It's A Talent of Mine

I can't feel my limbs. I tell my best friend to hurt me, but he won't, so I bash my arm on the table until I bruise and he holds me so I can't move. It's too much. He's whispering in my ear and people at other tables are trying to look at me without being obvious about it, the florescent lights are flickering and I still can't feel my limbs.

"The nerves are dead. Don't let them cut off my arms, no one wants to have sex with an amputee. Does my skin look blue to you? Dead flesh is supposed to be blue," I mumble.

"Fucking Christ, not now," André says. "Drink your tea and be normal, I need to finish my history paper."

He's in love with me. I'm not in love with him, but I need him, so I try to act normal. I'm not sure, but I think it means not to do things that make everone turn and stare like they're trying not to. It means be not crazy.

"Please stop that, people will think I beat you," André tries to joke when he notices I'm pushing the tines of my fork into my dead arm. "Eat your muffin," he says, taking away the fork. "Please, Nat, please, just eat the damn muffin. Fuck, it's like talking to a four-year-old." He turns back to his textbook. I know when I stop functioning like this it's draining for him, and I would apologize, but I don't want to start something stupid.

"I'm sorry I suck so much." I can't help it, I need him to know I know I'm a pain. "Let's not go to Powell River anymore, then I'll be okay. It's those people, and Derrick, who make me weird," I offer.

"Hmmm..." he responds. He doesn't look up, and it's his sign that I'm only addressing the symptoms, not the problem.

"Or, or, or, we could..." I'm grasping, "...I could go back on Seroquel." I'm hoping he'll say that's a dumb idea. Seroquel is an anti-psychotic medication I used to take. It's supposed to take away the urge to harm yourself or others, but really it's like a strong tranquilizer, it just makes you too tired to do anything about them. I stopped taking it about five months ago because I got too tired to remember if I'd taken one already. If I accidentally overdosed, they'd class it as an "attempt" and make me go back to the hospital. But if André thinks it will make me normal-seeming, I'll figure something out.

"Uhhh...Seroquel. I'm thinking no," he says, extracting himself from the 1800's to look at me. "How about going back to Dr. Podlewski? Or better yet, just tell Derrick to fuck off and die. I'll go with you," he offers, "And then we can buy Twix bars and shove them in his gas tank when he isn't looking," he continues.

I laugh and the tension is gone. André is a genius at making me laugh. I take a bite of my muffin and he goes back to scribbling from his textbook. At least I won't have to go back on Seroquel.

I fuck everything up. It's a talent of mine. It was perfectly serene: I had my tea and my muffin and a book my teacher recommended to me. André had his pretentious nonfat latté and poppyseed bagel and his history paper. Then I have to go and say it.

"André, why am I so screwed up? I mean, I know why, but lots of people have shitty childhoods and they don't think their arms are dead. They can be in a relationship without scaring the other person. Why is my crazy so much more crazy than other people's?" I don't usually say so many words in a row that are that coherent.

He sighs. He doodles a house. He sighs again. "Because you're Natalie. Those other people probably got a chance to see what normal looked like at some point. All you've had to emulate is me, and I'm hardly the poster child for well-adjusted and stable," he tells me. He's right. I don't spend enough time around other people to know how to behave. Not only am I crazy, I'm socially retarded.

André sighs and looks more concerned than usual. A minute ago, he was happily doing his homework; now he's worried I'll do something weird again.

I fuck everything up. It's a talent of mine.