My father and I are shopping for clinics for the next time I have an episode. There’s only so much you can glean from the brochures, plus I’ve never trusted testimonials. I saw on a TV show once that they’re usually fake.
I like this one because it’s modern looking, spacious and lets in the light. It has a good mix of loons which should make going to group interesting. The clincher is a row of world clocks on a wall that are made out of bathroom scales. No doubt made by one or more of the residents, each scale has been painted to resemble the flag of the country whose time it displays. Some have had their scale converted to a clock face, while the more modern ones utilize the existing digital display. They look like the sort of thing you’d find in a funky inner city market, the type at which you could spend some real money when you were on a manic tear. I miss mania. I haven’t been truly manic since I switched medications. There’s nothing quite like the thrill of a non-maxed out credit card at the start of an episode – “let’s see if we can’t make this baby smoke.”
I look at the row of bathroom scale clocks and decide this would be a good place to veg out while on tranquilizers – I can see myself staring at these repurposed beauties for hours.
I give Dad the nod and he thanks the nurse that has been giving us the tour.
Outside we go to our separate cars – dad tolerates me driving when I’m feeling well – and decide that I will follow him to the next institution. When I get to my car I see that someone has written some sort of message on my driver’s side window. It looks like it’s been spray painted, although upon closer inspection it’s clear that it’s actually some sort of non-permanent solution that rubs off easily. Still, I am pissed off. It’s some sort of hashtag or Twitter address, but I refuse to register it out of spite.
My Dad sees what I’m staring at and goes into damage control, telling me not to get myself worked up and that it will be fine. He briskly rubs it off with his sleeve and when I assure him I’m ok he cautiously retreats to his car.
As we leave we are separated by traffic and I make the hasty decision to go back to the carpark to see if I can find the culprits of this most unwanted intrusion into my bubble. I think about how I’m going to give them a piece of my mind, but then I think of all the possible outcomes of this exchange. It might become heated and then I would spend the rest of the day ruminating and drained from the mental exhaustion of reliving the confrontation over and over again. On the other hand, simply doing nothing will probably eat me up as well.
I know the latter is the safest option, the aftermath of which will cause the least discomfort, and I congratulate myself on how well I’m progressing. Perhaps I’m getting better and won’t actually need another hospitalisation. It could happen! Maybe I’ll be 158 times lucky – maybe I’m not kidding myself.
I take another lap around the car park just in case – I can always assess the situation if I run into the little vandals (at least I hope they’re little).
Luckily I can’t see them.
So I drive in the direction of where I think my dad has driven. I type out the address in my phone, which I always keep cradled and ready on my dash in case I have a flash of genius and need to write myself a note. I never record voice memos as I consider this cheating, like a hard core base guitar player hitting the strings on the upstroke. Never mind that I might cause an accident from typing while driving.
I let Google maps show me the way. I love Google maps. I especially love challenging it by taking wrong turns and seeing if it can keep up and then wishing it would admonish me for not taking its advice.
I find Dad there waiting and I can tell that he is trying to hide his annoyance at having been kept waiting. I know that in a past life, before my diagnosis, he would have really let me have it, but nowadays I get a free pass. We go inside and have a look around. This one is pretty depressing and looks like an old jail. My dad sees my expression and I shake my head. I much prefer the last one. He will go back and make the arrangements, and I will drive home for a nap reset. One downside of the cocktail of medications I am on is that I get tired easily – well, at least as far as everybody else knows.
Upon arrival I tell my mum all about it and I can see the worry in her eyes through the veneer of support. I know she has enough on her plate without worrying about me, but I also know that there’s only so many times I can apologise to her, prompting enablement and being assured that it’s not my fault.
There was little sign when I was younger that she would be in for this hell of having a child with a mental illness. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that there were any signs that there might be something wrong, and even then I usually just seemed a little quiet, interspersed with little bouts of exuberance. I’ve always been jealous of people with OCD and Tourette’s, because they at least have obvious signs of their affliction. I felt more like a self-indulgent wanker who watched too many arty movies and had decided it was cool to be neurotic.
I still worry that this is the case – although not enough to stop watching moody films, read nihilistic authors, or listen to depressed singer-songwriters that have committed suicide (my favourite genre). How I longed to be like them and be able to earn a living exploiting my mental illness, laying it all bare for all to see.
As Confucius says: Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.
I look at Mum and assure her that this is just a precautionary measure, that I was feeling fine and will in all likelihood stay that way. She puts her hand on mine and through a thin veil of tears tells me she loves me and that I can stay with them as long as I want. The big lie in my family is that I’m some sort of tortured genius who is too fragile for the outside world and need to be holed up with my parents while I work on my novel. What a joke. Truth is I’m just plain lazy. I know that I don’t have a novel in me, just grand delusions. But it’s a good story to tell when people ask why someone my age is still living with his parents. I can allude to Daniel Johnson and his issues and prolific song writing, or Jack Kerouac who died a pathetic drunk while living with his mother – but at least he accomplished something before his descent. What have I done? My journey from home to the big ugly world and back again was short and unremarkable. Not fodder for a life’s work, not even a short story.
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 