Normal

Melissa Ellenor
           
I choke as the floodgates open, snot, mucus, and blood spattering out of my nose onto my math homework. The girl to my right glances at me. My brain begins to spasm – I can feel each nerve popping as my thoughts try to surface. The teacher keeps yapping. My hands are saturated with sweat and blood, and my homework has drowned. My pencil rolls off my desk, and the girl next to me picks it up, handing it back to me with a smile. My skin turns inside out, exposing my pathetic muscular structure to the world. Blood pools around my desk. My lungs turn inside out, and fly away. Bye bye lungs. My eyeballs pop out of my skull as I glance at the clock. I need to run, I need to scream. The bell rings.

“Did you get that math homework?” Amanda bounced up to me. I remained seated, waited for the excuse. “Me and Darien kind of … got sidetracked… and I didn’t have time to do the work…” She shut up as I handed her my newly corrected homework. She would get full credit for having all the right answers.
“Oh thank you so much Ava, you’re a sweety!” She bounces off to class. I stare at the empty spot next to me, where a friend should have been, where a void sat instead.

As I walk to my next class, each one of my toes falls off. I’m thankful to sit down once I get there. The bell rings. My pinky finger falls off. Music – my favorite subject; least favorite class. My teacher has this tendency to make metaphoric analogies to learning music, and take them much further than they should ever go. He takes the “swimming pool” analogy, and beats it into the ground, explaining, in detail, how we’re just wading into the shallow end of the pool with this new material. No, wait, we’re just testing the water with our toe. No, actually, we’re just looking at the pool. He picks the analogy off the ground, piece by piece, and beats it again. My ears fall off. Thank God.

I drive home, static ridden classical music blaring out the rolled down windows of my 84’ Caddy. I hope the wind will pick up some of the trash from my back seat and carry it out the window. The static of the radio station allows me to ignore my well crafted mess, providing an appropriate soundtrack for my life. The wind tunnels through my car, giving me the idea that I am, in fact, free of my own mind. Secretly, I collect trash, or at least that’s what I tell myself.  I’ve got a whole six months worth of shit in here: credit card statements from the thousands spent on my mother’s card (including the system that now conveniently allows me to ignore the bill), rotted milk skims the bottom of my favorite yellow coffee cup from two days ago, old prescription bottles, some empty, some partially full of an old dose, Arrowhead water bottles – at least ten dollars worth in plastic, flyers for old parties I never went to, job applications, the one for Starbucks half filled out, and the others for Vons, and AMC remained blank – I had recently abandoned my hopes of being a corporate pawn - newspapers – mostly the New York Times -  never read, and almost still neatly folded, grocery bags full of food I forgot about – my junk food stint that had erupted for three weeks had died out before I finished all the food, homework, mostly math, long since overdue, and Girl-scout cookies, out of place in the winter setting outside the car. My nose falls off.

“Hey Mom!” I chime as I bustle inside.
“Hey sweety, how was class?” She continues to wash dishes, and doesn’t glance up.
“It was alright, my music teacher is still driving me nuts.”
“That’s good…” she mumbles, transfixed by a speck of stubborn food, “did you clean your room?”
“No, I’ll do it tomorrow, I have some …” well, homework would have been the last word if I had bothered, but by the time I reached the top of the stairs of our elegant tract home, conveniently modeled after our neighbor’s, it didn’t matter. I don’t think she would have heard me either way.

By the time my homework is finished, I’ve completely decayed, body parts scattered around my room, mixed in with the same genre of trash found in my car. I look down at my skeleton, admiring the clean bone structure. I doze, The last few nights I have had a recurring dream in which I emerged, from a cocoon, a confused void, as a beautiful butterfly. My wings stretch into a gorgeous span of color, and despite my sporadic flying capabilities, everyone loves me.

Mmmm…Saturdays are wonderfully lazy. I paint part of my walls orange today. I hate the color orange, but it fits. It feels right. As I’m painting, I glance over into the full sized mirror next to my bed. Long brown hair, dull grey eyes, heart shaped face. Full figured, but not fat, nor chubby – just full figured. As my mother would say “isn’t it nice to have a normal body?” I’m attached today.

Sunday - another day at home. I rolled out of bed, tripped on my way down the stairs, leaving a foot behind. Great way to start off the day.
The telephone rang. It was a wrong number, but the caller refused to hang up.
“With whom am I speaking?” He asked.
“My name is Mary, and I already told you, no Jeanette lives here, you have the wrong number.” My mother was becoming agitated.
“Are you sure?”
“What do you mean are you sure? Of course I’m sure, I live here.” Now she was completely flabbergasted by this unknown caller. I’m amused by her lack of patience, now that I don’t have to experience it first hand. I smile to myself.
“Well, I need to talk to Jeanette.”
“There’s no Jeanette here. My daughter is Ava, not Jeanette.” Her face lit up, as if a light switch was automatically flipped in her head. “Are you the boy that Ava has been…seeing?” You bitch! No, I don’t say it. My smile has long since faded, my bones crumble in awe at my mother’s question. My cheeks fill with blood, bursting with embarrassment. The caller has hung up. I don’t say anything as I walk away from the room.
“What?” My mother asks, so innocent, so unknowing. Sometimes I pity her.

Tuesday, I awake to the static of my alarm. I’m late. I grab the two nearest articles of clothing on the floor – baggy jeans that never really fit and a pink fuzzy sweater. The last time I had worn this pink sweater was when I took my best friend to the airport. It had been cold, and it was the last time I would see her for the next few years.
 I slip into my sandals, pull back my messy brown hair, shove a small amount of toothpaste into my mouth to mask my bad breath, and run out the door. On my way to the car, the cold hits, and I remember – definitely still winter. No time to change, just roll up the windows and go.  At least I had the right idea with the sweater. The Caddy starts, and I glance at my mess. Hopeless.  I turn up the radio – the static helps. I hate the mess. My eyes begin to burn, and my eyelashes fall off one by one, dancing in front of my eyes before bouncing off the steering wheel. I screech to a halt in the school parking lot fifteen minutes later, papers and bottles clamoring out of my car along with me. My finger slams in the door – I leave it behind.
           
By the time I’m done with math, my hair has fallen out, and I’ve bitten my fingers clear off at the knuckle. I’m ready to gouge my eyes out with my very own newly created stubs.
“Hey Ava, have a good weekend?” Amanda always looked so bright and perfect; her belt matched her new suede blue boots, along with her blue sweater, and blue headband. The cream colored scarf almost looked out of place, until I noticed the cream colored snowflakes on her belt. Nothing was ever out of sorts with her. It disgusted me.
“It was alright, just kinda hung around, you know.”
Translation: I stayed as far away from my room, car, and mother as humanly possible, and no, she didn’t know. She didn’t care. 
“That sounds like fun! Did you do the math homework..?” She pauses. I wait for it. “Me and Darien went skiing, and you know how it gets, I just never got around to quite finishing it…”
Translation: I spent the weekend fucking my boyfriend and completely blew off my homework, can I copy yours?
No bitch, do it yourself.
            I hand her the math homework.
“Hey, I gotta run, thanks cutie!!  I’ll call you later!”
No she wouldn’t. My arm falls off. 
           
Ah, I’m free. Well, almost. I step out of my car, and my leg falls off. I look at it for a second. My mother comes running up to me.
“Ava, we’re late!! Lets go, I have a meeting after this!”  We rush into Dr. Rabin’s office, my mother apologizing repeatedly for our “tardiness.” Since when do adults use the word tardy unless they’re a teacher? It made me angry. I sit down on the white, cushy leather chair in front of his desk, my mother taking a seat in my chair’s twin on my right. Dr. Rabin sits in front of his desk, the figure of his head blocking out the sun. His round body his silhouetted, and I try focusing on the plaid vest he has chosen for the day, matched with boring, tan, corduroy pants. I still have to squint.
“So, how’ve we been feeling over the past couple weeks?” We?
“She’s still been doing … interesting … things over the past couple weeks. But, she’s going to school every day and doing her homework, at least that’s what her teachers say. Oh, and she hasn’t been painting at three in the morning anymore – I get up and check on her.” Somehow I’m the neurotic one here. My stomach begins to turn inside out.
“And how’ve you been feeling Ava?” Oh, ok, now that we’ve gone over how we feel, I can speak. Got it. My skin crawls across the floor, my chest cavity exposed, my heart beating soundly, the air rushing in, constricting my throat.
“Fine.” Truth is, I’ve been feeling clouded again. For example, two weeks ago, I met a guy at the grocery store. We fucked in the back of my car. I don’t know his name, nor did I bother to ask. I also spent 600 dollars on a new system for my car on my mother’s credit card. I don’t know why I do these kinds of things – it always feels right at the time. But I’m not about to explain that to Dr. Rabin. It doesn’t matter anymore, I guess; no matter what I tell him he ups to dose, and I either go nuts, or crawl in bed and don’t leave for weeks at a time.
“Lets try upping the dose of your Lithium. I’m really liking what I’m seeing with this medication. Take two of the pills you have now twice a day and I’ll give you a new prescription right now, so when you run out, you’ll have a refill at a new dose. Take only two of those once a day. Come back and see me in two months.” See what I mean? My teeth begin to decay, and within seconds, only the fillings are left. I glance at my mother – she looks pleased at the good news, her head filled with the hope that I will one day be just like all the other kids.

We’re outside of Dr. Rabin’s office. My mother kisses me on the cheek, mumbling something about cocktails with the girls. I thought she had a meeting? My jaw falls off, my fillings scattering along the concrete, creating a song as they hit the pavement. She scurries away to her car, and I flop into mine. I think about her for a second – she’s not flawless. I don’t see why she expects me to be. I imagine her drinking, laughing too loud at the bar, coming home around 10, reminding me to clean up my room, and passing out in hers. I can feel my heart pounding in my head. I deflate.

Three weeks later, Tuesday. I’m on time this morning. I slip the two little white pills under my tongue, and chase them down with a shot of orange juice. I’m dressed for the weather too, scarf and all, however I still don’t match. I’m ok with that. As I’m walking towards the door, my mother stops me.
“Sweety, when are you going to clean your room?” I get frustrated.
“Why don’t we work on me getting to school on time first, and then I’ll clean my room.” I snap.  She looks like she is going to cry for a second – my ultimate weakness. “I’m sorry, but seriously I have to go.”
“Don’t forget to clean it up when you get home!” She’s so cheery. I roll my eyes, but she can’t see. The skin on my back starts to peel off.

 I hop in my caddy, and turn on the radio. Classic rock sounds good to me; however, I don’t turn it up quite so loud this morning. One quick glance at my ever growing mess, and I’m on my way.

            I try and think – when did this mess take over my life? My mind pulls a vivid memory of early may into sight. My eyes cloud as my memory hits play.

            My mother approached me as I was lying on the couch. She sat down, a look of worry on her face – I could never figure out whether she’s worried about herself or me. She pulled out a used condom wrapper, a bottle of Adderall I had stolen from my friend Jenny, and her credit card statement. My knees popped off.           
“What in the hell is all this? Ava, you’re not dating anyone. Who are you having sex with? And who is Jenny Hayes? Not you I can tell you that.” A tone of conviction in her voice. Funny, I thought that was a question. My fingers scattered onto the floor. “And why, oh god why” she began to sob “Are you spending this kind of money on my credit card? You know we’re in debt as it is, what with the mortgage and all. You know!”      Tears flowed down her cheeks, muddy with mascara and blue eye shadow. God I hate it when she cries. She’s so helpless, so blind. That is about when I decided to go back to Dr. Rabin. My liver bursts out of my abdomen, and crawls across the floor, leaving a bloody squiggle behind. I remember that doctor’s visit too.
May was almost a blur – but not quite. I remember everything I did – painted at three in the morning, ran in my bathing suit, rearranged my entire room, ate nothing but raw fruits and vegetables, and stayed up as many hours of the day as I could handle. I started spending more and more on my mom’s credit card, as well – I think when I hit the 5,000 dollar limit, and when she caught me painting at three in the morning in my bathroom, is about when she called Dr. Rabin for an emergency meeting. It was then that the “realization” was made.

The doctors visit was awkward, I don’t think his judgment was justified by the amount of information I gave him – unfortunately he was dead on.
 
He kicked my mom out of the room, and I began my “story.”
“Ava, tell me a bit about your school life, starting with seventh grade.”
It sounded a little something like this:           
“My existence as a middle school student. Alright. I didn’t have a lot of friends. Still don’t. That’s normal though. I really liked to listen to music. That’s also normal. Sometimes I did my homework. That’s normal.” He looked at me. God I hate it when he looks me straight in the eye. It’s like he knows something, but I just don’t want to know what. My hair begins to fall out. I try and scratch my head, but my nails stay embedded in my scalp.
“Tell me about your sleeping habits, eating habits, shopping habits, etc.”
I think for a second. Sleeping habits? Eating habits? Whatever. I try and concentrate. My thumbs are suddenly severed, leaving bleeding stumps behind.  
“I liked food – I was a growing girl. So I was a little chubby, Mom fixed that with the dieting. I slept a lot. If I wasn’t at school, I was most likely sleeping or eating. But like I said, I was a growing girl, what’s your point?” I was getting defensive. I hated the fact that this fat, balding old man was trying to pass judgments on me strictly from my eating habits. Asshole. My middle fingers follow the trend of my thumbs.
 “I think it’s safe to say that you were a little depressed at the time.”
“It’s Jr high you asswipe, who’s NOT depressed?” I cut him off, surprised by my own harshness. My arm flies up in a sign of disbelief at his ignorance. In the process, my hand goes flying across the room, and I’m left, waving a bloody stump. I set my stump in my lap, almost embarrassed. 
“Ok, what about the beginning of high school?”
“It was normal, I got a friend or two, we hung out. I started sleeping less, and eating less, thanks to dieting, and I would only do stupid shit maybe once every couple of months.”
“What kind of stupid things?”
“I would spend a lot of money, and I pierced my nipples with a safety pin once.” I couldn’t believe I told him this. Just do it for Mom was all that went through my head.  My ribs began to pile into my intestines.
“I would run for miles, but I kind of hate running. Stuff like that. But, it would only happen once every couple of months. I’m sporadic, what can I say?” I almost sounded cocky, not like me. I hate it when people are cocky. I almost hated myself at that moment. Made me want to run. I still hated running. My brain began to drain out of my nose, trailing down my face in chunks of mucus.
“Ava” he continued “I’m just trying to help.” I sat. I was furious. I wanted to stab him in the knee with a fork, watch him fall apart. “Your mother and I” fuck your perfect grammar “have met a few times” I bet you fucked her “and I think it’s safe to say, judging by your behavior” and I hope you… “that you could quite possibly be bi – polar.” I stopped my internal dialogue. Bi-polar? I’m not crazy. I don’t cry one minute, laugh the next. I don’t freak out and shoot people when I’m mad. I’m not that extreme. My ear drums pop, and pus begins to flow out of my ears. Or maybe I’m just so angry because he could be right. He brings my mother back in, she’s crying. She’s discovered that this is her best method of persuasion. Fucking great. They babbled about the causes, something about chemical imbalances. I decay further in the corner.
“I noticed that with the use of the Prozac, Ava kind of went out into left field. This signs are common for children” children? Great, now not only am I a child, but I’m a crazy child. “with bipolar disorder.” He continued,  “An anti depressant will send them into a constant mania. Ava also described to me how the past she would do things like run for miles, or spend a large sum of money she knew you didn’t have, but she was depressed for a lengthened period of time prior to this.”
“She’s having sex with random guys and spent a ton of money on my credit card!” blurted my mother. “My daughter is NOT a slut!” Mother, I pity you, I had thought.
“Mrs. Heeley, relax, we can resolve this. Like I said, these symptoms are normal for a child with Bi Polar Disorder. Let me try giving her a medication very commonly used to help treat this. It’s called Lithium. We’ll start with a low dose.”

So here I am. I snap back into reality, the car swerves as I almost hit the curb. I arrive at school – on time. I begin to walk away from my car, but an idea halts my movement. Turning around, I walk back to my car. I grab as much trash as I can, including the nasty coffee cup, and take it over to the dumpster. The cup shatters as it hits the bottom of the dumpster. I feel gratified.

Break time. Amanda flounces up to me
“Hey Ava!”
“Fuck off. Get your boyfriend to do your homework this week.” I get up and walk away. My legs stay intact, and my arms barely even quiver under the weight of my books. Amanda has this awesome look of pure shock on her face. I smile, but she can’t see me. I’m ok with that.

Music class. Now we’ve started wading into the middle part of the pool, but we’re not quite at the deep end yet. Occasionally he lets us wander over to the deep end to try and swim on our own, but halts us if he sees us going too far. I’m surprised his little swimming pool analogy has lasted this long, but I’ve gotten used to it. I almost have come to enjoy it – it takes up valuable class time, which means less homework. I bite my nails a bit, looking down at the hangnail I’ve created. I ignore it. The bell rings. Yes, done for the day. 
I wander out to the car, and peek inside. Yes, there’s still a mess. I open the door, and hop inside. Instead of putting my key in the ignition and leaving, ignoring my mess, I decide to collect a bit more of it, and haul it to the dumpster. I get sucked in. I clean and clean and clean. I don’t want to have to look at this shit anymore. This mess has cluttered my mind for too long. I pick up every last gum wrapper, and toss it in the dumpster behind my school. It’s cold, I can see my breath in the wind, I’m panting. The sky is threatening the arrival of night. I get in my car, door slamming behind me. I look around. Not a spec of trash. I feel free. I roll down the windows, and turn up the radio. The station comes in loud and clear. The wind is cold and biting on my cheek, but I’ve never felt more liberated in my entire life. I glance in the mirror. It’s me. I’m intact. I have my hair, my eyes are a sparkling brown, my face glows with sweat, and I smile.

It’s good to be normal.