An Ill-Fated Search for Coffee

Writing as a coping mechanism isn't exactly a novel idea. It's been suggested to me by a number of people including but not limited to my mother, my therapist, my old pediatrician, and several individuals on tumblr. My condition is, for the most part, a secret and talking it out with friends isn't an option.

In the end, it wasn't advice from this well-meaning list of people that prompted me to document my inner musings. It was an unfortunate meeting with a rather opinionated individual during an ill-fated search for a certain coffee shop. I guess I practically had lost stamped across my forehead, because a girl about my age approached me and asked if I needed directions. Thankfully, I told her the name of the cafe I was looking for to which she responded "I'm headed that way, we can walk together!" I gratefully accepted.

As we walked, we started chatting a little. We talked about our majors, the merits of the particular coffee shop I was headed to, etc. Then, she brought up a debate she had been part of during an ethics class. "I just don't think insurance should have to cover people with mental illnesses, you know?"

I shrugged, saying "I don't know. I think everyone deserves access to health insurance." The girl looked at me with the air of having identified someone in desperate need of education.

"I mean, it's not like those people are really alive, you know," she offered.

"What people?" I asked.

"The people on anti-psychotic drugs."

My blood froze. For some absurd reason, the thought "she knows" flitted through my mind, leaving a terrible trail of panic. She took my silence in stride, and continued. "If there are people who can't stop themselves from committing suicide or blowing up a building or something without medicine, do they even deserve to be alive?"

I grimaced, then tried horribly to disguise it with a noncommittal frown. "I think I see the coffee shop now," I heard myself say. "Thanks for walking me." I strode away, my heart hammering against my ribcage.

The scary part of this encounter for me was the jarring confirmation that people like her exist. People like her might control whether or not I get a job. People like her might control whether or not I am labeled as a psychopath, unfit to mix with "normal" people. I'll continue to keep my secret, but I can no longer keep my silence.