Derailed
I have never walked by the pond before today. I have heard that walking by water is an excellent way to clear your mind. With how cluttered my brain is, I may need to walk the entire shoreline of Canada. Have you ever heard of “the train of thought”? Yeah, well, my train derailed about six months ago.
My mind is consumed by endless thoughts of things I must do. I have pondered so many oddities. I try letting the water soothe my thoughts. Letting the trickling sounds take me away. I’ve had such negativity lately that my train of thought jumping rails is common. I’m constantly thinking about one thing and doing something opposite. Maybe I need a therapist?
No, I am not crazy. Crazy people in straight jackets need therapists. Right? I mean, the Joker from Batman, crazy as crazy gets. He saw a therapist. Or was she a psychiatrist? I believe her name was Harleen Quinzel. Anyway, there it goes again, my train of thought. Woop — right off the rails! I suppose I should talk with someone about what I saw before the Joker’s emotional lability is a shared diagnosis. In the search bar, I type “therapists near me.”
In the last six months, I have seen people. Yeah, everyone sees people. I don’t know if the people I see are real or not. — I hear them too. No, not talking to me in my ear but my thoughts. They echo in my brain. I know, deranged.
I will confidently introduce myself. “Hi, I am Mary. I am bat shit crazy. I see imaginary people who talk inside my skull”. Well, that should be a good session start. Smell that? Sarcasm.
Before I look for my Dr. Malcom Crowe, I should share what happened. That figurative train wreck I had mentioned was a literal derailment. It was about three o’clock in the morning when I was driving on the overpass. The only other people who were awake must have been on that train. I was far enough for safety. I wasn’t far enough away to stop and watch the horrific slow-motion scene of a passenger train derailing. Metal screeching in agony, the earth tossed into the air, and sparks erupted into flames. Thankfully, I was too far away to hear the dreadful screams of terror from the passengers. I will call the first psycho-fixer name my finger lands on. Ah, Dr. Asilo, it is.
“Dr. Asilos’s office, can I help you?”
“Hi. My name is Mary. I need to make an appointment as soon as possible.” then I abruptly add, “I am not crazy or anything like that.”
The receptionist asked several questions. I think to myself; yep, she thinks I am bonkers, out of my damned mind. That must be the case; my appointment is tomorrow morning at 9:30. I hang up and feel a sense of calmness sprinkled with concern. That’s okay; maybe the shrink will help me. Somebody better be able to help; I can’t go on like this.
As if the booming voices in my head and phantoms weren’t enough, waking up during the night for a nerve-calming drive disrupts my sleep every night. Keeping my head straight and sanity in order is a daunting daily ritual.
I look at the clock, nine o’clock in the morning. I haven’t slept a wink. The reflection of the dark circles under my eyes and exhaustion in them brings attention to my weakened soul. I am on terms with my choice. I am glad I made it. No time to shower; I splash cold water on my face and pull my hair up — one last glance in the mirror. “No, you are not real. You are not here. Go away.” I yell at the images silently standing behind me. Their mouths are moving. Their voices are screaming in my head. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and turn to the door. I don’t see them, but their voices remain. Their screams and cries are louder than ever. I put my hands over my ears. Of course, I can’t drown out what is roaring intensely in my head.
I open the door. Reality strikes like a sharp knife; I am in a psychiatric hospital. I am a squirrel in a damned nut house. I am wearing the typical asylum garb, minus the straight jacket. I don’t understand what’s happening or remember how I got here. I do know it’s time to talk to my therapist. The voices are taking over my thoughts, begging me not to go. I keep moving; I must get there.
“Good morning Miss. Mary. I am glad you have built up the courage to meet with me. Last we met, you shared how you watched a train wreck from an overpass, and it destroyed who you were. I wonder if your meeting with me means that you are ready to face the reality of that scene?”
The voices scream in distorted misery, and the shadows crawl at my bare feet. Their bitter-cold hands pull my hospital gown. Their faces twisted in torment, “You must suffer with us.” I fall to my knees by the weight of their anguish. My eyes fill with tears for their loss and suffering.
Shakely, I look up at Dr. Asilos, “It was me. I killed those people. All of them.” I could feel snot bubbling from my nostrils. My heart is ripping — please stop beating.
I looked up at him, “All I wanted was my misery, pain, and suffering to end. I parked on the track that night. I caused that train to derail. It wasn’t supposed to be their fate. It was supposed to be mine.”
THE END
Maryann Lindquist & Mojha MacDowell
