CHAPTER 19
On second thought, maybe I should put the ol’ crazy noggin’ to work first. Since I’ve been in survival mode, I haven’t exactly had time to cogitate on the idiopathic nature of my rapidly deteriorating mental condition. But maybe I’m finally ready to shift gears. And I should start by asking myself some very important questions, like this one: What. In. The. Ever-loving. Hell. Is. Wrong. With. Me? I know the answer is out there somewhere, whether it’s in books, or even floating around the not so pleasant fluid part of my brain matter.
Ok . . . so where do I start? At the very beginning, Lizzie, you know, the part where God created you, the grey suit, and the red bow-tie. Huh? The who, the what, and the damn what? . . . Oh, I get it. You mean, think back to the schizophrenia diagnosis of Dr. Bow Tie Freud lo those many years ago? Like, was there any validity to it? Nah, doesn’t feel right. Over the last ten years, I’d met a couple of friends terribly afflicted with schizophrenia, and so tormented by voices they couldn’t function at all. Besides, my problem seems to be speaking in different voices, not hearing them, save one, which doesn’t count because it’s only the one voice, and quite obviously represents the bitchy, sarcastic side of me. Everybody has a side like that. Ok . . . so maybe mine is a bit louder than most, but still, I’ve clearly been able to function well enough to get through college, marriage, and kids.
Let’s move on to . . . bi-polar? Noooo way, jose. I don’t get depressed, and I’m not manic. Although . . . haven’t I been like that since I left the hospital? Still . . . I’m going to go with a big fat no on bi-polar, too. The mania is probably a side-effect of whatever it is I’ve got.
Well . . . there’s multiple personality disorder. Oh, hell no. Sybil 2? Not even close. I'd read the book and seen the movie. What a schlockfest that was. Sort of like the movie Jaws. Who in their right mind believes this stuff? Besides, I don’t have blackouts, dress funny, have memory problems, or bite people in half.
What else could it be, then? I’ve covered the majors. Or have I? What about schizo-affective disorder? Hmm . . . I do have the symptoms: hallucinations, delusions, disorganized speech and thinking, mania etc . . .
As the day wears on, I warm to that idea, believing I must have some kind of disorder related to schizophrenia. After all, Dr. Bow Tied Freud seemed very sure about his diagnosis, or he wouldn't have contacted Texas Vocational Rehabilitation Commission to see me through college. That’s a lot of moula.
Ok, I’m ready to deal. The question now is, who do I go to for help?
“Oooh, I know, I know, Lizzie. How ‘bout that penguin doctor? She was real nice. And let’s face it, honey, the psychiatrist route ain’t working for you. So aim lower. Lots lower. Know what I mean?”
Hmm. There’s a thought. I go talk it over with B, and he agrees to call Dr. Penguin. Somewhat relieved, I hit the sack, but not without last minute editorial comment from the peanut gallery.
“Oh boy, Lizzie. This is gonna get good now. Showtime, baby. Time to pop a whole field of corn. Hehehe . . .”
