Crazy

“You’re crazy.” He hissed, with palpable vitriol, as he slammed the front door behind him. Me standing firm in the fact that I definitely heard something, have been hearing something, is always a reason for him to leave. At this point, nothing he can say hurts me. And for it to be that I’m crazy is comical.

It’s so weird how you tell a man that you’re crazy and they think it’s cool or a joke. “You know what they say about crazy girls!” We “crazy girls” allegedly have the best pussy, give the best head, are down for whatever in the bedroom, and the list goes on. Being “crazy” is somehow “cute.” Until it’s not.

When I told him I was crazy, I didn’t say it that way. I said “I’m diagnosed schizoaffective, with OCD and an eating disorder.” He heard “I’m a crazy girl and we’ll have wild sex!” I also said plainly, if he'd rather not go farther, or if he’d rather keep things strictly physical, I’m okay with that. Because I am. I’m a lot to deal with. I’m too much for me sometimes, so I fully understand not wanting to take on all that is me. I also understand that we all have needs and finding a compatible partner can be difficult. I felt like we were compatible in all the best ways and I was more than happy to continue sleeping together, with or without more. He said he wanted “more.” You know “more.” The “I love yous” and titles and ownership and kissing and dates. I was so amazed that this handsome, intelligent, kind, caring, normal, successful man, wanted a relationship with me. ME! A real relationship. To be seen in public and post me online, take me to meet his friends and family. He actually liked me. He loved me. ME!

I should’ve known something wasn’t normal about him BECAUSE he wanted “more” with a schizoaffective, obsessive compulsive woman with mommy and daddy issues, he’d only met 2 weeks ago and fucked 6 times. He was, in fact, a narcissist. Textbook narcissist. And a mentally unstable girl with childhood trauma was his type. I don’t think he grasped how unstable my mental was, or how traumatic my childhood was. But, that doesn’t matter so much now.

Now, I’m sitting here, rocking my son, my 7 month old son, in my glider, with my hands over his ears to protect him from the aggression of his father. And from the voices I’m hearing. The ones saying I’m a mistake, my baby is a mistake, he regrets ever meeting me, he hates us both.

Truthfully, both I and my son are a mistake. I never wanted children. Why would I? How could I? With all my fuckedupedness, what can I offer a child!? A whole heap of crazy and that’s all. So when I found out I was pregnant, I wanted to terminate. Who wants a crazy person for a mom!? Nobody, that’s who. Half the time I’m “fasting” for days on end, and then I’m binge eating until I vomit and pass out with my face on the toilet seat. How can I keep a baby alive when I can barely keep me alive? I felt like I was doing that baby a favor by terminating the pregnancy. Poor child had no idea what he was getting himself into. Not to mention, we’d only been together for 10 weeks. But he said if I loved him, I’d keep the baby. If I truly care about him, I wouldn’t kill his child. I did love him. I do. So I kept it.

I didn't know that a baby is a tool of control for a narcissist. I learned that the hard way. I’m still learning that the hard way. For me, it was a token of my love. An affirmation that I was devoted to him and wanted forever, happily ever after, with him. When I made up my mind to keep the baby, having a healthy pregnancy was my focus. I went off my meds for the sake of the baby. I made sure I ate a healthy, well balanced, mostly organic diet, and took all my vitamins. I stopped self harming via food abuse and cutting. I made sure I exercised every day. I let my OCD feed my manic and I let my hyper focus reign through the 41 weeks I carried my son and through the 27 hours of home labor. And then when my hormones crashed after the birth, I didn’t know if it was my normal depression or postpartum depression, but I found myself forlorn and desolate and in a lot of agony.

But I pushed through for my son. I breastfed through the pain and depression and anxiety. I cuddled, rocked, read, sang and did all the things the baby books said to do. And I sat beside the bassinet watching him while he slept to make sure he didn’t die. My son became my focus. My reason for living.

His father didn’t like that. He didn’t like that I couldn’t always cook dinner because of cluster feeding. He didn’t like that the house wasn’t spotlessly clean because I spent the day separating, pre-washing, soaking, and spot treating cloth diapers. He hated that the baby’s organic homemade baby food took priority over me ironing his uniform and cleaning his work boots. He hated that sex with him took a backseat to skin to skin with the baby.

This didn’t turn out like he expected. If you ask me, he hated the baby. Hates the baby. And hates me.

I love this baby. More than anything. More than myself even. So I sit here, rocking and whispering I love yous to this baby as my mind races and reels and tries to figure out a plan. All I can think right now is “RUN.”

My doorbell rings and it interrupts my fixating on imaginings of me packing a bag and plopping my baby into the Ergo, lacing up my Nikes and disappearing forever. I answer. It’s our friend Marla.

Marla has been a godsend. I swear, everytime I’m upset, or in need, it’s like she knows. When we argue, as sure as I am that he’ll leave, she’ll appear, at some point that day. And she never comes empty handed. Sometimes I’ll be craving something, tacos, fries, chocolate cake, whatever, it’s like she has a direct line to my heart and mind because she just seems to know, and appears with the exact right thing. And not just for me, but for my son too. She actually single handedly furnished the nursery. In this super chic, super cute, grey, white and tan woodland creature scheme. Like a greyscale of the 100 acre woods, and the cutest fixtures and little animal statues. Well, actually, the statues kinda weird me out in the nursery. They made me feel like someone was watching and I didn’t want that vibe around my son, so I moved them to the mantle in my living room. It’s a bigger space and the feeling isn’t as…encompassing with them in there. I’d have thrown them away, but they were a gift. A gift Marla really seemed excited to give us. So I just placed them, the hedgehog, the barn owl, the red fox, the raccoon, and the deer, all centered above the fireplace. Which, I think she actually likes better than when they were in the nursery. She always fiddles with them when she visits, aligning them with the owl in middle, with an approving smile.

I let Marla in. Today she’s brought Starbucks.

“Hey girl! I brought you a—. What’s wrong!? What happened!?” She asks, concerned.

“Same old same old. Nothing. Everything. You know.” I chuckle.

“Oh gosh, he’s gone off the deep end again?”

“Him. Me. Who knows?”

“What this time? You’re crazy because…?” She asks.

“Because I wouldn’t let him gaslight me on the sounds I’ve been hearing. Like, I’ve been living in my body with this brain for almost 30 years. I know all the voices that live here. For the most part, I can feel the difference between me hearing things and me actually hearing something. Like, I hear voices and I know that’s usually my mind playing tricks. But these aren’t even voices. It’s mechanical sounds. Clicking. Whirring. Sometimes tapping. I’ve never heard these sounds before. My mind wouldn’t make these sounds up. They don’t contribute anything. They just…I mean…like…they just ARE. The sounds just ARE. I’m not manic. I'm not obsessive compulsive over this. I’m not unstable right now. I’m sane. I mean…I’m in a good place. Like, I’ve been doing everything he wants me to do. The house is clean. I cook him his meals, pack his lunches. The baby sleeps in his bassinet. I sleep at night like I’m supposed to. We fuck at least 3 times a week. But he’s still all ‘you need to stop breastfeeding and get back on your meds.’ Like, WHY? Because he can’t manipulate me when I’m not doped up. He knows if I go back on meds, I’m gonna be in that adjustment fog for at least a month and he can use that to take advantage of me and manipulate me and make me agree to things I don’t remember. And he can like, make videos of me ‘being crazy’ and paint me as unfit when he’s ready to. Fuck that! He’s not taking my son from me! I’d die first! I’d set this whole house on fire and leave the country before I let him have my baby! I’d—”

“WHOA!! Easy! Easy!” Marla interrupts. “Where’d you get the idea that he’d take the baby from you? I thought you said he doesn’t like the baby? How’d we get to the conclusion he wants the baby?”

“He doesn’t want the baby. He wants to hurt me. He wants to make me suffer because I’m not his little puppet anymore. And the only thing that can hurt me is not having my baby. He knows that.” I fight back tears as my mind conjures images of my life without my son.

“Okay. But, and this is just a question. But, do you think you may be paranoid? Do you think you may be reaching from a place of paranoia?”

“No.” I answer resolutely.

“Okay. It just seems a bit far fetched is all. From my perspective.”

“How is it far fetched!?”

“Well, he doesn’t interact with the baby. Never interacts with him. Doesn’t even seem to like him. He says you should medicate. And that somehow makes you believe he wants the baby? I don’t see the correlation.”

“Okay.” I take a deep breath to try to explain. “Okay. If I medicate, that means I can’t nurse. If I can’t nurse, the baby takes a bottle. The baby on a bottle means I’m not necessary to his existence. And means that someone else, anyone else, can do the things for the baby. Anyone can steam veggies, change diapers, sing a lullaby. But no one else can nurse him. Okay? That’s what he wants. He wants me out of the way so he can put someone else in my spot. He wants to take my son and put some other woman in my place, and throw me away.

And so additionally. If I start meds, there will be a time of adjustment, where we have to figure out the proper dosage and stuff. That time is usually characterized by me either being a zombie or being batshit crazy and doing absolutely nonsensical things, like trying to bake a chicken in the dishwasher, trying to take a stuffed bear for a walk because I thought it was a dog, talking in the phone for nearly an hour to my sister, except it wasn’t a phone, it was a remote. Or sitting in the middle of my bed staring at the ceiling for half the day, standing in the fridge trying to find something to eat for hours, unmoving just staring. He calls my name, my phone rings, and I don’t hear a thing. None of which I remember doing. I just know about it because he showed me the videos he made. That’s all before I had the baby. Now, what if I think the baby is a chicken and I put him in the dishwasher? Or what if I go to walk the ‘dog’ and leave the baby home alone? What if I go zombie and the baby’s crying for hours and I don’t hear him and he’s going hours without being fed or changed? It’d be easy to take him from me. I’d be a danger to him. 100%. He doesn’t want the baby. He just doesn’t want me to have him. And he also doesn’t want me anymore. I know he’s cheating. I’ve seen his phone. I’ve seen pictures from some ‘Rosie’ or something like that. Nudes. They message all hours of the night. Only, he doesn’t know a Rosie. I know it’s a code name. He always gives a code name. And it’s usually a flower. This one’s smart enough to not send her face at least. I know he wants me gone and he wants to play house with her. With my son. He sends pictures of my baby that I send to him, to her! He’s trying to like, familiarize her with him! So she can play mommy to my son! Fuck that. Does that make sense?” I ask Marla, hoping I did a decent job explaining. She nods and is quiet for a while. She hands me the Starbucks.

We drink our drinks and eat the pastries she bought us. My son is asleep across my lap as we enjoy the treats, the silence, and each other’s company.

“What are you gonna do?” She asks me quietly.

“I don’t know. What can I do? I’m not working. If I start working, I may end up needing to formula feed. Then that just opens the door for all of what I said earlier. You know?” She nods.

“I was kinda considering doing some freelance stuff again. Digital art. Book illustrations. Stuff like that.” I say, quietly.

“That’s a really good idea.” She says.

“You think?”

“I do. You’re a great artist. I think you could make good money. You can get on Fivr. I know people who’ve hired artists from Fivr.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Try it out! Couldn’t hurt!” She says encouragingly.

“I will! I uhh…I also…umm…never mind.”

“What? You also what?” She asks.

“Nothing. It’s stupid. You’re gonna think it’s stupid.”

“I won’t. I promise. What’s up?”

“Okay. I ummm…I wrote a children's book. Some months ago. I started the illustrations, but I stopped because I didn’t think people would wanna buy it.”

“What!? Show me!” She demands excitedly.

“No…it’s dumb.” I respond.

“I’m sure it’s not. You’re super talented. Show me! I’ll give you an honest review.”

“Okay.” I say hesitantly. “It’s on my tablet. In my room, on the bedside table.”

She fetched the tablet and brings it to me. I open the file and hand it back to her. She sits silently. Reading. For a while. I didn’t think it was this long of a story. The voices in my head start saying “she hates it” “she’s thinking of how to tell you it sucks” “you’re an idiot” “no one wants to read anything a psycho wrote” “even your best friend can’t get through it” when she finally looks up at me with tears in her eyes.

“Oh my word. It’s beautiful. It’s amazing. It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever read. I love it!”

“You really think so?” I ask with tears in my eyes.

“I do. Seriously. It’s filled with all the things I used to think and say to my son when…when he was alive.” She says with a sad smile. I nod and stroke my son's hair protectively, as if I can brush away the possibility of SIDS.

We spend the next few hours discussing images for the book and swapping ideas. She orders us lunch and watches my son, letting me get a few things done around the house, and even an hour nap.

Shortly after I wake, Marla gets a text and says she had to go. As she gathers her things, I hear my husband pulling up. They cross paths at the foyer.

“Oh, hey Ro—Marla.” He says.

“Hi.” She greets with a tight smile. “I’ll try to pass by tomorrow.” She says to me. We hug and say goodbye. As she nears her car, she yells back “Don’t forget to show him your book!” And I wish, with everything in me, she hadn’t.

“What book?” He asks.

“Nothing. It’s nothing. Are you hungry? I made salmon.” I say, trying to change the subject.

“No, I wanna know about the book.” He persists.

“It’s nothing, really.”

“Oh, so, she’s a liar? You just spend your days with people who make up lies as they leave? You have my son spending time with crazies who spout of random lies? Is that it? If that’s it, I don’t want her in my hou—”

“I wrote a children’s book!” I shout, trying to put an end to the badgering.

“Hmm…so you’re the liar. Well that’s not news. So let’s see it.”

“You don’t have to. Really. It’s dumb. You don’t have t—”

“I want to. I wanna see what you wrote. Show me.” He says with a smile.

I oblige. I grab my tablet, open it to the file, and hand it to him. I scoop my son up from the floor and hold him to my heart, for comfort, maybe for protection.

He reads. Quickly. Much faster than Marla had. I sit staring down at my baby, making silly faces at him to illicit a giggle, trying to distract myself from his reactions. He finishes and clears his throat. I don’t look up. I sit, staring down at my son, awaiting the verdict.

“Well…it’s a book. I guess.” I nod.

“I mean…do you really think people are gonna wanna read this? To their kid?” I shake my head.

“And the pictures. They’re barely even pictures. Like, where’s the color? Where’s the definition? I don’t—”

“—I just thought… never mind.”

“What? You just thought what?” He asks, disgusted.

“I just thought…with the tone of the book…maybe…like…”

“Fucking spit it out already!” He shouts. I cover the baby’s ears as I flinch.

“I thought the water colors match the tone. It’s like a lullaby. And like…umm…the pictures…umm…” I try to gather my thoughts before he yells again but with all the voices in my head laughing and calling me stupid and idiot and failure and worthless, and him looking at me like I’m covered in vomit or something, I can’t get my words together.

“Right. The pictures look half done. Incomplete. Like you. Can’t even finish a sentence. Can’t finish a thought. How are you gonna finish a book? Three half drawn pictures and you say you ‘wrote a book.’ Well, great work.” He says as he stands and slides my tablet across the coffee table at me. Except I’m holding my son, and I can’t move fast enough to catch it as it slides over the edge and onto the tile floor with a loud “CRACK!”

I gasp. He peers over the table at the tablet with its now buzzing and shattered screen and says “Figures” as he walks into the kitchen. He calls to me “I’m ready to eat now” as he leaves.

All the confidence I had about my book is gone. I thought the only thing he could do to hurt me was take my son. But breaking that tablet. The tablet I planned to use to start making money to save up to get myself and my child out of here. That shattered screen is shattered dreams. And a shattered heart.

The next few weeks pass in a blur. I’m dissociating a lot when he’s around. It’s like I’m watching myself perform. I’m just an observer. My body is cleaning and cooking and ironing and having sex and nodding and agreeing. He seems happier from what I observe. The only times I’m present are when I’m alone with my baby. And I allow myself to slip in and smell and taste and feel. Then he comes home and I let the machine me take over. This is fine. It keeps the peace. I’m still able to enjoy my son. And I’m not being yelled at or cussed out or called names. That is until now.

I was home with my baby and we were in the living room, enjoying each other’s company. He’s been cruising on furniture, smart boy he is. Only 8 months old and trying to walk! The fireplace is his favorite thing to cruise so I, naturally, fitted it with the soft bumpers in case he falls, and let him have at it, with me right beside. As he goes and I use my phone to take a video, I hear what distinctly sounds to me as a camera focusing. Now, you may be thinking, well you’re recording so, duh. But it wasn’t my phone. It was…it was from above me. It’s from somewhere else, distant, above me. I stand and start to listen. I don’t hear anything after a few minutes, so I start to lower myself back to the floor, but then I hear it again and I hear a distinct click. Like a shutter makes. I stand erect and start to listen. I walk around the room trying to locate where it’s coming from. But it’s quiet, other than my son babbling below me. I make my way back to the fireplace. I hear the sound again, and it’s coming from the mantle. It seems like it’s coming from one of those statues Marla gave us. I step up onto the fireplace ledge and try to hear. I’m focusing, trying to hear the sound again. And I do. It’s definitely coming from something on the mantle. I turn on the audio recorder on my phone to see if I can pick up the sounds. I’m so focused that I don’t hear him come in. I don’t hear the door close or him out his keys on the entry table. I don’t hear his boots as he walks inside. What I hear is “What the fuck are you doing up there!?” And I jump and almost fall. Almost fall on my son who’s made his way over to where I am on the ledge. I catch myself.

“Idiot. Why are you up there!?” He asks, annoyed.

I step down and rush to him. “Listen! Listen!” I say excitedly, trying to playback what my phone picked up. I’m not sure it picked up anything, but it might have and then that’d prove I’m not hearing things. Well, I am hearing things but they the things I’m hearing are real.

“I was hearing those sounds again—“

“Here we go!” He interrupts.

“Listen, please. I was hearing those sounds and they’re coming from the mantle. It think it’s one of the statues. Maybe. But I…I…I…I used my phone and I think I was able to record it! Listen!”

I hit the playback button. But it’s only faint babbling. None of what I heard. “Okay, but, I did hear it” I say. “And if you come here you can—”

“Stop with this shit! God!” He shouts. “There’s no fucking sounds! There’s nothing but you and your psychosis! See a fucking doctor! Get some fucking help! Christ! I can’t take this anymore!”

“I swear I’m not…it’s not…it’s real! It’s real I swear!” I plead. “Just listen! Please!”

“THERE'S NOTHING TO LISTEN TO!!” He screams. My son starts to cry. I scoop him up into my arms and place his head under my chin and bounce and rock and sway and pat and “shh shh shh” him.

“Please. If you could just listen. I hear it near the statues. I swear, this isn’t psychosis. Just lis—”

Before I can finish, he yells “Shut the fuck up!” He grabs the barn owl figure and throws it at me. At us. I duck just in time. The sculpture crashing against the wall behind me and ceramic flies everywhere. A few pieces scratch my back and arms but my baby is unscaved.

He yells “I’m so sick of this shit with you!” And he’s going on and on about me being an idiot, and stupid and all that but I can’t hear him. I’m too drawn in by the small black wires and lens that lay among the shattered remains of the statue. I’m hypnotized by the zooming sound and the steady red light.

I knew I wasn’t crazy.