Schizophrenia is a mental illness characterized by disordered thinking—essentially, the brain is not reasoning the way it should. This malfunction varies considerably from one person to another, but common signs are hallucinations, atypical emotional responses, and paranoia. I have been guilty of all three, which occurred in a rapid downward spiral that landed me in a psychiatric hospital. I believe that I am okay now, that my hallucinations of Chloe have subsided as well as other visual disturbances. I no longer fear going outside or think my thoughts are being read. I owe all this to medications, specifically a cocktail of anti-psychotics, antidepressants, and anti-anxiety medications. I want to return to my old life, but I’m warned against “too much too soon.” “Why rock the boat?” my mother said. The boat is boring. And it’s embarrassing to be living with your parents at the age of twenty-six after having made a successful break, particularly my parents who clutter the yard with garden gnomes and jam the interior with round-the-clock playing of show tunes. They are happily married though, I’ll give them that. Decades of marriage have melded them into one, softening their features into an uncanny resemblance. Even their droopy-eyed poodle looks a tad like each of them. They met while in high school—marching band. She played the flute and he the trumpet. It was the field trips that made their relationship bloom, because anyone who’s ever been in a band knows that woodwinds and brass don’t mingle. They sit and stand in entirely different sections. I tell you this because I am trying to explain how unlike my parents I am. They are perennially happy people. Sure, the little stuff gets them down, like when the furnace goes out or some asshole cuts them off in traffic, but they don’t have mental break downs or protracted periods of depression. My recovery depends a lot on my family’s support. This I know, so I am grateful that I have a parental home to fall back on and that my sister is willing to take me in for the weekend as a trial. Will I fall apart if my surroundings are new? Will I think the room is infested with lice as I did with my old apartment? I’m not too worried, but I imagine these are the things my parents are concerned about. I am happy to embrace this weekend though, although my delivery to my sister’s house felt a little bit like a prisoner exchange. My parents dropped me off and then quickly left. They probably were looking forward to some freedom from forced cheeriness. Or, perhaps, a romantic night together. Ew. I barely had put my bags on the floor before they peeled out of the driveway. And here I am, standing awkwardly in my sister’s kitchen, the morning after the best croquet game of my life. This might be our opportunity to bond, because I believe there might be some resentment that I was not there for her when she was pregnant. It’s a fair accusation now that I’ve had some time to reflect. I was busy and selfish, immersed in a college boyfriend, parties, and schoolwork. Luckily, she’s not too caught up in her own life right now. Or maybe my parents begged her. She pours me a cup of decaf, which I appreciate. I’ve cleaned out all the stimulants from my diet. “Did you have fun?” she asks. Her eyes look puffy as if she was up with Nona, but I never heard anything during the night so I figure it was all the beer. My sister always liked to party, even back in high school, which was why it was hard to imagine her with a child. Maybe it’s true what they say about a baby making you grow up. Now that she’s not breast-feeding, I guess she doesn’t have to worry about getting lit. I nod. We are going to get our nails done today. Nona is most excited about it. I’m glad my niece will be there. She has a way of lightening the mood. “I saw you talking to Peter,” she said, wiping a few dribbles of coffee from the laminate countertop. I know where she’s going with this. It’s too soon. It wouldn’t be fair to him or me. “Just talking,” I say, feeling as if our roles are reversed, and she is the overprotective older sister. She sips her caffeinated coffee slowly, eyeing me above the mug’s rim. “Is that a crime?” I ask. “You didn’t tell him, did you?” She shakes her head quickly. I bet the coffee is kicking in. I miss that morning jolt, but it is just one of the many things that are bad for me, but not bad for others. Deal with it, I tell myself. “Why did you invite people if you didn’t want me to talk to them?” I ask and remind myself of Nona’s comment. Ana puts her mug down a little too forcefully. “I’m just trying to have a conversation with you. Don’t be so defensive.” “Okay, sorry.” I hold up my hands in a surrender position. And then she tries again. “I’m just suggesting that you might not be ready to date.” “Who said anything about dating?” “He asked Hank if you were seeing anyone.” I can’t help but smile. “Did he?” I say, unable to hold back my delight. “Don’t go down this road again,” she says, almost under her breath. “I know, I know, it’s too early to start dating. Trust me, I’ve been through enough therapy to hear what they’re saying.” “Okay, so you agree?” she says, dipping her head as if she’s trying to nudge me. “I didn’t say that.” She relaxes her shoulders and exhales in exasperation. I should keep in mind that I am a guest here. My sister could technically throw me out and my poor parents would have to interrupt their romantic getaway. She wouldn’t do that though, not as long as I don’t start talking to myself. Ana can’t handle that, and she doesn’t want Nona to see me like that. I know this from group therapy. I don’t ever recall talking to myself, but I can’t deny it. There are lots of things I’ve done but can’t remember. “What are you saying, then?” she asks. Her voice is getting a little louder. Hank is probably in the backyard with Ana’s to-do list in hand. She probably won’t feed him his waffles until he gets one through three accomplished. “So what did Hank say?” My sister stares at me. Her shoulders are back up. I learned in yoga class that it’ll send your body out of alignment. “You know, when Peter asked if I was single?” I say. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” “I’m just curious. Look, it’s flattering. I thought he was nice.” “He said he didn’t know, that he’d ask me,” she says. “We were just going to leave it at that.” Avoidance. Sweep it under the rug. Typical Ana. This is the same reason, she waited to tell anyone in our family that she was pregnant until it was obvious. “Yeah, he’ll probably forget,” I say. I’m not going to let my sister spoil my mood. Yes, I’m not date-able. No one realizes this more than I do. I’m unemployed and living with my family. My most recent best friend was Chloe—a hallucination—but yesterday I met someone who didn’t see me as that. It was nice for someone to think I was normal for just a little bit.
