Read Online I Don't Want to Be Crazy by Samantha Schutz - Free Book Online Page A

this before.
The idea of blocking out
all other sounds has always been scary.
It makes my heart race,
makes me feel like I can’t breathe,
but today I crank it up
and want to cry
because this is not easy
and this is the first work
I have done in years.
    I have decided that it is time
to do something drastic.
I am going to get a real French haircut.
    Sitting in the chair,
the stylist inspects my face.
He checks me out from all angles
and then gestures how short he is going to cut—
at least five inches from the front
and even more from the back.
I’m scared, but I need this
weight off of me.
    I miss home
or at least being able to go home.
Looking at photos makes me want to cry.
I sit in my room,
staring at the phone,
not knowing who to call.
I’ve already forgotten the numbers.
    I have become an introvert
because I don’t have a large enough vocabulary
to be anything else.
    Locked inside my head, my body,
all I do is think
and it is making me well.
    I am trying to find myself
in all of the chaos,
find something that I can call me
inside the screams and inside
the you should s and you have to be s.
    I am grown in so many ways,
but in front of my parents
I am still a child.
I am having a hard time throwing off the skin
that I pick and peel.
I am the only one who can do it,
but I can’t seem to let myself.
    I am getting so healthy here.
I can close my eyes on the metro
and let the speed move me—
another thing I could never do before.
    I have found my body
and come to terms with the space it takes up.
I am confident enough to know
that even when there is only blackness around me
and voices with no mouths—
that I still remain.
Before, I disappeared.
    I have found a comfortable space—
five feet six inches,
one hundred and thirty pounds,
with long fingers and toes,
small breasts,
and I like what I see.
    Progress, baby steps.
I feel like I am checking things off a list,
but instead of accomplishing feats
like skydiving or swimming with sharks,
I am listening to my CD player on high in public
and keeping my eyes shut around other people.
It seems crazy to be proud of these things,
but I am.
    Living with Laurence and her family
is a lot like living with my parents.
I wake up to the sounds of screaming and fighting.
When Rebecca sleeps over,
she doesn’t understand how I deal with it.
    I feel like a member of their family.
I watch cartoons with Augustin
when he gets home from school.
I drink wine and smoke
with Laurence as she cooks dinner.
I go to parties with Phyllis
and her friends.
And then there is Alexis.
He has the maturity of a six-year-old
and is obsessed with James Dean and Elvis Presley.
He has to be told when to eat
and when to shower.
He is anxious around people,
especially women,
and does not realize that when he stares
he makes people nervous.
I have infinite patience with him
as he shows me his collection
of James Dean memorabilia
and asks me to translate Elvis songs.
I spend hours helping him
with his math homework.
Laurence is amazed at the progress we make
and jokes that she is going to fire his tutor.
    The city has been wet and gray since I got here.
Finally seeing the sun
and sitting in the Luxembourg Gardens
makes such a big difference.
Being outside is a pleasure.
In the sun I can see myself.
I don’t know when I have felt this calm.
It’s the sun
and the fact that I stayed on the metro
five extra stops
just to hear a man playing the drums.
    I get so much smaller when I am in a city.
I remember the first time
I realized that I wasn’t the only person who cried.
I was in the car, pulled up to a red light.
Maybe I was crying, or one of my parents was yelling,
or maybe I was just staring out the window,
but in the backseat of the car next to us
was a little girl crying.
    All of a sudden the world opened up
and it’s doing it again now.
In this garden there are so many stories,
so many other problems besides mine.
    I am jealous of the little kid
spinning around near the fountain.
What would these