The Blind

OCTOBER 31ST, 10:25 A.M.

Richard is in my group this morning, and I suddenly feel like I am performing more than facilitating a therapy session. He’s sitting next to a relatively new kid named Devon. Devon is my age and surprisingly stylish. Today he’s wearing designer jeans, distressed black leather shoes that extend too far out and look like cartoon cowboy boots, a gray athletic T-shirt and a pretty badass leather motorcycle jacket. Not the kind you pick up at a department store for nine hundred dollars; the kind guys who actually ride motorcycles wear. His long dreads are twisted into a thick ponytail. If I had seen him under different circumstances, I might have said he was hot. Except for the shoes.

Devon is diagnosed with schizophrenia, disorganized type. This isn’t particularly common here; most of the patients with schizophrenia are diagnosed with paranoid type. People outside these walls call it paranoid schizophrenia, but when I’m here I have to say it the right way.

He sits with his legs twisted around each other, at the edge of his seat, constantly wringing his hands together and twisting his arms around one another. At several points during today’s group, he looked like he was about to tip over. After a few groups, Devon began standing up in this position. He would perch on one bent leg with the other leg twisted around it, holding his arms out in front of him and eventually doing something that looked like martial arts. He would shadow box standing like that; he would move his arms in slow, concentrated motions like tai chi. This was both fascinating and distracting.

I’m seeing Devon twitch and perch now, and I’m inwardly terrified of how this is going to affect the other patients—particularly Richard. I’m watching him with one eye while keeping the other eye on the group. Richard is keeping to himself; he’s arranged it so there’s more than one chair between him and any other patient, but he is looking up from his papers over his glasses, and he is noticing Devon. The other patients start to become wary of Devon’s behavior, and some become obnoxious and say they don’t want to be around this weirdo and I should kick him out of the group.

“No one is getting kicked out, Barry. Take it easy.” I lean back on the desk.

“Nah, man, this dude is weird, I don’t want none of his weird getting on me, man. He distractin’ the group! He shouldn’t be in here!” Barry likes to be the peacekeeper while not keeping the peace at all. He frequently causes uproars in the name of justice and the betterment of the group process. I think Barry makes big scenes to distract himself from the voices in his head.

“Barry, since you’ve elected yourself to be the spokesman for this group, why don’t we follow your lead and talk about stigma.” Everyone hates when I do this.

“Aww, Miss Sam, can we not? I’m tired of talkin’ ’bout stigmata.”

“Stigma.”

“Whatever you call it. I’m tired of it.”

“Okay. First of all, what is stigma? What does it mean?”

“Stigma is like prejudice, right? Like when you an asshole to someone because of how they look, or being black or something, right?” This is Lucy. Lucy is seventeen. She wears sexy outfits and too much makeup. She has bipolar disorder. Some days she is so with it, I want to send her to Harvard, and some days she can’t tell you her name.

“That’s right, Lucy. Good job. Stigma is a lot like prejudice. It’s a negative belief that exists about a member of a group that is based solely on group membership. Anyone ever have experience with that?” Sometimes, I’m more of a teacher than anything else. When I get into a good discussion, I start kicking my heels against the front of the desk. We are not supposed to be sitting on the desks; it’s another one of the rules about making sure we keep a proper level of separation between “us” and “them.” The longer I’m here, the less I care about this separation.

Everyone raises their hands to indicate they have been stigmatized in the past. Even Richard has his hand up. Devon is the only one who doesn’t respond. I call him out.

“Devon, you see everyone else has their hands up? This has never happened to you?” I’m trying to involve him, not alienate him, but I fear I’ve made the wrong impression. He looks at me and seems to say something.

“I’m sorry, Devon, I can’t hear you from all the way up here. Can you say that one more time?” He responds again, this time unlocking his chin from his neck and seemingly trying to project.

“I’m sorry, still can’t hear you.”

“He says he stays away from people.” Stephan.

“Thank you, Stephan. Sometimes it’s hard to hear. So, Devon, you stay away from people? Is that to avoid being stigmatized?”

He nods.

“It hurts to be the victim of stigma, doesn’t it?”

He nods.

Everyone else nods.

“What kinds of things do you think other people believe about people with mental illnesses? What kind of stigma have you experienced?”

“People say we’re crazy.” As Stephan says this, I start writing the words on the blackboard behind me.

“Lazy. Uneducated. Stupid.” Barry.

“People say we a burden. Like we don’t do nothin’ to help America.” This is Lucy again.

“Dangerous.” I’m surprised at who this is coming from. Adelle is about a hundred years old. She is as frail as they come, and I wouldn’t imagine she experiences the stigma of being dangerously mentally ill. Then I remember that while off her meds, Adelle once stabbed a man in the chest with a pair of scissors.

“Dirty. Disgusting. People don’t want to stand near us. Even we don’t want to stand near each other.” Darryl says this. Darryl is suffering from a traumatic brain injury that resulted from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. He still struggles with major depression, but he swears he will never attempt suicide again. His wife left him after the incident because she couldn’t bear to look at him with the resulting disfigurement.

“Alright, I’ll say it: they say we’re weirdos.” This is Barry making amends. He looks at Devon. “Sorry, man, you don’t need me calling you a weirdo when everyone else already does.”

Devon nods.

“Thank you for that, Barry; that was very nice of you. What else, guys? What are some other stigmas you’ve experienced due to mental illness?” I see Richard looking at Barry, seemingly approving of his apology.

“People think they could catch it from you. Like if they have sex with you, they could get bipolar.” Lucy.

“Does anyone know if that’s true or not?” Me, I’m trying to teach without making the patients feel like they’re in school. I’m looking at Richard, but his head isn’t in the room.

“Nah, you could get AIDS and shit, but you don’t catch crazy.” Barry.

As I’m writing all the words on the board, I’m beginning to feel guilty because I’ve held every single one of these beliefs. I feel simultaneously sad and defensive.

As the group finishes, I wait for everyone to file into the hallway. I am walking around the room putting the chairs back into a semicircle, picking up the garbage left by the patients. As I walk past the chair that Devon squeezed into the corner, I notice little flakes, like paint chips or confetti, scattered at the base of his seat. I brush them onto the floor and keep walking.

I erase the board, making a mental note of all the words written, wondering how often I’ve felt stigmatized. Wondering how many of these things people think about me. Wondering, not for the first time, if I fit a profile.

NOVEMBER 1ST, 11:11 A.M.

I’ve given Richard a schedule with weekly one-on-one sessions with me, as well as several group therapy sessions most days of the week. Patients often respond well to structure, and I want to keep him busy while I figure him out. We have our regularly scheduled Tuesday 11:00 a.m. session this morning, and he is shuffling and wiggling and trying to get comfortable in my patient chair. He is too large for my office. He looks like a doll two sizes too big for the dollhouse. He is holding that stack of newspapers under one arm while shifting his weight back and forth in the seat. When he finally finds a comfortable position, he drops his papers onto the corner of my desk and awkwardly bends his elbow on top of them. His left arm bows at a strange angle, and he holds his wrist rigid, so it looks like he has a prosthetic arm.

“So, now that we’re settled, I’m going to try to get going with your file again. Can you give me a few minutes of attention to get this ball rolling?” Hopeful, positive, maybe even energetic.

“What’s this? Another test?” he asks. He doesn’t take off his hat, which pisses me off because I think it would be polite if he did. I realize that the best way to suppress my fear might be to replace it with anger, so I momentarily dwell on being pissed that he is impolite. It’s still the tweed newsboy cap, like the ones R & B groups made popular in the ’90s.

“I’m not doin’ no more paperwork.” His voice is calm, masculine. He isn’t arguing with me, simply stating a fact.

“Any more…” I absentmindedly correct him while sifting through my files and avoiding eye contact.

“Look, I’m here because I chose to be here, and I know that I don’t have to fill out the forms, and I have confidentiality and privacy, and I don’t have to answer any of your questions, and if you want to kick me out then that’s fine. I know my rights. I heard you were the best counselor here and I didn’t think you’d give me trouble like that last dud they put me with.” He shifts farther away from me as he says this. He wrings each hand individually, as if he were wiping something off his thumbs. He is fidgety. He is nervous.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But you’re going to make it harder on yourself if you avoid me. I am the person you’re going to be working with for the duration of your time here. I am here to help you and to make your stay as painless as possible. If you need anything, I am the person you come to. If you have problems with anyone else on the unit, and you need an intervention, I am the person you come to. But I can’t help you until you help me.” Rehearsed.

I think the masking-scared-with-pissed ploy is working. He says nothing. I am looking at his eyes for the first time and I realize they are blue. For whatever reason I hadn’t expected this. He keeps them squinted. I can’t decide if this is because he is using his scary face or if he has sensitive eyes. They are light blue, much lighter than mine.

He is unfurling his hands now, and I see his fingernails are well maintained. This is notable only in the fact that it is completely opposite from every other patient. Even the women who spend their last dime on a fancy manicure will allow it to get gnarly and grow out so far that they have a quarter inch of real nail visible beneath the green, sparkly talons of a month ago.

But he remains silent. I can’t tell if this is because I have stumped him or he is about to rip my face off for talking to him like that. I know no one else has said as much as this to him, and right now I can’t imagine what gave me the balls to do it.

“Let’s start with something light.” I put on my glasses and I reach for a pen. “Name?”

I want to hear him pronounce his last name, because I am afraid he will be offended if I say it incorrectly. McHugh. I don’t know if you’re supposed to say the h or if it’s silent or what. I’ve got him talking, and I don’t want to compromise my progress.

“Richard McHugh.” Sounds like mah-Q. Okay, now we have that settled. “Am I supposed to call you Doctor, or what?

“You can call me Dr. James, but I prefer Sam.”

“Why do you prefer Sam?”

“Well, Richard, to be honest with you, I prefer Sam because it’s easier to yell down the hallway. Why do you use your full name? Richard has so many appealing nicknames.” Am I being obnoxious? Flippant? Nonchalant? I feel exhausted, like I can’t conjure the energy I need to be a professional here, or to fake it anymore. I feel like there is a miscommunication happening in my brain and I am accidentally betraying my real feelings in a session and not putting on the appropriate mask.

“I like Richard. No one’s calling me Dick.”

“Okay, sir.”

“No, I didn’t ask you to call me sir; I said Richard.”

“Okay, Richard.” I’ve never seen a reaction like that. Who doesn’t like to be called sir? “Moving on— Date of birth?”

“July fourteenth, 1960. It was a Thursday.”

“Really?” Now I’m interested. “How do you know that?”

“My mother told me. She said it was the worst day of her life and that’s why she always hated Thursdays.” I can’t believe we’re getting somewhere. I am afraid of reacting incorrectly and shoving the turtle back into its shell.

“Well, I love Thursdays.” Benign response, please don’t shut down. Please open up to me. “Whole weekend in front of me. And where were you born, Richard?”

“Queens.”

“Ah, right here in New York, huh? Siblings?”

“No.” Back to one-word answers.

“Family history…”

“No.”

“It’s not a question; we are moving to a section regarding your family history, your backgr—”

“No. I’m not answering any questions about family.” He cuts me off again.

“Okay, well, I understand completely if you’re not comfortable, but it’s vital for your treatment, and—”

“No. I said no. I’m not saying anything else.” It’s over; the turtle is back in his shell.

“Okay, you don’t have to do this now; we can come back to it another ti—” He stops me before I can appease him.

“Are we done? I want to leave.” Before he even finishes his request to leave, he is out the door and halfway down the hall. I am facing the bookcase instead of the desk because he brushed my chair and spun it off balance. What just happened? What did I say? How did I lose him?

NOVEMBER 2ND, 10:53 P.M.

I’m going to meet Lucas for drinks. We don’t live together, but we spend enough time at each other’s places that sometimes I wear his clothes instead of doing my laundry. Dating Lucas is like dating two people, and I can’t take one of them out in public. The scabs on my scalp are itchy and raised, but I still go to him, and I still tolerate this treatment.

Ninety percent of the time we go to the same bar and meet up with the same people. Some are friends; some are just other bar regulars who have become friends; sometimes David from work comes to the bar. But tonight Lucas and I are going somewhere different because he said he doesn’t have the energy to party tonight.

Somewhere different turns out to be Flatiron Lounge on Nineteenth Street. The drinks are really interesting and expensive, and it’s dark and none of the seats are actually comfortable, and the waitresses are hot enough to make me feel insecure, but Lucas looks really nice in candlelight, so I try not to worry that he might have brought me here to break up with me.

“You look great tonight, honey.” Lucas. His voice sounds a little bit like what I would imagine a diesel engine covered in melted butter would sound like.

“Well, thank you, my dear. I have been sober for a shocking number of hours, and I’m sure that’s a good look.” I have trouble being serious when I’m nervous. Even though Lucas is a project, it’s not part of my plan for him to break up with me, and it’s not part of the plan for the relationship to end now, so I hope this is about something else. Inevitably, this forces me to remind myself of why I’m with Lucas to begin with and why I continue to put up with this.

“I just didn’t have the energy for all the guys tonight, you know? It can be so exhausting going to Nick’s Bar every night.” He really does look like he has it all together.

“Yeah, I hear you.” I lie. On the inside I really want to be at Nick’s because everyone there knows me only just enough to think that I am fabulous and attractive, and they have no idea that I am actually a mess. That’s the kind of crowd I need to be around. When someone else believes this show, when a whole group thinks this act is real, when scores of intelligent human beings look at Lucas and me together and they see us as stable, rational, healthy adults in a stable, rational, healthy adult relationship, then I can believe it. I need to believe it. This fancy show we put on, this ruse, this bullshit we sling, I need it. I need to make people believe that I am alright, because if they think I am, then maybe I can think I am, too. And that’s why I tolerate it.

Right now, as I’m looking at all these leggy Europeans, I am starting to feel smaller and uglier and more and more in need of alcoholic sustenance, but I am drinking something made with frothy egg white and it isn’t going to cut it.

“Also, I have to admit, that’s not the only reason I wanted to go somewhere quiet tonight.” He is looking at me with what I would describe on someone else as sexy eyes, but on him I just find it comical. He is very handsome, but I’m nervous and I think he looks like a cartoon.

“Oh, yeah? Whassat?” I can feel the sweat starting to bead between my boobs.

“I wanted to talk to you again about the idea of you and I moving in together.” He leans even closer to me, and his elbow takes up the entire cocktail table between us, and I am suddenly aware of how small this bar is, and the lights start to look like they’re pulsing, and I am getting that dizzy feeling where I want to put one foot on the floor, but both my feet are already on the floor, and the music is too loud, and someone is asking me if I want another drink and I think I’m going to pass out. Lucas reaches his hand over to stabilize me, knowing the look I have on my face.

“I’m not pressuring you,” he lies. “I just want to open up these lines of communication again. I know you’re not a fan of cohabitation, and I know you want your independence. But my place is too big for just me, and you would have plenty of space there.” He has leaned back and let go of me.

I’m gesturing to the bartender, so he looks at our waitress and sends her my way. All seven feet of her approach the table and bend down to hear me croak out an order for four shots of Patrón Silver. Lucas gives me a condescending eye that he likes to use on me in places like this because he wants the other guests to believe that he doesn’t binge on booze every single day, and at this club he can keep up that appearance. And Lucas thrives on appearances.

“I like the way things are going with us, Sam. I think we could really make something here.”

“I like us just fine the way we are, Lucas. I don’t think we need to change anything.”

“Why do you have such a fear of commitment?” Crossing his arms, getting defensive. People don’t usually say no to him. I usually say no to him.

“I don’t have a fear of commitment; I’m as committed to everyone in my life as I possibly can be. I’m committed to you, aren’t I? So why can’t I keep my independence?” I may be talking louder than I should.

“You can have your independence and live at my apartment, you know. It doesn’t have to be mutually exclusive.” He can tell that he is getting nowhere. He usually gets nowhere.

The shots arrive, and I throw back two of them before we even have a chance to cheers. Lucas gently picks up the third shot glass, and as I’m reaching for the fourth, he says the same stupid toast he always says: “To being the best at everything, all the time.”

I don’t bother clinking glasses when he leans in, because I think his toast is ridiculous and pompous, and I throw back my third shot. The waitress promptly appears with more napkins and some pretentious artisanal beer, and I wonder if Lucas is living in an alternate universe.

NOVEMBER 3RD, 8:31 A.M.

Richard is in my office. He was standing outside my office door when I came in this morning. Something is bothering him. I am just putting my game face on, still stinking of my morning cigarettes, and I’m not sure I am ready to manage this particular crisis.

“Well, I’m not going to be in groups with her anymore,” he says.

“Richard—” exasperated, tired, extremely hungover “—why can’t you be in groups with Julie?”

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s telling me that if I eat beets my shit will turn red. What do I care about beets? I’m not eating beets. You don’t give us beets here, so where am I gonna eat them? I don’t need to learn about the color of shit from this woman. I’m not going to her groups. I’m not. Give me something else.”

“It’s a nutrition group. These are topics that come up.”

Eyebrows.

“Okay, fine. What other groups do you want? Who can you tolerate?”

“What do you teach? I mean during that time, what group do you teach?”

“The group I run at that time is not appropriate for you. We have a lot of different kinds of patients here, and many of them require more specialized groups. I run a group like that.”

“Can I have free time? Or computer-room time?”

“Well, I think we should look into what your goals for treatment are and how your time would best be spent.”

“My goals? I certainly don’t need to learn about beets and shit.”

“Excrement, Richard. Feces. Don’t say shit.” Which defeats the purpose, but who’s keeping score anyway? He’s seated in my patient chair now, and he leans back and glares out the window with his arms crookedly crossed over his chest.

“You don’t want me causing a scene and yelling at Julie in group.”

“This is true, but it seems to me that you’re a rational adult, capable of controlling yourself and being respectful. If that group is unhelpful, I will take it off your schedule.” I sit down at my desk and reach into my drawer for his file. “What we need to do is work together to figure out what you need from treatment. That includes you completing the clinical evaluations—” I shake the unfinished sheets at him “—and then I will be better able to recommend a group schedule for you that could help you to reach your goals.”

“Again with the goals.”

“Yes, most people are here to strive toward therapeutic goals.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?” I ask. The hangover headache is gripping my eyeballs, and I want nothing more than to close my eyes and lie down. “Shall we take this time to discuss your goals?”

“I’ll think about what I want to get out of my time here.” He walks out as he says this. I realize that I have achieved nothing but giving Richard the upper hand. Now he doesn’t have to go to one of his assigned groups, and I am not closer to completing his file, or having any clue what he’s doing here. I swallow two Advil with a long pull of coffee and prepare to face the day.

My phone rings before the Advil has the chance to take effect. It’s David.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he says in his happy, sober voice.

“Good morning. Please don’t need anything from me. I’m dying from a hangover.”

“Well, that’s a nice change from every other morning. Did you steal my Advil?”

“Yes. Is that why you’re calling me?” I’m rubbing the bridge of my nose with one hand and turning the volume down on the receiver with the other.

“No, I’m calling because I didn’t bring anything for lunch today, and I want you to come with me to that new place on Riverside.”

“You want me to walk to Riverside Drive?”

“Stupid question, huh?”

“Yes. Very, very stupid. But you should feel free to bring me a sandwich when you come back.” I smile to myself. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have David here to bullshit with.

NOVEMBER 6TH, 6:14 P.M.

I’m sitting on the roof of Lucas’s apartment building with his dog, Maverick. Maverick is wearing a cashmere sweater, and we are waiting for Lucas to come back up here with a bottle of wine he’s been talking about. Lucas wanted to come up to see the sunset before daylight saving time turns the city dark at 4:30 p.m. It’s Sunday, and other people seem to have had the same idea. Manicured boxwood hedges are separating the section we are sitting in from other seating areas on the roof, and every now and again, I see the plume of someone else’s cigarette smoke.