A tale told between two points of view, spaced between vast oceans of time.
Within the depths of her psyche, Ava James grapples with a label that has haunted her since childhood: Crazy. Psychotic. Deluded. She's always suffered with hallucinations f...
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AVA "My name is Avery James, but I go by Ava," I introduced myself. I refrain from mentioning that no one but my family calls me Ava, as I don't have any friends to call me by that nickname.
"Hello, Ava," the room echoed in unison. The gymnasium at the elementary school was quite spacious, but the lack of furniture, except for a few fold-out chairs and a flimsy table with some granola bars and water bottles, made it feel empty. There were only fifteen of us in group therapy today; the regulars, if you will. We are the last of our bipolar or schizophrenic support group, the other twenty who were previously with us this last year having either grown bored or, acquired better medication to keep away the illusions. I wish I was as lucky.
During therapy, the first step is always to greet everyone, especially if there are new people. When I saw three new faces, I knew I had to stick to the usual introduction. All eyes were on me, but I struggled to find the words as my mouth had gone dry. Even though I've been attending these sessions for the last fourteen months, my stories are starting to sound trivial and repetitive. For instance, Conrad Jackson just claimed that his toaster was trying to marry him. In contrast, I keep dreaming of a land from Norse mythology. I can't tell whose situation is worse anymore. At least with Conrad, his toaster only pops the question on Wednesdays. My dreams, on the other hand, never seem to go away unless I take Zolpidem for dreamless sleep.
"Please continue, Ava," said Dr. Carter, giving me a reassuring smile. Although she smiled, I could sense that the forty-something doctor was only fulfilling her professional obligation. In reality, she probably would have preferred to be anywhere else on the planet than hearing her regular clients complain about the demons and bad dreams that plague their minds on a regular basis. With my head bowed, I tried to maintain my train of thought.
"I suffer from Paranoid Schizophrenia, it causes me to believe my frequent dreams are actually based upon reality," I spoke so softly that I almost wished no one would hear me. I hate admitting my problems, it's always been difficult for me. Most of the time, people look at me with pity, even my own family. However, in therapy, my fellow members are usually dealing with much heavier issues than mine, so they tend to forget about my problems by the end of the session. But every time I verbalize my issues, it becomes more real. Talking about my dreams brings them to life.
"I had the dream again last night," I said, gazing at the eagle pattern painted on the gym floor that represented the local high school football team. Paying attention to something minor momentarily allowed me to forget where I was. If not here, I could pretend I was at home, drawing or writing away in my notebook. Anywhere else, I could pretend I was anyone else. That couldn't be said in therapy. Here I was Ava James, the broken woman from Chicago, messed up since ten years old.
"I had a dream about the twin Norse brothers, Hoder and Balder. Again, they were talking about what he..." I stopped, not wanting to say his name. For me, it was saying his name specifically that made me feel I was truly insane. Giving him a name gave him life in my head and made me feel he was a real-life person even though every morning I'll forget what he looked like. His name has always frightened me. Growing up, I could hear cats speak to me, and I could dream about a place that only existed in mythology, but it was saying the young man's name that always made me feel like I was completely out of my mind.
