Is Crazy Contagious?

At the end of the month, when Joanie came home from the hospital she was sweet and cheerful like she always was when she took her medicine. She was on something new, Depakote this time. She came home in someone else's clothes probably from the hospital lost and found or something someone donated, but it didn't matter. Joanie was a natural beauty.

She was a petite, deep-chocolate coated, slender woman with hips and hair for days. My sister Liv had her skin tone and dark, heavy hair. I had her keen features just on a lighter caramel face. My hair was always like a sandy, dusty tumbleweed. At least I had her hips and bodacious behind. Joanie and I didn't have much in the boobage department; Liv must have gotten hers from her father's side of the family. I looked most like Joanie when I smiled, so I didn't do it much.

By the third of the month, Joanie was clear-headed and irate! She called me a sneaky thief for going behind her back and switching over the SSI money. She was pissed that whomever she spoke with over the phone was the one to reveal her upcoming grandmother status and even more upset that they wouldn't provide her with my bank account information. That was private. Apparently, even more so than my sexual activity. I knew she figured she would just find the account number on some statement around the house, but I confiscated and destroyed all but one piece of documentation-- my passbook. That was tucked safely away behind the hot water tank in the hall maintenance closet.

"I'mma go around there!" She snapped, after having searched everywhere imaginable except my hiding spot. The bank was around the corner a ways. I didn't sweat it because after getting rid of all the statements I decided to pay a visit to the bank myself with a copy of my affidavit, printed out confirmation, social security card and high school picture ID. I had Joanie removed from the account and then demanded that the account number be switched altogether. I was an emancipated minor, and I had rights.

The bank manager, knowing my mother and her public disturbances, seemed to be concerned about Joanie's reaction but was also sympathetic to me. She granted my request. I contacted the Social Security lady who helped me on my journey to freedom, and she entered the new account information just prior to the scheduled electronic funds transfer and that was that.

"Oh, so you grown now?" She asked rhetorically when she returned. "Well, you need to pay some bills around here or you need to get out!"

"I'm saving up so I can move out."

"Good, ‘cause I'm not gonna be taking care of no babies."

"I'm going to take care of my baby." I stressed.

"You probably don't even know who the daddy is, do ya?" She didn't mean it because up until this morning, she thought I was still a virgin.

"It don't even matter, Joanie."

And it didn't. I woke up at three o'clock the next morning feeling as if I was coming on my period. I went to stand up and felt intense pressure and then sharp jabbing pangs. Grabbing my sheet, balling it between my legs, I waddled to the bathroom across the hall. Soaked bright red like the corn syrup used in phony horror flicks, I tossed the sheet into the tub. I heard, "plop,... plop, plop" in the toilet but I wasn't pooping. Just clumps and clots of what was supposed to be my baby were settling to the bottom of the bowl. I flushed it all away. It didn't even matter.

Joanie knew. Whether it was from the early morning ruckus I made in the bathroom or the sheet I left soaking in cold water in the tub, she knew, but never said a word. Neither did I.

We went on with life as it was; she, in and out of the psychiatric ward every few months and I, in and out of school every few days. On average, I missed about a day every other week. Otherwise, I was a pretty decent student. I did my homework, participated in class and got B's without trying. I was never reprimanded for my absences and always wrote good excuse notes. My version of Joanie's signature was the only one the office had on file.

I continued saving my money because although I wasn't going to be a mother, I still wanted to move out. Despite my newly established emancipation, I didn't have any established credit history and would need someone else to sign as lessee. Unfortunately, I would have to be indicated as a resident just until I turned eighteen.

The only person I could think of was Liv, and we hardly talked, partly due to her leaving me to deal with Joanie alone and partly due to her wanting to forget about the stigma attached to having a mentally ill mother. People are not as understanding when your mother is standing naked on their front lawn at four in the morning, screaming at the top of her lungs. They aren't forgiving when your mother is skipping down the street dressed in your Easter dress and hat when you're six. Mental illness is not the same as cancer or diabetes or lupus. Those illnesses are respectable.