Chapter 6 - I’m Pretty Sure I AM Crazy - Why Won’t They Believe Me?
I roll to my left side and smile at Justin who is looking at me with those adorable sapphire blue eyes. Every single time I see him I'm amazed at this boy's beauty. How does he do that? I lean forward to kiss those popsicle pink lips, still slightly swollen from all the fun he had last night. His mouth tastes so sweet.
"Good morning, Sunshine," I say, a small smile on my own lips. "Can you make it to school today on your own? I've got somewhere I've got to go."
"Sure, Brian," the blond twink responds, agreeably. "I planned to take the bus home anyway."
"Good. Take your time. The shower is through there," I gesture to the bathroom door. "And, please be safe."
"Huh?" came the anticipated Twinkie reply.
"You. Be safe. Don't get hurt, you know," I start to explain, but stop myself, knowing where this will probably lead and not wanting to go there. I have to add one more thing though, "Hey, Sunshine, do me one favor, please. Stay far away from Chris Hobbs."
He's still staring at me from the bed with that weirded out expression as I get out of bed, pull on a pair of jeans that I find lying on the floor next to the bed and a long-sleeved cotton tee. I bend over and leave one more kiss on those delectable sweet lips, I stroke his soft, slightly stubbled cheek with one finger and then I pull away reluctantly, heading for the loft door.
“Goodbye, Sunshine,” I whisper as I slide the door closed behind me.
Twenty minutes later I’m standing at the admissions desk at Allegheny General Hospital trying to explain to an obtuse twenty year old why I’m insane and need to be admitted to the hospital’s psych ward. Strangely enough, apparently you can’t just show up at the hospital, declare you are insane and get help.
It seems that people who think they are insane are often just crazy and therefore not really in need of medical help? This girl keeps trying to explain to me over and over again that if I KNOW I’m insane, then I couldn’t possibly be crazy enough to be here. I feel like I’m living in that old WWII novel - ‘Catch 22’. If you are sane enough to know you’re crazy then you’re not insane enough for help - that appears to be the bottom line here. But, the girl at least decides to cover her butt enough to send me down to the ER and request a psych eval for me. I’m willing to be compliant - at least for now - so I follow directions and head for the ER.
I’m met at the ER by an elderly man dressed in a white lab coat with a pair of brown polyester slacks, a blue button down shirt and a striped brown and yellow rayon tie underneath. This guy looks like he’s based his hairstyle on one of Einstein’s worse hair-days, one where using a comb was only optional. Between the wild graying hair and the ragged untrimmed goatee, I’m not sure if this guy is a psychiatrist or a patient. But who am I to comment - I’m the one trying to get myself committed here so I shouldn’t be so judgmental.
‘Son-of-Freud’ here takes me into a small cubicle area near the rear of the ER and seats me in a chair while talking to me with soothing quiet words. He opens up a file folder and pulls a pen out of his pocket and starts asking me a series of questions - all of which are incredibly personal and very annoying. I’m still trying to be cooperative here, though, so I try to rein in my temper and let Freud ask me whatever he thinks is necessary.
“So, Mr. Kinney,” he finally asks after he’s gone through his checklist and closed his folder. “What makes you think you need medical attention for your mental health?”
“I’m definitely going crazy.” I state emphatically.
“I’m not sure I see that,” Freud says, still in that placating tone of voice, trying not to anger the potentially crazy man. “You were able to answer all of my questions about current events. Your cognitive abilities seem intact - you are able to perform simple math and logic calculations as well as complete abstract thought processes. I see no evidence of dementia or memory loss. I do feel that you are emotionally unstable, but that would seem to be more due to depression, which can be treated without having you admitted to the hospital. So, exactly why do you think you need to be here?”
“Because I’m living the same year over and over again and I can’t get it right, somehow.” I’m telling him this with a completely straight face but he doesn’t even blink. “No matter what I do I keep waking up in the same bed with the same man and I can’t stop him from getting hurt. I’ve tried to stay away from him, I’ve tried stalking him, I’ve even told him I love him but it didn’t work. I even tried to kill myself twice, but instead of dying I just wake up back in that bed again with Justin and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”
“That’s very interesting. You say you’ve tried to kill yourself?” Freud’s file folder is open again and his pen is making rapid notations now, apparently the suicide thing is important. “Tell me about these suicide attempts, Mr. Kinney.”
“The first time I tried scarfing - you know erotic auto-asphyxiation? I did get a great orgasm out of it but then I woke up the next morning in bed just like usual with Justin there again. The next time, I decided not to waste time with fancy methods and just threw myself in front of the #22 bus on Liberty Avenue. That didn’t work either. I’m not going to do this again though. I can’t. It hurts too much to know that Justin is going to get hurt and possibly killed again by that stupid homophobic prick, Chris Hobbs, and there isn’t anything I can do about it. So, I want you to commit me and keep me here until I’m cured and I stop reliving this horrible year.”
Freud is ‘hmming’ at me as I go through this recitation. He seems very fixated on the suicide attempts and not at all curious about my time/space perception issues. “So, Mr. Kinney, would you say that you are still suicidal right now?” he asks.
“No. Not particularly. I mean, I already tried that - twice - and it didn’t work, so why would I try it again?” I say to him honestly. “What I really want is to have this fucking year stop repeating on me. Can’t I just skip forward to where I was before? The night after Justin broke up with me? I wouldn’t mind re-doing that night again - I have an actual shot at getting that night right this time around so that wouldn’t be such a bad night to re-live. I mean, all I have to do is tell Justin I love him and ask him to stay - if I do that then he will be happy and we can just go back to our same old life, right. I can do that now, I’m sure of it. After seeing him get killed that one time, I know I can tell him the truth - that I do love him, and that I want him to stay with me. So, that’s what I want, Doc. I just want to skip forward for four years and not do this year over again.”
“I see,” Freud says again, looking over his notes as he chews on a longish corner of his mustache. After several minutes, he finally looks up at me and begins his ‘clinical’ diagnosis. ”Mr. Kinney, I AM concerned that you are clinically depressed and struggling desperately with this relationship you have with . . . what was his name? Ah, yes, Justin. Your boyfriend I take it? It sounds like the two of you have some serious issues to work through. Many of my patients feel that they are stuck in a rut of some type, making the same mistakes over and over again and that they are unable to make valid choices that will help them get out of the cycle of their past mistakes. That is a fairly common symptom that is often associated with depression. Your depression would also explain your prior suicide attempts. And, I would be happy to help you work through those feelings. But, be that as it may, I feel it would be more than adequate to treat you on an outpatient basis for these issues. You have told me that you aren’t currently suicidal and you clearly aren’t suffering from acute dementia. While you do have some psychiatric issues, you don’t really need to be admitted for inpatient care, Mr. Kinney.”
“But, I WANT to be admitted. I’m sure that I’m crazy.” I try again to explain. “I’m fucking living through the same year over and over again. I can’t be sane - this doesn’t happen to normal, sane people.”
“I’m afraid that hospital regulations will not let me admit you as a patient under these circumstances, Mr. Kinney.” Freud repeats, his ‘sympathetic’ look firmly in place. “If you want to set up an appointment to come in and meet with myself or one of our other therapists, though, we would be happy to work through some of these issues with you.”
“You don’t understand,” I’m seething now, trying not to bite Freud’s head off at his deliberate failure to listen to what I’m saying. “I’m RE-LIVING the year. I’m not just imagining that I’m reliving it. I’m not just stuck in some rut and making the same mistakes over and over again. I’m actually living the same year again and again, you moron. I’m insane. Don’t you get it?”
“Mr. Kinney. I know it sometimes feels like we are doing the same things over again and again and letting ourselves fall into the same mistakes, but I assure you that what you feel is normal under the circumstances. That is one of the primary symptoms of depression. It doesn’t mean that you’re ‘insane’,” Freud is doing his 'calm the irrational patient' thing again. “This is what I propose, Mr. Kinney. I’m going to write you a prescription for an anti-anxiety medication that I think will help with the depression and also a sleep aid since you mentioned that you haven’t been sleeping well lately. Then, we can make an appointment for you to meet with one of our therapists the beginning of next week. After he or she has had a chance to meet with you and do a full evaluation of your case, then I’m sure you and your therapist can work out a plan of action that will satisfy your concerns about what you feel is happening to you.”
Fuck. No. No no no nonononono! Please don’t make me do this again. I don’t want to have to live this year again. Why won’t Freud listen to me - I mean REALLY listen to me without all the psychobabble? I’m finally admitting that I AM CRAZY and no one will believe me. I’m voluntarily seeking out psychological help here - that should prove to them that I’m crazy since Brian Fucking Kinney would never do this unless he was completely over-the-top-bonkers. How the fuck crazy do you have to be for them to admit you are insane enough to get admitted to a hospital? Are they trying to tell me I’m just slightly crazy but not truly nutso enough? I’m seeing things that are impossible here, fellas - that should count as crazy! Why the hell won’t anyone listen and have me committed?
Freud is looking at me with those ‘I really care about you’ eyes again - fucking hypocrite - trying to gauge my cooperation. Shithead! He’s the one that obviously needs a psychiatrist with that insane hairdo. Fine, though. Whatever. I can tell that I’m not going to get any help here.
“Just give me the ‘script, doc. I’ll make the appointment with my own doc if you won’t let them admit me,” I offer in compromise, not explaining to him that I don’t really have a doctor of my own and have no intention of following up with anyone.
So now I’m sitting here back in my loft staring at the bag full of medication that Freud prescribed for me. Fucking idiot - depression! Like that explains what’s happening to me for the past six years or so. Yeah right! Fuck you, Freud.
Well, the good news is that I’m not, officially, crazy. I’m just depressed. But, not depressed enough to be crazy, especially since I’m not currently suicidal anymore. Oh goody! So, that means if I take all these little blue sleeping aid pills, it’s not because I’m crazy and it has nothing to do with the fact that I can’t get off this fucking roller coaster ride of a year. It’s just that I’m depressed. Great one, doc. I definitely plan to use that one in the future - any time I drink too much or take too many drugs, it’s not going to be because I’m an asshole with no self control or because that’s the only way I know to manage my pain, as Mikey likes to put it, it’s because I’m ‘clinically depressed’. Great! That’s all I fucking need - I’d rather be considered crazy than to have all the fags on the Avenue talking about how ‘depressed’ I am.
Fuck you, Freud. I guess I was wrong about not being suicidal anymore. You’ve talked me into it. So, lets see, what if I take about a dozen of these little blue ones and add a couple of the weird white ones and add three or four tabs of E with some trail mix. Better wash it all down with a bottle of Beam. How’s that for you for depressed, Freud?
“Cheers! Here’s to Depression. A lovely alternative to being Crazy!” I toast to the wise doctor who knows so much about crazy that he wouldn’t even listen to me, as I down my lovely and colorful pile of pills along with a about a half a bottle of whiskey.
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<5.>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
“Ah. The lovely sound of the remarkable, time-travelling alarm clock,” I spout at the sound of the familiar *Beep, Beep*.
Sitting up I immediately lean over to kiss the luscious red licorice lips of my Justin, who’s just starting to stir in response to the alarm clock himself. Okay, I think - waking up to a randy, seventeen year-old Justin every morning isn’t so bad - if only I didn’t have to live through the rest of the year every time as well. Hmm. Let’s see what I can do about that.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” I say to rouse him further, adding a couple of extra kisses for good measure. “I know that no one is willing to believe me, but I feel even crazier than usual today. I’m tired of being crazy sad, though. Let’s be crazy happy instead. So tell me, what’s the craziest, happiest place you know of?”
“That’s easy, Brian. Kennywood!” Justin announces as he sits up in the bed next to me, giggling softly.
“Ah, yes, the infamous Kennywood. Pittsburgh’s answer to the amusement park.” I begin to reminisce. “Of course, it wasn’t very amusing the one time I went there - Jack found out I skipped school to spend the day at the park and beat the shit out of me for it - the fact that I stole the money for the admissions ticket price out of his wallet while he was lying there passed out probably didn’t help matters much. But, prior to the beating, I remember it being fun enough.”
Woops - shouldn’t have mentioned Jack. Justin’s face just dropped about a foot and a half and that’s not part of the crazy fun agenda for the day. Note to self - no more mention of Jack or beatings for the rest of the day.
“Well, Sunshine,” I prod him out of bed with a finger to his ticklish ribcage. “Let’s get going. All that fun isn’t going to happen on it’s own. Get into the shower with you. Come on. Kennywood awaits!”
I goose his perfect bubble butt rear as Justin clambers over me to get out of bed. His silly little boy giggle lights up the room and his face is the perfect sunshine smile I love. This is much better than sad, morose crazy, I think. I pull him back before he can get all the way away from me though and toss my cell phone to him.
“Call a friend if you want to have someone join us for the day,” I offer, careful not to name names and set his stalker radar off again, but knowing that the only person he’d think of calling is Daphne anyway.
“Brian, what about school?” he asks, my good little straight A student at heart.
“Fuck school - for one day at least,” I give my best advice. “You can miss one day, Sunshine. As brilliant as you are it won’t kill your GPA. Besides, I can call and pretend to be your dad and excuse you because of your terrible, probably contagious, illness - based on your terrible symptoms, it could be whooping cough, or cholera or even ebola. The school nurse wouldn’t want you there with such a dreaded illness anyway, now would she.”
“Okay, but you’ll have to call for Daphne, my friend, too. Her parents are even more strict about school shit than mine are.” Justin grins at me, already dialing Daphne’s number.
While the boy is on the phone with his fag hag, I use the landline to invite along my best buddy, Michael. “Hey, Mikey! We’re playing hooky today! Get your ass over here and come dressed for fun!” I announce to the barely awake Mr. Novotny as he mumbles incoherently into the phone. “My little blond boy toy wants to go to Kennywood for the day so you’re going to come with us and we’re going to have fun all day. You better call into work sick and then get over here with the Jeep. Oh and send Emmett out to watch the car while you’re getting ready so those juvie kids from down the block don’t vandalize it while you’re dawdling along.”
"Brian? What the fuck are you talking about?” is Michael’s less than brilliant response, although I have to give him a break seeing as I just woke him up.
“You, me, Justin and his fag hag. Kennywood. Now. Get dressed. Make sure Emmett guards the Jeep. Let’s go, Mikey. Daylight’s a wasting and I need to have crazy happy fun today!” I order then hang up the phone as Michael starts to protest, as expected.
Three hours later I’m sitting strapped into some god awful mechanical contraption called ‘The Black Widow’ wondering what exactly I’m doing here at 10:00 am on a random Friday with Justin strapped into the seat next to me, Daphne on his far side and Mikey on my left. Oh shit! This is one fucking hell of a ride, is the only coherent thought I have as the damn contraption starts spinning me around and around and I giggle along with the teens to my right.
The Black Widow - Youtube Video Brian's View from the Black Widow