September Rain

by A.R. Rivera

49

  -Angel

  The thing about crazy that most people can't understand is: from my perspective, nothing has changed.

  I don't feel any different just because the doctors' diagnoses flipped. More accurately, it only confuses me. It makes me wonder why I am the only one who knows what's really happening.

  I kept company with figments of my imagination. Or did I?

  That means that I continually sought comfort in an abandoned house that I could swear belonged to Avery and her mother. I sat in their mismatched dining chairs. I ate grapes and cookies from containers on the counter and raided their refrigerator.

  Or did I?

  My mind cannot fathom the deep level of duplicity.

  Still, even after all the years I have spent in lock-up, seeing the video recordings of myself speaking as if I am the very person, the liar I loved like family, I can't change the memory of sitting at that table, conversing, and eating those cookies. Drinking and dancing with Avery on the hill, even though I've been told that I was actually alone, dancing in the dark.

  I was alone in the parking lot when Jake approached me. I went to all those Analog Controller shows by myself.

  All my memories are some form of lie. But I still feel as if I had a lifelong friend that betrayed me. That feeling doesn't change because no one else sees or hears her.

  Not one bit.

  And after I accept this complex diagnoses, then what?

  What am I supposed to do about it?

  It's my brain. It's not a computer with a virus. I can't reprogram myself. It's not a rash. A cream or simple change of diet, might help a little bit, but won't clear it up. I can't take a pill to make it stop. I am currently taking about twenty and I still have to deal with . . . her.

  Did I block out all the warning signs? Did I think the missing time was no more than side-effects of the accident, or my meds and other people's quirks?

  Doctors tell me I was told on more than one occasion, but my short-term memory has always had a very take-it-or-leave-it quality. Most times, unpleasant things never make it into my long term memory because I don't remember long enough for it to make a difference and sometimes, won't let it because the truth is too difficult to carry around.

  While I take full responsibility for what happened to Jake, I am somewhat-forgive the expression-of two minds about it. It's not my fault that my genes are infected but I still live with the guilt.

  I did it. But I didn't do it.

  I was Avery's marionette. She was the one, but those strings of responsibility don't completely absolve. Do they?

  Is none of this my fault or is all of it mine and mine alone?

  One thing I know for sure is that I'm a broken down factory reject. An ill-conceived, poorly constructed tool that can't pass inspection. A misfit toy.

  I was never given a diagnosis of schizophrenia but my mother was, and her mother, too. Just like Marilyn Monroe, minus the beauty and talent.

  My current psychiatrist at Canyon View, Doctor Punta, tells me that because of my head injury, I suffer migraines. Because of my family history, I suffer psychosis. And lucky me, there is no cure for the maladies of my brain. Only drugs to try to control the symptoms of delusions, mood stabilizers help too, and therapy-which hasn't worked that well, so far.

  Doctor Punta says that without serious, long-term intervention I will continue to deteriorate.

  I used to worry about what that would be like-to totally lose my marbles-but living these past six years without Jake has me convinced that losing any self-awareness would be a gift.

  The brain heals slowly or not at all. And it can't feel pain. It only processes the signals from the body's pain receptors-like a pin prick on the tip of your finger, or a pencil to the thigh-but poke the brain matter itself and you get nothing.

  It controls everything, yet it can't feel. What a fundamentally screwed up organ.

  So what difference does any of this make in the long run?

  Just let me fucking die already.