Нед Виззини - It's Kind of a Funny Story

“A pleasure to meet you,” says Mom. Neither of them takes a second look at the cuts on her face. My parents have some class.

“Good to meet you too,” she says.

“Are you still in high school?” Dad asks.

“Delfin,” she says.

“A lot of pressure, huh,” says Mom.

“Yeah.”

“I think they might have to change the whole system. Look, two people like you, smart young people, sent in here because of pressure.”

“Mom.”

“I’m serious. I’m going to write my congressperson about it.”

“Mom.”

“I’ll go,” Noelle says. “See you Craig.” And she dips her leg up behind her as she turns away and flicks a wave at me— that counts as a kiss, I think. If my parents weren’t here that would be a kiss.

“Are you ready?” Mom asks.

“Yeah. Bye, everybody!”

“Wait!” From down the hall, Muqtada moves forward as fast as he allows himself to, which isn’t very fast, sort of like a speed walk, and hands me the record.

“Thank you, Craig. This boy, your son,” he turns to my parents, “he has helped me.”

“Thank you,” Mom and Dad say.

I hug Muqtada and take in his smell one last time. “Good luck, man.”

“As you go through life, you think of me and hope that I am better.”

“I will.”

We separate and Muqtada migrates toward the dining room and the smell of food.

I look at my parents. “Let’s go.”

It’s incredibly simple. The nurses open the doors for us and there I am outside, looking at the “Shhhhhhhh! Healing in Progress” poster I saw when I came in. The bank of elevators stand sentry in front of us.

“Guys,” I tell them. “Can you go home yourselves, and I’ll walk after you in like one minute?”

“Why? Are you okay?”

“I just want to walk by myself a little.”

“Think things over?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not feeling . . . bad?”

“No. I just want to walk home myself.”

“We’ll take your stuff.” They grab the bag of old clothes and art I had with me, plus the record; wave, and take the next elevator down.

I wait for thirty seconds before hitting the button myself.

I’m not better, you know. The weight hasn’t left my head. I feel how easily I could fall back into it, lie down and not eat, waste my time and curse wasting my time, look at my homework and freak out and go and chill at Aaron’s, look at Nia and be jealous again, take the subway home and hope that it has an accident, go and get my bike and head to the Brooklyn Bridge. All of that is still there. The only thing is, it’s not an option now. It’s just . . . a possibility, like it’s a possibility that I could turn to dust in the next instant and be disseminated throughout the universe as an omniscient consciousness. It’s not a very likely possibility.

I get in the elevator. It’s big and shiny. There’s a lot to look at in the real world.

I don’t know what I’m going to do today, still. I’m probably going to go home, sort through my art, and then call everybody I know and tell them that I’m going to be switching schools and from now on they should reach me by phone instead of e-mail. But I also might go to the park—how come I never go to the park?—and throw a ball around with whatever kids are out there. Or a Frisbee. It’s a real day outside. There’s actual weather out there.

I walk through the lobby. The smells! Coffee and muffins and flowers and scented candles from the gift shop. Why does Argenon Hospital have a gift shop? I guess everybody has to have a gift shop.

I step out onto the sidewalk.

I’m a free man. Well, I’m a minor, but one quarter of your life is spent as a minor; you might as well make the best of it. I’m a free minor.

I breathe. It’s a spring day. The air is like a sheet billowing down on me in slow motion.

I haven’t cured anything, but something seismic is happening in me. I feel my body wrapped up and slapped on top of my spine. I feel the heart that beat early in the morning on Saturday and told me I didn’t want to die. I feel the lungs that have been doing their work quietly inside the hospital. I feel the hands that can make art and touch girls— think of all the took you have. I feel the feet that can let me run anywhere I want, into to the park and out of it and down to my bike to go all over Brooklyn and Manhattan too, once I convince my mom. I feel my stomach and liver and all that mushy stuff that’s in there handling food, happy to be back in use. But most of all I feel my brain, up there taking in blood and looking out on the world and noticing humor and light and smells and dogs and every other thing in the world—everything in my life is all in my brain, really, so it would be natural that when my brain was screwed up, everything in my life would be.

I feel my brain on top of my spine and I feel it shift a little bit to the left.

That’s it. It happens in my brain once the rest of my body has moved. I don’t know where my brain went. It got knocked off-kilter somewhere. It got caught up in some crap it couldn’t deal with. But now it’s back—connected to my spine and ready to take charge.

Jeez, why was I trying to kill myself?

It’s a huge thing, this Shift, just as big as I imagined. My brain doesn’t want to think anymore; all of a sudden it wants to do.

Run. Eat. Drink. Eat more. Don’t throw up. Instead, take a piss. Then take a crap. Wipe your butt. Make a phone call. Open a door. Ride your bike. Ride in a car. Ride in a subway. Talk. Talk to people. Read. Read maps. Make maps. Make art. Talk about your art. Sell your art. Take a test. Get into a school. Celebrate. Have a party. Write a thank-you note to someone. Hug your mom. Kiss your dad. Kiss your little sister. Make out with Noelle. Make out with her more. Touch her. Hold her hand. Take her out somewhere. Meet her friends. Run down a street with her. Take her on a picnic. Eat with her. See a movie with her. See a movie with Aaron. Heck, see a movie with Nia, once you’re cool with her. Get cool with more people. Drink coffee in little coffee-drinking places. Tell people your story. Volunteer. Go back to Six North. Walk in as a volunteer and say hi to everyone who waited on you as a patient. Help people. Help people like Bobby. Get people books and music that they want when they’re in there. Help people like Muqtada. Show them how to draw. Draw more. Try drawing a landscape. Try drawing a person. Try drawing a naked person. Try drawing Noelle naked. Travel. Fly. Swim. Meet. Love. Dance. Win. Smile. Laugh. Hold. Walk. Skip. Okay, it’s gay, whatever, skip.

Ski. Sled. Play basketball. Jog. Run. Run. Run. Run home. Run home and enjoy. Enjoy. Take these verbs and enjoy them. They’re yours, Craig. You deserve them because you chose them. You could have left them all behind but you chose to stay here.

So now live for real, Craig. Live. Live. Live. Live.

Live.

Ned Vizzini spent five days in adult psychiatric in Methodist Hospital, Park Slope, Brooklyn, 11/29/04-12/3/04.

Ned wrote this 12/10/04-1/6/05.

NED VIZZINIis the author of three acclaimed young adult books: It’s Kind of a Funny Story (now a major motion picture from Focus Features), Be More Chill , and Teen Angst? Nah . . . . Ned speaks to students and teachers at schools, universities, and libraries about writing and mental health. He also reviews young adult books for The New York Times . He lives in Brooklyn and Los Angeles. His work has been translated into seven languages. Learn more at www.nedvizzini.com.