I Don't Want to Be Crazy Page 2

  like food and sweat and steam.

  I’m actually glad we have to wear a baseball cap.

  At least I can pull it down over my eyes.

  Jason’s photo is tacked

  to the bulletin board above my desk.

  It’s in a corner almost completely

  covered by bits of paper with phone numbers,

  postcards from friends, and other junk.

  I’m sure nobody would even notice him

  in all that mess, but he’s there.

  I miss him.

  I hear myself say that

  and I know it’s ridiculous.

  How could I miss someone who was never there?

  Especially since I just hooked up with Adam,

  but I do.

  I miss things about Jason that used to drive me crazy,

  like how he never gets angry.

  I wish I could be calm all the time,

  never neurotic, never obsessive.

  I miss how things were familiar with him,

  even if it was the familiar feeling

  of being let down.

  Living with Sarah the first few weeks

  is like an extended sleepover party.

  We put on mud masks,

  sit around, smoke cigarettes, get high,

  and listen to the Violent Femmes.

  Our dorm room isn’t big,

  but at least we’re not in a triple or a quad.

  Sarah and I have been moving around our furniture

  to get the room just right.

  Now our beds are on opposite sides of the room

  and there is some sense of privacy.

  The best part of our room is the window seat.

  Every room on campus has one,

  but ours looks out into the woods.

  The leaves have already started to change color.

  I can be anything I want here.

  No one has to know

  that I wasn’t popular in high school,

  that I’ve never stayed out all night,

  that I’m a virgin,

  that everything I see reminds me of Jason.

  I am born again here.

  I’m taking art classes, writing classes, dance classes—

  all the things there was no room for before.

  I reread Anaïs Nin’s journals

  and write in my own

  sitting underneath this one tree on the green

  with a curved trunk that perfectly fits my back.

  I am curled up in my window seat

  watching some kids playing Frisbee

  when my parents call.

  They say my sister isn’t going back

  for her junior year of college.

  They say she needs to take some time off

  and will be moving home to figure things out.

  I imagine her back in our house, with our parents,

  and it makes me feel like I am the older sister.

  Then they ask how classes are,

  how bad working in the dining hall really is.

  They want to know if I’ve made any nice friends,

  or met any nice boys,

  and before we get off the phone

  they say, “It’s all up to you.

  You’re the one in school now.”

  I think it’s supposed to be a joke,

  but it’s really not funny.

  Meeting new people

  feels like dating.

  I try to find someone I like,

  casually start a conversation,

  and hope we have things in common.

  Only sometimes when I talk to people

  I have no idea what they’re saying.

  I only hear my voice in my head

  as their lips move, telling me

  if they looked hard enough

  they would see fear behind my eyes.

  Things move fast here.

  Adam’s already ended things,

  saying, “This is too much, too soon.”

  It was just like when Jason and I broke up

  for the first time, a few weeks before my prom.

  As he told me that he couldn’t deal with me

  trying to deal with him,

  I tuned him out, focused on some leaves

  blowing back and forth.

  I did it again in Adam’s room,

  stared at his leopard-print sheets

  and thought to myself,

  my heart can’t take this again.

  The weather has turned

  and Sarah and I put on jackets

  before we leave for an off-campus party.

  It’s dark—

  not like New York City dark,

  but pitch-black-middle-of-nowhere dark.

  It feels like when Claire and I snuck out at camp,

  only this time we aren’t going to get caught

  and I can smell dry leaves in the air

  instead of earthy humidity.

  We cut through the trees and someone’s backyard

  and end up on a gravel road.

  I can see the house in the distance,

  smell the smoke from the bonfire,

  and hear the hum of people and music.

  It feels weird being here,

  watching people talk—

  people who must know each other.

  I try to look comfortable.

  I try to look relaxed.

  I try to drink the beer,

  but I can’t stand still.

  Sarah and I walk around

  and meet a pair of freshmen, Brian and Steve.

  I start talking to Brian,

  manage to get down my beer, fill my cup again,

  and lose Sarah.

  Brian walks me back to my room

  and before I know it, we are kissing

  and my top is off.

  It feels good to kiss him,

  to have his weight on top of me.

  We are only kissing a few minutes

  before he goes to unbutton my jeans.

  I pull his hand back

  and he lets it get tangled in my hair.

  It doesn’t take long

  before he is back at my pants.

  I move his hand, but he tries again.

  I break away and just stare at him.

  Is he stupid?

  When I tell him to go

  he gives me this wet-eyed-puppy look,

  gets out of bed, picks up his sweatshirt,

  and leaves.

  I move through friends quickly.

  I rarely see Josh anymore

  and things with Sarah aren’t as easy

  as I thought they would be.

  We barely talk now.

  We are all looking for someone

  to stay with,

  someone to be permanent.

  The possibilities are overwhelming,

  they make me restless.

  There were forty kids in my graduating class

  and here there are more than seven hundred.

  I hang out inseparably with someone

  for a few days.

  We devour each other,

  tell all our stories,

  and then move on.

  Things here are not stable.

  I think I might be turning into a slut.

  I stay out late,

  don’t tell anyone where I’m going

  or where I’ve been.

  It’s barely been two months

  and I’ve hooked up with four guys:

  Adam;

  Brian;

  Tim, who kissed like a frog;

  Bob, who didn’t believe I was a virgin.

  I’m not used to there being so many guys around,

  so many parties, so many people who don’t know me.

  The not-so-funny part about Adam

  is that now he’s got a girlfriend

  only a few weeks after telling me

  he didn’t want a relationship.

  She
’s gorgeous, with blond hair,

  green eyes, big tits.

  At first I thought

  he was a lying shit.

  But now I see

  he just didn’t want

  a relationship with me.

  This strange thing happens

  when I am lying in bed with a guy.

  I cannot breathe.

  My breaths are either too deep

  or too shallow.

  Too slow or too quick.

  Feeling the guy’s chest rise against

  my back confuses my own rhythms.

  I feel like I have to match his

  and I can never seem to catch up.

  I just lie there, waiting

  for our breaths to sync

  or to be able to pull myself away

  enough to breathe on my own,

  uninfluenced.

  It’s crazy, but I miss Jason.

  With him there were never any surprises.

  I could always count on him letting me down.

  I shut my eyes

  and I see Jason.

  I see his skin.

  I can feel him kissing me.

  I should take down his picture.

  It shouldn’t even be here.

  I don’t understand what’s happening.

  I am sitting in Writing Seminar

  and it feels like my hands are shaking,

  like I’ve got a tremor.

  I try hard to focus, stare at my hands,

  but I can’t tell whether or not they’re shaking.

  I don’t understand why I can’t tell.

  I should be able to tell

  if my own hands are shaking.

  My eyesight can’t be trusted.

  I’d try sitting on my hands,

  but that would make people stare,

  if they haven’t already noticed the shaking.

  I try clasping my hands together,

  but that’s no good, either.

  I can see myself with my hands together,

  banging them up and down on the desk

  like a piston, like a cartoon sledgehammer.

  I see myself doing it,

  but I know I’m not.

  I can’t be.

  If I were, people would be staring.

  When class is over,

  I am tired and sweaty.

  I didn’t see anyone looking at me,

  so I must not have done anything crazy.

  Maybe I’m getting sick

  or maybe I’m finally addicted to cigarettes.

  This feeling, the sweating, the shaking—

  it must be a nicotine fit.

  I go outside with the other smokers,

  suck down a few cigarettes before class,

  hoping it will make me feel better,

  hoping it will calm my nerves.

  A friend of Sarah’s from psych class

  comes by to pick her up for a party.

  Her name is Rebecca.

  When I introduce myself

  she says that we’ve met before—

  that she remembers my eyes.

  I feel kind of stupid

  for not remembering her,

  but she doesn’t seem to care

  and invites me to go with them to the party.

  When we get there,

  Rebecca and Sarah start dancing.

  I lean on one of the speakers instead,

  let the bass crawl over my back like fingers

  and watch kids in big pants

  dance in the light and smoke.

  Rebecca grabs my hand

  and pulls me onto the dance floor.

  I can’t stop watching the people around me—

  watching what they do,

  watching to see if they are watching me

  dancing like an idiot.

  Rebecca is dancing with her eyes shut

  and she is smiling.

  She doesn’t care what anyone thinks

  and it is amazing.

  Rebecca and her friends

  have been together since the first week.

  There’s her roommate Rachel,

  and Amanda, Tara, and Jennifer.

  We all hang out in Rebecca’s room and they joke about

  how they stopped hanging out with this crazy girl Monica

  at the same time they started hanging out with me—

  like I took her spot.

  Being with them is like walking in

  after a play has already started.

  You try to slip in quietly and find your seat,

  but people turn around, give you dirty looks,

  and whisper to their neighbors

  about how rude you are.

  A few months ago,

  leaving for college seemed glamorous,

  but now it’s hard to believe

  that this little dorm room,

  with its scratchy sheets

  and a lock that sticks,

  is home.

  It’s hard to accept

  that this is my new life,

  that these are my new friends.

  I am one in many here.

  There are dozens here as good as me,

  even more who are smarter,

  funnier, prettier.

  And it scares me

  because before I stuck out

  and now I blend in

  like a pair of khakis

  and a baseball cap

  at a keg party.

  I can’t sit still in class.

  I can’t hear what the teacher is saying.

  All I can hear is my voice in my head

  telling me that things are not right—

  that I am not right.

  I am trapped in this classroom.

  It feels like something

  is trying to push its way out of me,

  out of my chest.

  I feel like everyone can see it bubbling up,

  like they’re waiting for me to burst,

  to boil over.

  I have to get out of here.

  I fake a coughing fit and leave,

  but once I get in the hallway

  I realize I’m still trapped—

  stuck inside of this shaking, sweating body.

  I’d rip my skin off if I could.

  The only place that seems safe

  is the bathroom.

  Sitting in a stall, with my chest on my thighs,

  I try to breathe,

  But the more I think about my breathing,

  the more I feel like I can’t breathe.

  It feels like I have a raging fever,

  like my insides are melting.

  This must be what it feels like

  the moment before you die.

  I have been telling myself

  that these feelings are new,

  but they aren’t.

  I just didn’t connect them before.

  I felt it the first time I smoked pot junior year.

  At first things were fun,

  but then everything broke.

  It felt like my chest caved in

  and I couldn’t tell the difference

  between the bass in the music

  and a car alarm going off outside.

  I couldn’t get my mind to stop racing.

  I felt like I had no control over my body—

  like my arms and legs were twitching.

  I thought I was going to have to go to the hospital.

  I thought I was going to die.

  I told myself it was the pot.

  But it happened again,

  before college,

  when I wasn’t high.

  I was in Staples with my dad,

  shopping for school supplies.

  All of a sudden the ground felt soft

  and the sounds around me

  were too fast and too slow

  at the same time.

  I thought I would lose control,

  do something crazy—start scr
eaming

  right there in the pen aisle.

  My dad would know.

  Everyone would know.

  Now this feeling follows me

  everywhere I go.

  It clings to me,

  makes my skin crawl,

  makes my skin burn

  when I walk across campus,

  when I check books out of the library,

  when I talk to my friends.

  It sits with me in class,

  whispers in my ear,

  tells me that I shouldn’t be here.

  iii.

  Please God make this feeling stop.

  I can’t take it.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  Make it stop.

  Please.

  Must concentrate on something,

  anything.

  8:00 A.M.

  Smack alarm clock.

  Haul ass out of bed.

  Shower with very hot water.

  8:23 A.M.

  Dress.

  Paint over dark circles under eyes.

  Add color to cheeks.

  8:47 A.M.

  Eat breakfast alone.

  Avoid caffeine.

  Try to ignore all the noise.

  9:03 A.M.

  Smoke cigarette.

  Go to Writing Seminar.

  9:34 A.M.

  Feel light-headed.

  Feel like passing out.

  Fake coughing fit.

  Leave class.

  Drink water.

  Go to bathroom.

  Pull down pants.

  Sit on toilet.

  Put chest on thighs.

  Stare at tiles.

  Breathe deeply.

  Breathe deeply.

  9:39 A.M.

  Get a grip.

  Return to class.

  10:00 A.M.

  Go back to dorm room.

  Get under covers.

  Sleep.

  12:45 P.M.

  Eat lunch with friends.

  Try to ignore the noise.

  1:20 P.M.

  Smoke cigarette.

  Go to Freshman Seminar.

  1:46 P.M.

  Feel like people are staring.

  Feel hot.

  Feel cold.

  Feel out of control.

  Fake coughing fit.

  Leave class.

  Drink water.

  Go to bathroom.

  Pull down pants.

  Sit on toilet.

  Put chest on thighs.

  Stare at tiles.

  Breathe deeply.

  Breathe deeply.

  1:54 P.M.

  Get a grip.

  Return to class.

  There’s this warm white light

  that comes in the window