Dad was pacing back and forth in the kitchen, stewing over something. The minute I approached; I was in for it. I bristled as I took a deep breath bracing for the onslaught.
"Your math teacher called again today. We had a lengthy conversation about you. We're both very concerned something's wrong. Your behavior is not normal. Mr. Hoffman suggested it might be a good idea to have you speak with the school psychologist. I went ahead and made you an appointment right after school tomorrow at three-thirty. If you won't talk to me, maybe it'll be easier to have an honest conversation with him. Whatever we have to do, we're going to get to the bottom of it and figure out what's wrong with you. Your mother and I love you very much. Something in your head is broken, but you can't even see it, you don't even realize it. It's a common phenomenon for crazy people to think they're the normal ones and that everyone else has a problem. When you're screwed up in the head, it becomes impossible to be self-aware enough to step back and diagnose yourself and to be able to recognize the truth. You have to trust the people around you who love you and care about you when they tell you, you're sick and need help."
"I don't want to go. I'm not crazy."
"That's exactly what a crazy person would say."
Ironically his point made sense. Still, somehow, I knew I wasn't crazy.
"If I don't go to college, that means I'm bipolar, or I have schizophrenia?"
"Well, there are a myriad of disorders, let's leave it to the experts to make the correct diagnosis. Whatever it is, we'll get you the best doctors and the right treatment and you'll be right as rain in no time."
He thought I was crazy. Once he latched onto a hypothesis, he wasn't gonna let it go. He had to see it through and I'd have to go along the easy way or the hard way. I was exhausted with all the fighting. I gave up.
"Alright, I'll meet with the psychologist."
"Great, you're already on the first step to recovery. Look at you go, sport."
He said it in a patronizing, condescending manner, the way you'd speak to a dog or a toddler. Thankfully, the confrontation was over. I grabbed a Dr. Pepper and made a roast beef and pastrami sandwich with Swiss cheese and basil pesto, then took the food to my room. I sat by the window and starred outside as I ate.
Squirrels were scurrying around making preparations for winter. I loved watching them run up and down the tree trunks. Fun fact, they are the only mammals that can climb down a tree headfirst. They have the ability to rotate their claws one hundred eighty degrees so even going down, their claws are facing upward.
I couldn't believe my parents had stooped so low they were gaslighting me to get what they wanted. But as I considered everything, I began to wonder if maybe they weren't right. It's true I wasn't normal. Maybe there was something wrong with me. I momentarily entertained the possibility.
My friends were nice about it but couldn't understand why I wouldn't want to go to college, get married and settle into a great career. I liked dating, and felt my sexuality was normal, but not so much for the rest of it.
I didn't know what was normal. I felt the world was messed up, not me-which played right into my father's claim. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was hopelessly delusional, seeing and creating an alternate reality in my mind that didn't actually exist. Or, perhaps I was naïve, or suffered from reduced mental capacities not capable of the level of understanding others had.
How would you know? Was there a way to test reality? What signs would you look for? I made a mental note to conduct an informal metaphysical experiment of my sanity by paying closer attention to the way people treated me--to step outside of myself for a self-examination through an objective epistemological lens.
I would attempt to analyze my thoughts and interactions with people from someone else's perspective to gain a higher level of self-awareness. I had to question everything, even my very sanity. It felt like a dizzying bout of vertigo, losing my connection to the bedrock of everything that defined my universe. All the formerly solid grounding principles were dissolving and becoming fluid. I couldn't trust anything. I had to question everything. What is real? What is truth? I reexamined my world to rebuild a concrete footing of beliefs and principles only once they were corroborated with rock solid, indisputable evidence.
It was exhausting and mentally draining, and a little disconcerting losing your grip on reality.
All day at school I scrutinized my life, questioning everything like a detective. I came to the conclusion everything reconfirmed my original world view. I couldn't feel entirely reassured though. Because how can you truly step outside of yourself to observe yourself from impartial perspective? In theory it's impossible.
From our vantage point we only see a fraction of the truth, like the shadows on the cave wall Socrates described in Plato's allegory. To fill in the gaps in the picture you had to seek out and trust the judgement of people around you. People like my parents or teachers. Even my friends thought I should go to college.
In gym class we were playing basketball. The teacher led us on some drills, we had fifteen minutes to do layups and shoot some hoops. Then he split us into groups of five-member teams and we played fifteen-minute shirts versus skins matches. One of the guys on my team was a kid named Andy. While we were passing the ball back and forth, he made conversation.
"I heard your parents were going to buy you a car for graduation."
"If I go to college."
"Your parents are so cool. What kind of car are you going to get?"
"I don't know, to tell you the truth, I haven't decided if I want to go to college."
"Are you crazy?"
"Apparently so."
I didn't elaborate. It was an inside joke.
"They're going to buy you any car you want?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"Dude, get a black Cadillac Escalade. That's the ultimate road trip vehicle. You could fit like eight or nine guys in it and drive down to Spring Break in Florida. Man, it would be epic."
Spring Break wasn't really my thing. I didn't get the road trip thing either. Why drive for two days if you can fly for two hours? And I knew him, we were acquaintances, but not a member of my inner circle I'd consider taking on a long road trip. But I didn't want to rain on his parade. It was nice of him to talk to me—even if he was using me for something.
"Tell you what, if I get a Cadillac Escalade, we'll go to Spring Break on a road trip."
"Cool man. You're the best. It's going to be wild—literally life changing."
At lunch, Rob said I was acting funny and wondered if I was, OK?
I recounted the confrontation with my father.
"You're not crazy. Your dad is just a complete piece of shit of a human being."
As a kid, you're not allowed to think of your parents in such terms. It felt strangely good to hear him say it. He was a loyal friend, and it meant a lot that he'd try to console me.
"Thanks."
I went to the psychologist at three-thirty, curious to get his take. I thought it would be awkward and embarrassing, but to my surprise, he was super friendly. He didn't treat me like I was weird or abnormal—or crazy. He didn't insult or belittle me because of my ideas. In fact, he actually validated my feelings.
We had a long conversation about life. He had me take a test. I waited on pins and needles as he scored it, then finally he informed me of the results.
"You're a visual learner. You do best with a hands-on approach. You may struggle trying to simply learn by reading about things in a textbook. Your mind absorbs and incorporates information and data better by seeing and physically handling things like doing experiments in science class. If you're struggling learning certain concepts presented in a boring math lecture, you may have to go home and try to find YouTube videos presenting the same information in more of a visual format. The great thing is there are tons of great YouTube videos out there and so many other tools you can use. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah, but honestly, there are times I don't even care if I learn or not. I don't see what the point is."
"I'm sensing school gives you a lot of anxiety. It's actually really common for kids to get so stressed out, they give up. It's a lost cause. The pressure can only build to a point before you explode. I think you've reached the breaking point and mentally given up. When you get lost, you detest it. You get farther and farther behind, it turns into a downward spiral, you feel like you're a failure. You begin digging yourself into a deeper and deeper hole that you can never get out of, and the whole time your resentment grows. With every subsequent failed exam and assignment, your teachers perpetually reinforce that you're a failure. Eventually it becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy if you start to believe it, then you'll start to act like it."
He picked up a water bottle and took a sip.
"Or you may feel like it's pointless because you'll never use any of this information for the rest of your life, but here's the thing: Until your senior year is over, you have to go to school whether you like it or not. Even if you never use any of the information ever again, you should still learn it and get good grades. You don't have to get straight A's, but you should shoot for A's and B's to prove to yourself you're capable of doing it. When you succeed at things in life, it improves your self-esteem. You're a bright kid. You can do it. Even though you think you won't ever use it, you'll be surprised. Later in life there will be times when some of this stuff actually comes in handy. What do you think? Will you give it another shot?"
"Yeah. If nothing else, maybe I can get my parents off my back."
"That's the spirit. You're an incredibly intelligent person. I have full confidence in you."
"Thanks."
I went home and dad asked me how it went. I thought overall it was positive. I did intend to try harder in school. I wanted to graduate. The last thing I needed was to get stuck in summer school. I relayed everything we'd discussed and yet strangely, my dad was furious.
"He didn't broach the subject of mental illness?"
"Nope."
"I don't know who hired that guy, but he's completely incompetent and I'm going to call your principal and the superintendent and get him fired. I can't believe he missed all the underlying symptoms of your condition."
My dad went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a stiff glass of brandy and took a big gulp.
"I'll call first thing tomorrow and give him a piece of my mind, and you," he raised the index finger curled around the crystal snifter and pointed menacingly at me.
"You're going to see a psychiatrist. A real doctor who can diagnose actual problems."
He seemed to be finished, so I went to my room. His face was red, and he was so angry, I was afraid of him. The thought of going to a shrink scared me. I wondered if he could have me committed to an institution or force-fed anti-psychotic drugs. Maybe they'd even perform electroshock treatments or a lobotomy.
My entire knowledge and impression of the industry was based on the book, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. It wasn't a flattering picture. Somehow, Dad pulled strings and got me an appointment five days later. I stewed over it the entire time.