We have school assemblies once in a while. An author visit, or a fire safety demonstration, or a talent show. On Monday morning we had an anti-bullying presentation, and Ms. Hugger decided we could attend.
I always had to sit on a bench with the teachers, even though the other kids were cross-legged on the floor. They organize the grades in seated lines from kindergarten at the front to eighth grade at the back. The whole school was there, so there wasn’t much room. I was close to the eighth graders, and I was being careful not to make eye contact with anything but my shoes.
The presentation seemed nice. It was about helping each other and combatting bullying with teamwork. But two girls were not listening. They were looking at me and whispering.
Ms. Hugger was half watching and half texting, so she didn’t notice. I tried to do the same. But I could hear them and feel them looking. I started to feel fidgety and hot, and that always means my brain is about to pick a Game. She spins a big wheel and we both wait to see what it will be, except she always sees it first and gets to tell me. Today it was the Danger Game.
Now I could hear the girls very clearly.
“What a freak,” one girl said.
She was nearly shouting, but no one else heard her.
“Completely crazy. She shouldn’t be here.”
“She could hurt someone,” the other girl agreed.
They were smiling at me like two hyenas.
“We should do something about it,” one girl said.
It’s just a Game, I told myself. It’s not real.
“I agree,” said the other. Suddenly she had a knife or at least a flash of light on something metal, and then she was standing up. “There is no time like the present.”
My brain won the Danger Game. I stood up and burst through the gym doors and heard laughing. I kept running all the way to the Crazy Box. Then I locked the door and breathed.
Ms. Hugger appeared at the glass. I let her in and she gave me a hug.
“Was I right this time?” I whispered.
“No, Sara,” she said quietly. “You are never going to be right. It’s not real.”
“I saw a knife.”
“You didn’t.”
“They wanted to kill me.”
“They don’t.”
I breathed again and sat down at my desk. We were both quiet for a little while.
“Do you ever lie to me, Ms. Hugger?” I asked.
“No.”
“Never?”
“I would not lie. But that doesn’t mean I can answer every question.”
I wanted to believe her, but it was time for a test.
“Have I gotten better this year? Have I made any progress?”
Her eyes moved. “We have accomplished a lot—”
“Not my academics. Me. My brain. Have I gotten any closer to going back to normal classes?”
“Sara …”
“Tell me.”
“No,” she said finally. “I’m still not sure you’re ready for that.”
I nodded and put my head down. Ms. Hugger was telling the truth, and I knew that was real and I could relax. The Game was over. I was very tired, and Ms. Hugger let me fall asleep.
As usual, on Tuesday night Dr. Ring knew all about my freak-out. I sat facing him on the corduroy couch and waited as he got his notes in order and turned to me, pen at the ready.
“So, Ms. Hugger tells me we had a round of your ‘Danger Game.’ ”
I was really starting to regret telling them about the Games.
“Maybe,” I admitted.
“Which, as we know, is a—”
“Schizophrenic episode.” I was staring at my hands in my lap. “My name is better.”
“You know I never approved of the names.”
“You may have mentioned that once or twice.”
“Why don’t I approve of them, again?”
I sighed and recited his usual speech.
“Because they individualize my problems, as if I am the only person who has them, when, in fact, they are very common issues with scientific names and established treatments.”
He put the pen down. “And you thought those girls wanted to hurt you?”
“I … thought I heard something.”
“And the first step should be?”
I paused. “To assess likelihood. If that fails, talk to Ms. Hugger.”
“And what did you do?”
I paused again. “Ran back to the Crazy Box.”
Dr. Ring stood up. That was unusual. He walked over to the bookshelf and began to pace in front of it, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. He did that for nearly a minute in silence.
“Do you remember what you said to me the first time we met?” he asked finally.
That had been a few years ago, when my parents decided to try a new doctor.
“No.”
“You said, ‘Please make me better.’ And I told you what I always do. That you are who you are. That you can’t set unrealistic expectations. That I can’t turn you into someone you are not. That instead we must work toward becoming the best version of ourselves.”
I closed my eyes. I did remember that. It was when I started my rules. I decided that if no one else could help me, I would have to do it myself. That I would become Normal Sara.
“I remember,” I said.
“You are fighting me at every step. If I tell you to walk, you run. Whisper, you shout. Sometimes it seems you are doing the exact opposite of what I prescribe. And I know why.”
“Because you can’t help me.”
“No,” he said. “It’s because you blame yourself. Despite everything you know.”
I felt a little stirring of anger. Sometimes it flares up, like someone blew on some coals. Not often. Dr. Ring said I had volatile emotions. Part of the bipolar disorder.
But I didn’t get angry much. It never ended well.
“Who do you want me to blame? God? I tried that, and He didn’t do anything either.”
“There is no one to blame. It could be genetics. Could be luck. It doesn’t matter.”
I stood up, hands balled at my sides, trembling all over. “Of course it matters!”
He turned to face me. “You need to stop trying to find someone to blame. You need to work on managing your issues—”
“I want to be better!” I screamed. I hadn’t shouted in here in months. But all of my control was slipping away now. “I don’t want this anymore! I don’t want a brain that is trying to hurt me. I am always afraid of what my brain will say to me. Always. And nobody can help me!”
The last part spilled out with tears that I didn’t even know were coming.
“Of course they can,” Dr. Ring said calmly. “But it will be much easier for people to help if you let them.”
And then I was crying. I wanted to believe it was that easy. But all these years, and I wasn’t getting better. I was still in the Crazy Box. I was still Psycho Sara. He waited for me to cry myself out. Soon I was back on the couch, quiet again.
“So what do you want me to do, exactly?” I asked finally, eyes on the floor.
“I want you to start liking Sara Malvern.”
I snorted. “Why would I possibly like myself? I’m a total nut.”
“That’s something I want to help you find out,” he said. “Until you do that, it’s not going to get better.”
“I don’t,” I said finally. “I’m sorry. I don’t like myself. Not like this. I won’t. Ever.”
He nodded. “Then we had better find a reason to start.”