ll take care of you. They know just how to handle it.”

The emergency room? I haven’t been in the emergency room since I got clipped by a sled and knocked myself out in the park in grade school. Blood was coming out of one ear, and when I woke up it was like I’d slept for three days and I wasn’t quite sure what year it was. They kept me overnight, sent me through an MRI to make sure my brain wasn’t dented, and sent me home.

“Are you going to go to the emergency room, Scott?”

“Ah. . .”

“Would you like us to call 911 for you? If you’re unable to get to the emergency room, we can send an ambulance for you.”

“No, no! That’s not necessary.” I do not need the neighbors seeing me carted off. Besides, I never realized, but I’m right next to a hospital. It’s two blocks away—a tall gray building with big tanks of frozen oxygen out front and construction vehicles constantly adding new wings. Argenon Hospital. I can walk there from here. It might even feel good. And once I get there, I won’t have to do anything. I’ll just tell them what’s wrong with me and they’ll give me medicine. Probably they’ll give me some kind of new pill—maybe they’ve invented that fast-acting Zoloft by now—and I’ll come right back home. Mom and Dad won’t even know.

“Scott?”

“I’m going. I have to . . .”

“You have to put on your clothes?”

“Right.”

“That’s great. That’s wonderful. You’re doing the right thing.”

“Okay.”

“You’re very young. We don’t want to lose you. You’re being very strong right now.”

“Thanks.” I find my shoes. No, pants first. I put on my khaki pants. The only shoes I can find are my dress shoes, worn to Dr. Minerva’s office this afternoon, a lifetime ago. They’re Rockports, shiny and beveled.

“Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m just getting my hoodie.” I pull it off the hook and flip it on. I grab the phone again.

“Okay.”

“You’re very brave, Scott.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re going to the hospital, right? What hospital?”

“Argenon.”

“They’re wonderful there. I’m proud of you, Scott. This is the right thing to do.”

“Thank you, Maritsa. Thank you.”

I hang up the phone and walk out the door. Jordan comes toddling out just as I’m leaving, cocks his head at me. He doesn’t bark.

The emergency room is nearly abandoned at five-thirty in the morning—I don’t know how I caught that lucky break. There’s a long black metal bench sprinkled with people. A Hispanic couple walks around, the woman howling about her knee. An old white lady and her gigantic son fill out forms next to each other. A black guy with glasses sits at the end of the bench, opening peanuts and putting the shells in his left vest pocket, the peanuts in his right. It could be a plain-old doctor’s office, really. Except for the peanut guy.

I walk up to the main desk: REGISTRATION. There are two registrat-ors, one sitting, and one standing behind. The one behind looks about my age—she’s probably getting school credit.

“I need to be, uh, admitted. Registered,” I say.

“Fill out a form and the nurse will see you shortly,” the sitting one says. The standing one stuffs envelopes, eyes me. Do I know her from somewhere? I sniff my armpit to hide my face.