Mad Like Me

April 1
panic – from the Greek panikon, literally, pertaining to Pan, the god who caused contagious, groundless fear

Today was… weird. I woke up when Luna poured a glass of water on my face. That’s her idea of an April Fool’s joke. Does that sound like an April Fool’s joke to you, diary? Because to me it sounds like a psycho.

So I decided to get her back. When we went into the cafeteria for breakfast – cold French toast – I swiped a few packets of ketchup and poured them in her shampoo. I was taking a shower in the stall next to her (they have big, open bathrooms, like a school – can you believe that?) when she started screaming.

“That’s what you get!” I called. But there was no answer, only more screaming. Then sobbing. I dried myself off and wrapped a towel around my chest.
“Luna? You okay?” I peeked around into the next shower stall. Luna was huddled on the floor, eyes wide, ketchup on her hair and hands. Tears were pouring down her cheeks, and she was rocking back and forth. I could hear her breathing so hard that she was bound to hyperventilate. I crouched down next to her.

“Hey,” I whispered. “Don’t cry. It was just a joke.”
”Joke?” she screeched. “You think putting that… that stuff in my shampoo is a joke? God, I thought it was blood!”
“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I was just trying to get back at you for pouring water on me. I’m sorry.” I bit my lip. Not a good first impression. I did feel sorry for her. I recognized a panic attack when I saw one, and I knew from experience that they were terrible. I lifted Luna up and wrapped a towel around her. I led her out.

As we were headed out, though, Willow walked in. She took one look at Luna’s face and must have guessed that I was the cause because she gave me a withering stare.

While Luna was lying in bed with her head under the covers, Willow comforting her, a nurse poked her head in and told me that I had to go to Group Therapy. She didn’t seem to care about the state my roommates were in, and led me silently down the hall. I asked if I really had to go. I hate group work. In response, she opened the door and shoved me in.

There were a bunch of other patients sitting on stools arranged in a circle, each wearing the horrendous hospital uniform things – boys in blue, girls in pink. They all turned their heads as I walked in, and I stood paralyzed for a second. I took a seat next to a mousy-looking girl and a boy with a shaved head. A woman who looked like a doctor sat across from me.

“And I see we have a new friend with us today,” she chirped in a so-cheery-I-wanted-to-vomit voice. “Stand up and tell us about yourself, dear.”

I wanted to stay seated, but she had a look in her eye that totally contradicted her wide smile, a look that told me not to screw around.
“My name is Catalina,” I said in what I hoped was a confident voice. “But you can call me Cat.”
“And why are you here, Catalina?”
“Because my dumbass parents sent me here against my will?”

The woman’s smile disappeared.
“We do not make those types of jokes in Group, Catalina. Now why are you really here?”
I wanted to tell her that it wasn’t a joke, that it was nothing but the truth, but I told them why.
“I’ve got schizophrenia.”
“Does anyone else here have schizophrenia?” The boy next to me raised his hand. “Great, Tom is schizophrenic also. Maybe you can bond over that.”
Fat chance, I thought. He looked like a freak.
“Now, let’s move on. Today we are going to improve our social skills. You are to each take a worksheet and pencil and find a partner. Ask your partner the questions on the worksheet and record you answers. Any questions? Rick?” She looked at a boy with a surly expression on his face.
“What if no one wants to be your partner?”
“I doubt that anyone will have a problem with that,” said the doctor. “We are all good friends here. Now, get going.”

As the others formed groups and I took a worksheet, I felt a surge of panic. This always happened to me in school. I really hoped that I wouldn’t have to be Rick’s partner. He looked crazy.

“Cat? Do you want to work with me?”

I looked up with a start and blinked. The boy who had spoken was small, a little taller than me, , with jet-black hair. He was very cute, with catlike green eyes and a hopeful smile.
“S-sure,” I stuttered. “What’s your name?”
“Jay. It’s good to meet you.” He shook my hand. “I’m new here, too. Just got in a week ago. It’s pretty normal so far.”

“Good,” I said, stumbling over my words. “I need normal. I’ve got enough crazy in my life and balance is very important.” I nodded, to fill in the awkward second of silence that followed my words. “So let’s get started.”

So we went through the little getting-to-know-you questionnaire, which was filled with stupid questions (How many siblings do you have? As if we’re going to say, “Oh, you have a younger sister too? Let’s be best friends!” No.). I learned precious little about Jay, who seemed just as socially awkward as me, which is comforting. However, he did tell me that his hobbies are drawing and painting and maybe I could come by his room sometime and check out the drawings?

Let me tell you, Journal, my heart practically leapt out of my chest. Someone who wanted to interact with me out of their own will, rather than necessity? Le gasp! So I told him how much I like singing.

“What’s your favorite type of music?” he asked.
“Ah… um… you see… lots of kinds, actually. It matches my mood. Sometimes you’re feeling Lady GaGa and sometimes you’re feeling Green Day. I like it when I can feel the music, you know, feel it flowing through your body.” Oh God, stop! Don’t make this any worse! But I plunged on. “I mean, I’m just so happy when I’m singing. It’s like I’m on drugs. But I’m not on drugs! Well, okay, if you count psych meds as drugs which I do so I guess I am on drugs and I should probably shut up now, shouldn’t I?”

Jay stared at me for a moment, then laughed. I was instantly defensive.

“Hey, I have issues, okay? That’s why I’m here!”

It was only after I spoke did I realized how loud my voice was and that the whole room was staring at me. I sat there, looking very deer-in-the-headlights, then slowly turned around on my stool, facing away from them. They returned to their conversations amazingly quickly. They were probably used to these types of outbursts.

“I wasn’t laughing at you, Cat,” said Jay. “I was laughing because you remind me of myself. I can’t tell you how many times I got in trouble for talking in class. And even then I didn’t shut up!”

“I don’t really get in trouble much. But that’s because I never get caught. More like sneaking notes when the teacher isn’t looking, which he rarely is.”

After that the conversation went pretty smoothly. We were supposed to share our answers with the rest of the Group, but the doctor – who never told me her name – wasn’t paying attention to the time and had to shuffle us off to lunch without the sharing. Bummer, right?

Lunch is terrible. Some sort of meat, which I don’t eat, since I’m vegetarian. The only other thing was a few squishy grapes that looked past their prime. My stomach is still rumbling, and I can’t even tell what time it is, other than the fact that they haven’t called lights out yet.

Then I had to go to individual therapy. Fun fun fun. The doctor basically just introduced herself to me. Dr. Maria Gonzalez. Which you’d think that we’d have at least something to bond over, since I’m half Hispanic as well. But she’s a total ice-queen and I couldn’t help scowling the entire time. She says that she’s going to try to make my situation better but really I can’t see that happening.

Willow’s giving me the evil eye right now. Probably figures I’m writing about her. Which I wouldn’t be if she wasn’t staring. Luna’s asleep, snoring loudly, which is an improvement from her babbling. Honestly, Journal, I’m not sure how I’m going to survive with these two for roommates.

Okay, and now it’s the middle of the night. I need to write this down, since I’m not sure if I’ll make it till morning. Someone is watching me. I know it. I feel it. Luna and Willow are asleep, they both have their faces covered with blankets. So it’s not them. It feels like someone’s standing at the foot of the bed. A cold-blooded killer, perhaps. Or a reanimated corpse. Yeah, it feels like a corpse-stare. Isn’t it terrible how I’m so used to this that I can tell what’s down there?

Every time I look at the foot of the bed, there’s only blackness. The only light in the room is leaking in from the crack under the door, which leaves the entire opposite side of the room for someone to hide.

This isn’t real. I can’t last till morning.