A Recurring Theme
A recurring theme skeptical therapists wanted from me was turning over a new leaf. Somehow life was going to be different for me and I was going to be something other than myself brain structure wise. I just did my best to be really positive and occasionally negativity would escape like a fart right after a hymnal at church.
There were photons everywhere and I could see them. I could see you looking at me like you were superior and felt sorry for me and I smiled at you and said something very intelligent that you agreed with. You meaning all the various people this has happened with over the years. I did my best not to breathe in any mold but it was being blasted at me at pretty high speeds and I was financially obligated to be there.
Then again, mold’s one of those things you don’t just see in one place. Mold’s something you battle. Spray it with bleach. Fuck mold. I’m allergic to mold. Avoid it at all costs if it’s a bigger problem than you are.
Anyway, what the fuck was I going to do, stop being schizophrenic? Get like all the other schizos around and become complacent and addled and basically high all the time on chemicals nobody truly understands? We all did what we could. They said there was maybe 3 in 100 people who were schizophrenic and it seemed to me like the number was much higher than that around about where I lived. I met many schizophrenic people and can say that amongst the moms I’ve really talked to in the neighborhood, schizophrenic to just crazy ratio is 3:1.
What was making all of us crazy? Was it the mold, which basically grew in all the same environmental conditions as everything else? Was it the mold trying to keep us as a species in check by slowly killing us?
Was it our own bad decision making skills? Was the mold making us dumb?
Anyway, despite science saying the average schizophrenic having a substandard IQ, my IQ’s pretty alright 140.
Some woman was quietly talking to me at the gas station warning me about some anger problem that might coincide with my life, and I interrupted her with my most brilliant social engineering move. (That’s right; I’m a schizophrenic with an avocational hobby in social engineering who’s otherwise considered by everyone who knows me to be a very nice person.)
“Ma’am, I’m very forgetful,” I said, “you know like that guy from the movie Momento, he had a head injury and then his last memory’s this terrible one and he can’t remember new stuff so he tattoos it onto himself? Like him. It’s terrible. Every day my mind goes through a crunch and I forget most of the day. I’m basically retarded. I got into a wreck once, see… It was bad. I was once Harvard material, I think, granddaughter of a scientist, IQ drastically dropped.”
“What’s it now?” she asked, fascinated.
“It’s like an A. You know like a ninety… two. A minus.”
“IQ doesn’t work that way,” said this old black man. (I know like fifty old black men; I should be more specific but unlike me most people aren’t wearing nametags.)
“Yes it does!” I said smiling at him with a few winks meant to look like I had tourettes.
“I am so sorry!” said this woman who’d previously had been warning me about this ominous force that might come into my life.
Hamming it up I said, “Mind like a child. But I do have a grown man husband and that’s great, mind’s not that much like a child. Just a bit stupid you know, no memory, yada yada, I’m going to stop depressing you now.”
She was very nice. She scurried off and the old guy stuck around and after she left he asked, “Your IQ is not really 90 is it?”
“No sir, it’s like 140. But I’m crazy so it evens out.”
“That’s very smart! I’m 142.”
“Wouldn’t it be great if your IQ points were years in your life?”
“I like that! Why was this woman fussing at you?”
“There’s been a misunderstanding. I fell asleep in a chair and accidentally jumped out at some concerned customers with a mop or something I don’t know, I was really mostly lying about the IQ but I do go through a data crunch so I honestly went through that fussing at blind. Anyway, everybody knows you can’t fight with retarded people which saves me the trouble of having to win a fight with a stranger over something I don’t know what is happening, someone picking a fight and I’m like, ‘Why are we fighting?’ and possibly get sued for the hospital bill.”
“You talk fast. Are you from around here?”
“Yes. Do I sound like I’m from around here, or up north…”
“You sound like you’re from like Israel or the Bahamas.”
“I like that. You didn’t just make that up did you?”
“No, there’s kind of a foreign element there…”
“Mixed Latin American Wasp. New Jersey variety. Lived here most my life. People out west think I sound super-southern.”
“It’s funny how language works that way,” said the old man. Old men were always trying to be mentally impressive, seemed like. I had an IQ of 140 and he of 142, obviously he was trying 2 points harder. He’d lived in both Israel and in the Bahamas.
We got to comparing which languages we knew. It was a geeky conversation. Then he had to go. Such is life. I talk to a lot of people. Enriches my life.