Minor Chords

Paranoid Schizophrenic.

That’s what I heard them say.  

I wasn’t supposed to hear them talking about me, but sometimes, even when they are careful, around the clinic, privacy can be problematic.  

What else can I tell you? 

I sit in my small apartment that is in shambles.  Most of the lightbulbs are burnt out so I live in the dark.  There is an odor that hangs over my place like a cloud, but I’ve gotten used to it over time.  

But there are some things I will never get used to.  Come closer and I will tell you about it.

There is a darkness I hover in when I don’t take my medications. I am on clozapine and some other medications such as that have turned my mind into a chemical soup.  

Most people see me and they assume that I am stupid or mentally handicapped, but let me tell you, that ain’t so. I had a scholarship to Columbia University.  I was going to be a research scientist.  You think I’m talking smack, but it’s a fact.  

I had my first psychotic break when I was in my sophomore year.  I blame the drugs.  You had to take amphetamines if you were going to make it in courses dealing with scientific methods.  I know it was those stimulants that I got hooked on that changed my brain by turning me from a hard working undergraduate into this mental monster I’ve become.

I see the way you’re looking at me.  I get that look all the time from them folks down at the clinic.  You know the one.  On Central Street where all rehab places are.  They got rehab centers for whatever shit you are hooked on.  I’ve spent some serious time in a few of those places.  You know what?  I’m going to tell you.  While I was an inpatient at Solar, the doctor told me I was nuts.  He had me do an intake with the Community Mental Health Clinic.

Boy, you should have seen some of those squirrels they had sitting, waiting for the doctor to see them.  Some of them would be talking to people who weren’t even there.

One of them looked at me and said, Is this your first time here?

Do I look crazy to you? I’m here because the quack at Solar thinks I might have a screw loose.

Do you?  Do you have a screw loose?  I got a few loose screws.

I can believe that.  I seen you talking to someone who wasn’t there.

You mean Godfrey?  He’s real, but no one can see him except for me.  He’s over seven feet tall and he protects me from all the criminals. The criminals are everywhere, you know.

I suppose. I’m Miles Whilmont.

James Sutton. I got a police escort.

What for, James?

I was in the fountain in the park.

Aren’t they being a bit harsh?

No Miles, I was completely naked.

Oh yeah, they don’t like it when you are naked in the fountain.

Mr. Sutton?

Well, it’s my turn.

Good luck James.

Thanks, you too Miles.

My visit got me a room at St. Peter’s Psychiatric Hospital. I guess I was missing some screws.  The doctor who did my intake hadn’t even started shaving.  He had this colorless peach fuzz above his pale lip.  His name tag read “Karl” and he said he was just an intern.  He asked me all of the routine questions and filled in the intake sheet when I answered them.  There were a couple of questions about what city I was living in and other annoying questions to see if I still had a grasp on reality.  This kid didn’t even try to hide the fact these questions were rigged.  

You will see Dr. Keal.

For what?

Evaluation.

Why do I need an evaluation?

Procedure.

Am I crazy?

He will evaluate you.

So, I sat there with the others as the time seemed to slow to a crawl.

I was picked up by the cops when I started yelling at the moon.  It was full and hung low in the night sky like an eyeball looking at me.  Judging me.

Hey, hey, what’s your name? The officer grabbed my elbow.

Miles Whilmont.

Well, Mr. Whilmont, we got complaints about you disturbing the peace from some of the folks who live around here.  Seems you have been shouting, threatening someone.

Can’t you see it?’

See what, Mr. Whilmont?

That man up there with the big eyeball looking down?

Yeah, it’s the moon.  Are you feeling alright? 

I am so sick and tired of everyone asking me that.

I promise, I won’t ask you anymore.

You’re a good cop.

I’d like to think so.  I’m going to take you somewhere in my patrol car.

Where?

Some people who can help you.  This is my partner, Officer Bertinelli.

Hey officer.

Hey, how are you doing?

We are taking him up to Central.

Sounds like a plan.

Dr. Keal’s eyes were puffy.  It seemed like he was finishing a long shift when I walked into his tiny office.  The only thing on his desk was a family portrait of two adult children and a white hair lady he had his arm draped over, both of them smiling.  He was not smiling now when I sat in the chair in front of an ancient wooden desk.

Mr. Whilmont?

Yes, that’s me.

And why are you here?

A couple of police officers brought me in saying I was disturbing the peace.

What is your occupation?

I am between jobs.

Are you employed?

Not at the moment.  I was a student at Columbia University.

Why are you no longer a student there?

I am unable to continue my studies at this time.

Some of your fellow classmates said you had constructed a shelter in the commons.

Yes, I felt safer there.

In the outdoors?

Yes Dr. Keal.

Seems it would be dangerous considering some of the homeless who travel through the campus.

I had my defenses.

I see. Where are you staying now?

I have a small apartment.

They don’t tell you the results of your evaluation, but I was remanded to the Community Mental Health Center where I was assigned to Dr. Bingham who is considered the senior member of the adult mental health team. His expertise is supposedly in the upper atmosphere of mental health treatment, but from the moment I walked into his lavish office I considered our doctor-patient relationship antagonistic at best. 

On one of his office walls was filled with framed diplomas and certificates testifying that I was the presence of royalty as far as mental health was concerned.  His condescending attitude was more than I could stomach, but the wall of fame hung heavy on me and made me feel like a minor chord.  

As a musician, a minor chord is when the musician changes the mood of a piece from that of hope and wonder to a more solemn mood more fitting with what is taking place at the moment. 

He totally accepted the evaluation Dr. Keal had done the week before.  Using the DSM-V on his desk, he thumbed through a thousand or so pages and, pretending that I was not there, began to write on the form set on his desk.  

I have a prescription for you.

Prescription?

Yes, you may pick it up in our pharmacy.

Pharmacy?

Yes, it’s in the next building. It will help with your symptoms.

Which are?

Listed on the bottle of pills.  Good day.

That’s it?

What else do you require?

What is wrong with me?

Do not concern yourself with it.

I would like to know.

But you don’t need to.  We can manage that for you.

I left his office feeling like a laboratory rat.  I had heard some places were still doing electroshock therapy to help reduce anxiety.  One of the key symptoms of most mental illnesses was anxiety.

Some of the dreams I was having were about finding myself in a dark place where I felt alone and abandoned.  I would call out, but all I heard in return was a depressing echo.  There was always some long hallway.  I would walk in silence.  The oppressive journey made me feel lost.  

When I couldn’t sleep, I would go for a walk around the block.  I would cordially greet anyone who happened to be out walking their dogs, but they would look at me as if I was a monster.  They would avert their eyes as if one glance would turn them into stone. 

When I’m awake, I get the same reaction.  I hate it, because there are those ill-informed individuals who believe that mental illness is an infectious disease.  It’s not. It is a roll of the DNA on whether we inherit it from our parents.  I’ve also been told it can be dormant.  Just because we have the gene of mental illness does not mean we will necessarily get it or not.  I’m one of the lucky ones, I guess.  

So, I’m in the middle of one of my nightmares when I hear a knock at my door. I put my bare feet on the ground and go to see who it is.  I open the door and a young lady is standing there smiling at me.

I’m Lucy Barnes.

What can I do for you?

Are you Miles Whilmont?

Yeah, who wants to know?

I am your case manager.

My what?

From the Community Mental Health Center. I have been assigned as your case manager.

Great.  Now what?

I need to check in with you to see how you are managing.

I’m alright.

May I come in?

Sure.

She walks in like she’s been here before.

Where are the lights?

All the bulbs need to be replaced.

Why haven’t you done that?

Because I don’t have the money to buy new ones.

I can help with that.

I roll my eyes, because I can feel that this is an intrusion. 

We must do something about the odor as well, Mr. Whilmont.

I kinda like it.

No, this is not healthy.  

I’m not sick.

Oh no, look at these dirty dishes.  Tell you what, let me help you with these.

I’d rather you wouldn’t.

She already has the water running in the sink.  She put some soap in and bubbles appeared.

I’ll wash.  You dry.

She hands me a towel from my drawer near the sink.  I’m not certain the towel is clean, but at least it’s dry. She stays for an hour cleaning the dishes in the sink.  I dry them and put them away.  It is the first time I can remember having clean dishes.

I have to be on my way, but I will be checking in once a week to see how you are doing.  I will bring some light bulbs when I come next time.

Alright. 

I close the door.  She is gone, but I hear voices again.  Voices telling me what an awful person I am.  I wish they would go…nevermind. I turn on the television, but the voices are now shouting over the volume of the idiot box.  That’s what my dad called it just before he left for good.  Some game show it on and people are jumping around like fools.  And I’m the crazy one?  

So, Miles, tell me when all this started?

In my sophomore year at Columbia.

What did you experience?

I started having nightmares.

What were they like?

I was in a dark cave and all of these faces kept popping out at me.

Like a funhouse?

Yeah, like a funhouse.  My dad liked to take me on those carnival rides that scare the shit right out of you.  I didn’t like them, but I wasn’t gonna tell my dad that I hated them. It was the only good memory I had of him.

What about your mother?

What about her?

What memories do you have of her?

She was always too busy after he left.

I see.

Don’t do that game where you pretend to understand what it was like.  You have no idea.

You’re right.  Sorry.

I was flabbergasted.  I could not remember a single time when someone apologized to me for making a careless statement.  Everyone I had come in contact with seemed to know what was best for me, disregarding how I felt about what I was going through.  The medication only exasperated the symptoms, but was supposed to help me get through the day.  There had to be a better way.

It didn’t help that while I was sitting in the waiting area, I overheard one of the patients talk about James Sutton’s suicide.  According to what I had heard, James stole a gun from his father’s locked gun cabinet, put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.  He had enough.  I sat there waiting for Dr. Bingham trying to fight off tears.  James was a decent guy. I hated having to hear that from another patient who did not even know I was eavesdropping.  

Hey Miles, I will see you later in the week.

Sure, Miss Barnes.

That’s Ms. 

Got it.

And I’m bringing light bulbs. 

Sounds like a date.

She rolled her eyes as I waved as I left the center. I could not believe James had done what he did.  It wasn’t the first time and I knew damn sure it would not be the last.  Living with someone else screaming at you in your head can be hard for some people to take.

It seemed strange to me that I still had not been told what my diagnosis was. It was like some big secret they were keeping from me.  Everyone smiled at me and told me to have a nice day. 

Hey there, Miles.

Do I know you?

My name is Karl van Hoffsted.

Who are you?

I am the man who lives in your head.  You don’t want to know me because then you will know you are crazy.

You were the dude who showed up in one of my classes at Columbia.

One in the same.  

I hate you.  I hate you because you took me away from what I loved.

So sorry, but you were feeling the electric ride of amphetamines.  You like that feeling.  You like it so much, you couldn’t give it up even when I showed up. You did not love it enough to give it up, did you, Miles? Now, I am a permanent fixture in your life.  Your medications cannot wash me out of your head.  They may make you feel as though you can tolerate me, but the truth is there is no fix to this condition you have.

His laughter echoed in my head as his image faded right in front of my eyes.  I sat on a park bench and put my head in my hands.  The sunlight was blinding.  My head was swirling. I do not remember what happened next until a nurse in scrubs shook my shoulder.

Are you waking up?

Ahhh.

You’re safe now.

Am I?

Yes, the police found you passed out on the bench.  They called for an ambulance.

When?

Yesterday.  

I’ve been passed out since yesterday?

Yes, Mr. Whilnont.

My head hurts.

I can get you something for that.

No, not everything requires medication.  

Alright, if you insist.

I do.

I felt myself walking into a cave when I closed my eyes.  The fluorescent lighting hurt my eyes and head.  Closing them was a relief.

Yes Dr. Bingham, he was brought in yesterday unconscious.

Well, it seems he had an episode.  They are becoming more frequent. 

So what is he suffering from?

Severe and persistent chronic mental illness.  Paranoid schizophrenia.

The hammer had been dropped.  I felt a tremor as both my arms and legs stiffened.  What I had feared the most had landed on me.  Tears rolled down my cheeks and soaked the pillow beneath my head.