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And after I accept this complex diagnoses, then what?
What am I supposed to do about it?
It's my brain. It's not a computer with a virus. I can't reprogram myself. It's not a rash. A cream or simple change of diet, might help a little bit, but won't clear it up. I can't take a pill to make it stop. I am currently taking about twenty and I still have to deal with . . . her.
Did I block out all the warning signs? Did I think the missing time was no more than side-effects of the accident, or my meds and other people's quirks?
Doctors tell me I was told on more than one occasion, but my short-term memory has always had a very take-it-or-leave-it quality. Most times, unpleasant things never make it into my long term memory because I don't remember long enough for it to make a difference and sometimes, won't let it because the truth is too difficult to carry around.
While I take full responsibility for what happened to Jake, I am somewhat-forgive the expression-of two minds about it. It's not my fault that my genes are infected but I still live with the guilt.
I did it. But I didn't do it.
I was Avery's marionette. She was the one, but those strings of responsibility don't completely absolve. Do they?
Is none of this my fault or is all of it mine and mine alone?
One thing I know for sure is that I'm a broken down factory reject. An ill-conceived, poorly constructed tool that can't pass inspection. A misfit toy.
I was never given a diagnosis of schizophrenia but my mother was, and her mother, too. Just like Marilyn Monroe, minus the beauty and talent.
My current psychiatrist at Canyon View, Doctor Punta, tells me that because of my head injury, I suffer migraines. Because of my family history, I suffer psychosis. And lucky me, there is no cure for the maladies of my brain. Only drugs to try to control the symptoms of delusions, mood stabilizers help too, and therapy-which hasn't worked that well, so far.
Doctor Punta says that without serious, long-term intervention I will continue to deteriorate.
I used to worry about what that would be like-to totally lose my marbles-but living these past six years without Jake has me convinced that losing any self-awareness would be a gift.
The brain heals slowly or not at all. And it can't feel pain. It only processes the signals from the body's pain receptors-like a pin prick on the tip of your finger, or a pencil to the thigh-but poke the brain matter itself and you get nothing.
It controls everything, yet it can't feel. What a fundamentally screwed up organ.
So what difference does any of this make in the long run?
Just let me fucking die already.
50
-Angel
The showers are free and I'm on my way to get cleaned up. I don't much care about washing my hair or my ass, but its part of their routine, to keep up appearances. Because if I act normal, I must be normal. Right?
As I step onto the tiled floor of the shower bay, the female guard that went ahead to check the area for any lingering inmates, appears from around a corner. "Clear." She announces and nods to me.
I'm not shackled. They only chain me around outsiders. I'm holding my stack of supplies: a towel, wash rag, shampoo, and a small bar of soap. The soap sucks. You can't use it to wash your private parts because the lye in it burns.
"Fifteen minutes." The guard waves me forward.
The shower bay is huge. It houses three wide aisles that make up six rows of showers. There are no dividing walls, no privacy of any kind. The same guard follows me in, keeping her distance as I disrobe and turn the lone knob all the way down to start the shower. The water's one temperature: a little too hot in the summer and a little too cold in the winter.
I turn, letting the warmth wash over me, nearly jumping when I find Avery standing a few feet away from the edge of the spray line. She's in the typical orange jumpsuit, but her sleeves are hitched up and the loose material around her legs are tight-rolled. The ends of her long black hair curls from the moisture as her bright green, predatory eyes burrow into me.
My focus stays on the drain at my feet.
"Why do you get to wear a white jumpsuit when I have to wear pukey orange?"
I haven't uttered a word to her since that night I fell asleep in the bathroom. Time has done nothing to curb her desire to interact, though. She's the only prisoner that can get around quarantine.
Leaning my head back, I thoroughly wet my hair and commence washing.
