She looks at me oddly, as if she isn’t quite sure how to say what she wants to. But then she blurts out “You’re crazy.”
I am stunned to the briefest silence for the honesty of those words. But the stunned is soon overtaken by giggles that become guffaws that become deep belly laughs. She laughs with me, I guess glad she didn’t offend me with her comment. It feels good to laugh, the same way it felt good to pop zits or to feel sick as shit and finally vomit. If I let it the laughter would evolve into tears. I step down hard before that can happen. Then I really would look crazy.
I am a little sad after because I realize that it’s been six months or longer since I let go like that. Has it really? Fuck me. Not that there’s been much to laugh at. Mostly I’m relieved that someone finally said it out loud. You. Are. Crazy. Not in that fun you-so-crazy kinda way. Just a personal assessment that happens to be true. She’s not the first to intimate this, just the first to blurt it out unfiltered for which I am grateful. Others have danced around the subject by talking about counseling or meds. All of which I could discount. I mean people talk about those things all the time. I mean, I don’t need that. I’m perfectly fine. No one ever looked at me the way Dr. S. did and just laid out a true line like that.
The thing about the truth is that you can’t look away from it. It snags you and holds you tight and shaking it requires a great deal of rationalization – rationalization that I’m too tired or too lazy to fuck with. So I laugh. The look on her face when she realizes what she has said out loud just lights me up.
We both recognize the truth of what she has said. We both know the discussion to follow will include talk of meds and perhaps counseling – things I have avidly avoided for 52 years. When it comes, and it does come, I tell her I do not want to take these drugs. Followed quickly, before she can mount a rebuttal, with but I know I need to. I will not take them forever. I will not take high doses. I will not take anything that makes me stupid. I think I am laying clear boundaries, but it kinda feels like a toddler tantrum with it’s i-won’t-ness.
I give her credit for listening to my list and validating what I said. I feel like we are on the same side of the wagon again, both of us pulling for the same barn. That alone feels better.
So here I am day 1 on Zoloft, or whatever generic drug it is, sitting in the cafeteria and trying to write something in advance of class tomorrow. I deeply doubt that this will be what I share. But still, it is something to give vent to the words. Because let’s face it I’d rather explode words than explode my brains onto the wall.
And if you're reading this and find yourself judging me in any way or think you know better how I should deal with this in some homeopathic way - you are kindly invited to fuck yourself.