The Boiling of the Bones

7. Psychiatrist

Dad was pacing back and forth in the kitchen, stewing over something. The minute I approached; I was in for it. I bristled as I took a deep breath bracing for the onslaught.

"Your math teacher called again today. We had a lengthy conversation about you. We're both very concerned something's wrong. Your behavior is not normal. Mr. Hoffman suggested it might be a good idea to have you speak with the school psychologist. I went ahead and made you an appointment right after school tomorrow at three-thirty. If you won't talk to me, maybe it'll be easier to have an honest conversation with him. Whatever we have to do, we're going to get to the bottom of it and figure out what's wrong with you. Your mother and I love you very much. Something in your head is broken, but you can't even see it, you don't even realize it. It's a common phenomenon for crazy people to think they're the normal ones and that everyone else has a problem. When you're screwed up in the head, it becomes impossible to be self-aware enough to step back and diagnose yourself and to be able to recognize the truth. You have to trust the people around you who love you and care about you when they tell you, you're sick and need help."

"I don't want to go. I'm not crazy."

"That's exactly what a crazy person would say."

Ironically his point made sense. Still, somehow, I knew I wasn't crazy.

"If I don't go to college, that means I'm bipolar, or I have schizophrenia?"

"Well, there are a myriad of disorders, let's leave it to the experts to make the correct diagnosis. Whatever it is, we'll get you the best doctors and the right treatment and you'll be right as rain in no time."

He thought I was crazy. Once he latched onto a hypothesis, he wasn't gonna let it go. He had to see it through and I'd have to go along the easy way or the hard way. I was exhausted with all the fighting. I gave up.

"Alright, I'll meet with the psychologist."

"Great, you're already on the first step to recovery. Look at you go, sport."

He said it in a patronizing, condescending manner, the way you'd speak to a dog or a toddler. Thankfully, the confrontation was over. I grabbed a Dr. Pepper and made a roast beef and pastrami sandwich with Swiss cheese and basil pesto, then took the food to my room. I sat by the window and starred outside as I ate.

Squirrels were scurrying around making preparations for winter. I loved watching them run up and down the tree trunks. Fun fact, they are the only mammals that can climb down a tree headfirst. They have the ability to rotate their claws one hundred eighty degrees so even going down, their claws are facing upward.

I couldn't believe my parents had stooped so low they were gaslighting me to get what they wanted. But as I considered everything, I began to wonder if maybe they weren't right. It's true I wasn't normal. Maybe there was something wrong with me. I momentarily entertained the possibility.

My friends were nice about it but couldn't understand why I wouldn't want to go to college, get married and settle into a great career. I liked dating, and felt my sexuality was normal, but not so much for the rest of it.

I didn't know what was normal. I felt the world was messed up, not me-which played right into my father's claim. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was hopelessly delusional, seeing and creating an alternate reality in my mind that didn't actually exist. Or, perhaps I was naïve, or suffered from reduced mental capacities not capable of the level of understanding others had.

How would you know? Was there a way to test reality? What signs would you look for? I made a mental note to conduct an informal metaphysical experiment of my sanity by paying closer attention to the way people treated me--to step outside of myself for a self-examination through an objective epistemological lens.