Nothing in the world could have prepared me for that horror— that Chezky now thought I was the enemy itself
Roses are red, violets are blue, I am a schizophrenic and so am I.
I was in fifth grade the first time I heard this idiotic spin of the classic rhyme, and at the time my tween brain thought it hysterical. Now it played itself over and over in my brain, as we sat in the office of this famous psychiatrist Becky had insisted we consult.
“It’s really semantics at this point to decide if he’s schizophrenic or bipolar,” he said, folding his hands on his desk. “The issue is that you’re treating it by slapping more and more antipsychotic drugs on him, but his body isn’t reacting positively to them, and they may even be exacerbating the symptoms. What I suggest is for you to have him admitted to my hospital in Tel Aviv. He’ll be under my professional staff, and we’ll take him off all meds and start again.”
“Off all meds.” My voice was robotic as I parroted his words. I was beyond thought, pain, barely even noticing my surroundings. Chezky may have been able to go without sleep for nights on end, but the events of the last few weeks had caused my entire system — physical, emotional, even spiritual —to completely crash.
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