I Don't Want to Be Crazy Read Online Free PDF Page A

craziness is the center of attention.
They all agree that it is the cake, that I really am okay,
but the voice in my head is louder than theirs
and I leave for Health Services
and Rebecca comes with me.
    Coming home for winter break is like regression.
I feel like that high school girl forced to wear plaid,
forced in the door by midnight.
I feel like I cannot speak.
My voice is muffled
and the more I am stifled,
the more I cry like a child.
    Little yellow pills
for the one who cannot control her adrenaline, her fear.
Little yellow pills
for a child who cannot deal with being an adult.
    Little yellow pills
to make me forget.
    I take the pills to protect myself,
but are they necessary?
Protection does not come in a bottle.
It is in me,
in my actions,
in my thoughts.
I am the best medicine for myself.
    I am the cure
and the disease.
    A few days after I get home
my mother wants to talk,
wants to know what a panic attack feels like,
wants to know if it hurts.
    When I was sixteen my parents found my stash
and my mother admitted to smoking pot three times.
Now I ask her if she ever had a bad high, freaked out,
because it feels a lot like that.
She says no.
    I ask her to think of a time when she was really scared.
She says once she thought she was being followed.
I tell her to remember how it felt—
the terror, the sweat, the heart racing—
to feel it now, in the living room
with the Persian rugs and antiques.
    She doesn’t understand.
Why would she feel it now,
in her own house, where she is safe?
    I tell her
that’s a panic attack.
    Nate’s basement has wood paneling
and smells like mildew.
The couches are covered with faded floral
blankets and this time when we kiss no one is watching.
    For every part of me there is a part of him to match.
His body fits with
mine so quietly, so comfortably.
    Later, I am searching
for my underwear,
my socks, my belt,
clawing the carpet for the sticks that held my hair up,
searching for the bits to put myself back together.
My rings are on the table, my shoes
are on the opposite side of the room.
This fit scares me
into silence.
    Isn’t the point of going away to college
to learn, to become an adult, to be independent?
But when I come home and my parents rein me in
and make sure they know where I am at all times
they take all that away from me.
Don’t they trust me?
Do they still think I need to hold their hands?
They’ll never let me go.
They’ll always be there
to catch me,
to grab me,
to pull me from all sides,
to push me in the direction of their choice.
What about my choice?
    What about the fact that I can make it on my own?
Can’t they see that I’m okay
and the only disasters happened
when I was living with them?
    Claire and I watch our camp video
and when I look at my face
and my eyes, I feel bad
because I know what’s in store for me in a few years.
I study my movements.
I look for a precursor to my anxiety.
I am not as outgoing as Claire, but no one is.
When the camera is on me
I constantly flip my long brown hair
and never stay in frame very long.
But I look normal.
I look fourteen and as awkward as everyone else.
    I think about other things
that could explain what’s happened to me.
When I was little I used to walk into mirrors.
I was also scared of the dark
and bridges and elevators.
    When I was about thirteen
I was so nervous before flying
that I wrote a will on pale blue stationery
the night before a family vacation.
I addressed separate notes to all my friends and family
and doled out my journals, my jewelry,
and the money in my miniature safe.
I remember crying as I wrote.
I couldn’t stop imagining
our plane crashing into the ocean.
    I hid the notes in a book on my shelf.
I still can’t remember which book they’re in
and I wonder what my parents will think
if they ever find them.
    Some days I think of nothing but Nate
and his tenderness, his voice,
and I wonder why he doesn’t call
and if we were together out of convenience
because we each needed someone,