Schizo

I can’t feel like you can. My head hurts when I look at words. That’s why I like numbers. I don’t understand. They say I’m stupid, annoying, retarded. I can’t see like you can. I see red when you see white, I see black when you see pink. You say I’m strange, but I can’t help it. It’s something I can’t control.

I remember once when I was 9. Mommy took me to a fair. She strapped me onto a horse, but it wasn’t real, but it still moved. I felt like I was being blasted into outer space; colors, shapes and sounds blending together. It was blinding me. I closed my eyes, but that wasn’t working. I screamed, but the air turned into fire, my chest was burning. It felt as if a monster was trying to rip apart every cell in my body. I was deafened by a white noise. The ground was shaking and trembling, and then just like that, it stopped, it was calm and peaceful, the ringing stopped, the colors turned into faint, calm hues, and I felt like I was floating. That’s when it all went downhill.

The day after, Mommy took me to a psychiatrist, who had a lot of toys, which I like. But what I didn’t like was how he talked to me.

“Hi, Florence, I’m Dr. Plow. How are you today?” he asked, his tone of voice was fake, like he was trying to hide how much he hates his job, but needs the money, so he’s going to talk to me like I’m 4 years old and I don’t even understand how to perform a basic chemical equation, which I did know how to do when I was that age, just so you know.

“Why don’t we do some exercises? I’ll show up a card, and you tell me what it looks like,” he said. He showed me a card that had inkblots on them.

“I see a sunny beach day, the water is clear, the people there are happy. But they don’t know what’s going to happen. They don’t see the tsunami coming to kill the people surfing. The people tanning don’t see the serial killer or the snipers behind them.” I secretly smiled when I said this, because they don’t even know that today is their last.

Dr. Plow looked startled. I sighed. That’s how most people look at me when I talk to them. He cut our appointment short and told me to sit there while he talked to my Mommy in another room. I could hear Dr. Plow’s muffled voice saying things like “urgent help”, “very abnormal”, “unusual behavior” and symptoms will cause her to lash out violently and abusively”. I sat there for about 38 minutes, and in that time, I flipped through the inkblots, and each time I came up with a new murder; it was fun. Mommy and Dr. Plow came back in, both with worried expressions on their faces. They looked serious the whole time when they told me that I needed surgery for my brain. Dr. Plow said that there was something wrong with the right side of my brain where my clausmorphical is held, that stores my thoughts, feelings and expressions. They told me the surgery is 4 days from now.

The next 4 days were a blur. Soon, I was in a white hospital gown, and a nurse and a doctor came in. They told me their name, but I didn’t listen because I don’t care. I just stared at the needles, scalpels, razor-sharp knives and medical scissors on the tray next to my bed. They laid me down, put a mask on me, and told me to breathe in. I did. It was relaxing. I felt like I was floating. Then, I felt like I was moving. I was moving so fast and so quick, that colors blurred together in an awful mural of rainbows. I closed my eyes, but it felt like someone was pushing me under, drowning me, choking me. Fire filled my nose and lungs. I was deafened by screams and shrieks. I could feel pain, and joy, happiness and guilt, all at the same time. I wanted to ripe out every cell in my body, I was on fire; a hot, scorching, freezing fire. Then, it all stopped. Everything in my body stopped. My mind, my body, was spinning out of control, and I couldn’t hold on.