Let's Play Pretend

August 8, 2008
Sweet smile,
I think you are.

Crazy is what you call me,
Oh I’m sorry,
“suffering from depression” is the official diagnosis, but I wonder, did you hear me?
Did you ever hear me?

“Yes sir, depression may be a possibility,” I tell you, and right than, you start scribbling away at your clipboard.
Success, I think you may call it.
Either that-or payday.

“Now depression can be cured, don’t you worry. But it is important for you to be completely honest. Have you ever thought of or actually harmed yourself in anyway?” You ask.
Consciously, I slide my wrists behind my back.
Harmed myself? Off course not.
I was merely creating artwork out of my pain,
Art is productive, right?
Oh man, I must be crazier than I thought.

“I may have,” I whisper, feeling small.
Five foot one and steadily shrinking,
Do you have a cure for that too?

You put your clipboard down. Oh wow, I think you may actually listen to me.
I realize you are staring right at me, and something about that makes me nervous. Really nervous,
So I shift around in my seat, avoiding your stare.

“I understand how you are feeling,” You promise.
How wonderful your promise makes me feel, like I’m not alone.
You don’t know me,
How could you?
I don’t understand myself after seventeen years!
How can you say you know me after one hour?
Than again Doc, you are smarter than me.
Smarter than I’ll ever be. See, you even got yourself a nice, fat certificate that says so.
But that would mean I’m not as complex as I thought,
Which would make me sad,
Which would mean you’re not doing your job.

“Sure you do,” I whisper instead.
I hope you believe that no sarcasm was intended, but off course, we both know you are smarter than that.
While we sit here, smiling at each other, and you fumble with the buttons of your medical-like coat, I just want to bang at the walls. Does that also mean I’m crazy?
Or maybe just a drama queen?
Could it be true?


“You are such a drama queen.
I’m sick of your trash every single day.
I’m sick of your mood swings.
Why can’t you just be normal?”
He had asked bitterly.

“I’m not trying to be moody.
It’s not even in my control anymore!
I just,
Seriously, I just wish you understood.”
I had whispered hopelessly.

“I’m tired of trying to understand you.
I’m tired of trying to love you.
I honestly think that we should stop talking.
I really can’t take it anymore,”
He had declared,
Just like that.

I had blinked,
Off course.
Taking it in, slowly.
You. Me. Us, no more.
All because I was crazy.

“A lot of people come into my office declaring they are crazy, but you have to understand the difference. Especially at your age, it’s normal to feel completely crazy, separated from the world, misunderstood.” You say, dragging me from my thoughts.

You have no idea.
Off course, I’m sure you’ve read how it feels to be crazy in your precious textbooks.
I’m sure you understand how the process works, but can scientific words help you understand the actual pain behind the diagnosis?
I think not.

Dictionary definition:
Crazy: (adj.)
Mentally unsound

My definition:
Holding the knife,
Feeling like there’s no other way to rid myself of the pain,
Feeling like maybe you will understand my condition better if I show you the blood, the scars, the struggle that you fail to see inside me.
Maybe if I show you,
You will realize,
I was never lying.
I am crazy.

I don’t feel it too much at first, the blade passing over my skin.
It feels normal, I guess.
What is normal?
Funny, how a simple knife can extract scholarly questions from within the dullest humans, and yet I still wonder,
Am I normal?
As the blood washes down the sink, I realize,
I am not.

“We may have different interpretations of crazy,” I say to you, seeing that my quiet is unnerving to you.

That makes you stop and think, but than. again, you still think you are smarter than I. No one knows more crazy than a psychologist, you think, but you don’t want to tell me that. Wouldn’t want to try harming my fragile self esteem, would you?
Instead you smile, but I know you Doctor. I know you much better than you know me.
You don’t really listen. Sure, formalities of your job require nodding your head once in a while and scribbling away on your clipboard. You might as well be writing a letter to your long lost lover and I would never knowing during our sweet little rant session. Than after we are done, you say, “why, I think you have depression!” Now that’s not too ingenious seeing as anyone that finds the need to come to a psychiatrist’s office is probably not too normal, anyway. Than you say, “I know just the thing for your case!” Out comes a sample pack of medicine, especially for me. You don’t realize that I see that you have ten thousand other exact same samples hidden in your desk, meaning you probably give everyone the same thing, without giving another thought to their actual condition.
The cure: making them so numb, they will cease to feel at all, and everyone knows you can’t feel sad if you are a robot.

“Our session is almost over, but I have the exact thing that may be able to help you feel a little better. It’ll work slowly, but I’m sure after a few weeks, you will feel like your old self again!” You declare, pulling out a sample pack of medicine.

Sweet smile,
I am not.

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