Manic Winter - Chapter IV

Chapter IV - Mrs. Satan The Psychoanalyst

          It was about that time that our teacher Mrs. Satan strolled over. She really gets a kick out of pulling apart pig guts. She claims that taking apart pig intestines doesn’t even gross her out one bit, but I know she’s pulling our legs. There is no way you can look at a rotten pile of pig guts and not feel even a little bit grossed out. I mean, we have skin for a reason. All that stuff is supposed to stay inside the body.

          “Jerry, do you even know where the liver is?” said Ryan.

          That was very irritating. He was trying to make me look stupid in front of the teacher while at the same time making himself look smart. It’s not like it even makes a bit of difference whether I know where a pig’s liver is or not. I guarantee the president of the United States of America doesn’t have a clue in Hell where a pig’s liver is, and he seems to get by just fine. But regardless of how meaningless it all is, I pointed right to the pig’s liver. That was a big mistake. I bet if I would have just kept my arms where they were and not have pointed at that liver I could have avoided this whole thing. That’s the problem with me; I’m always doing something stupid because I’m worried about what people are thinking. If I just would have stopped caring about whether the three of them thought I was smart or not and controlled my pointing reflexes, I could have stayed in school all day.

          The next thing you know, Mrs. Satan is grabbing my wrist and turning my arm over, scoping out my fresh burn.

          “What is this?” she asked.

          “Nothing,” I replied. I wasn’t even lying either. It’s not like my cuts and burns are some big goddamn deal. It was exactly what I said; nothing.

          “Jerry, why don’t we have a talk out in the hall,” she said. She really changed her tone of voice when she dropped that bomb. To be honest she sounded genuinely worried about me. She led me out in the hall and I had a seat in front of the window and kind of squirmed around a little just to put on a bit of an act. I just like, stared out the window like a tarsier.

          “Lately I’ve been noticing a change in your behavior,” she said. That really bothered me. There’s nothing I dislike more than someone analyzing my behavior.

          “Don’t patronize me,” I said. Patronize. What a joke. I thought I would just throw that word out there.

          “Jerry, I’m not patronizing you. I’m being serious. Is there anything you would like to talk about?” she said. Classic afterschool special, am I right?

          “You have no idea. Do you want a little clue as to what it’s like to be me? You walk around everywhere and people are always freaking out about you; what you’re wearing and the way you look and what you said to some girl about meeting a girl for lunch. They’re all lying to me, Elizabeth. They lie, and talk behind my back, and freak out about everything I do. But here’s the thing. They secretly freak out about it and you never know they’re doing it. They do it all secretly just to make me crazy.”

          “I see.”

          My gosh. When people say “I see” that’s just code for “I wasn’t listening, but I’ll pretend like I was”. She couldn’t dissect even a morsel to digest to fuel a decent, holistic reply? She replied with “I see.” I mean, she asked me if there was anything I wanted to talk about. If she wanted to talk to me, I’ll talk. I’ll probably just make up a bunch of meaningless garbage just to feed her pseudo-psychological mindset, however. I mean, seriously. Did she think she was my shrink all of the sudden?

          “Look, Elizabeth,” I said being a little condescending. I bet that bothered her just a bit. Teachers don’t like it when you address them by their first name. I didn’t care though. If she wanted me to talk, I’ll talk.

          “Do you want to know what it’s like to look into someone’s eyes and see nothing but emptiness? That’s all I see, just empty eyes wandering these goddamn halls. People look at me and I have to wonder who they are and where they came from and what they are going to do and everything like that. And it’s not just with one or two people. It’s with everyone, even the people I hate a lot. It’s just the worlds behind the eyes Elizabeth. That’s it. I can’t take it anymore.”

          I was really hamming it up at this point. I just couldn’t help it. I exaggerated quite a bit, I always do. But I think some of the things I said were stemming from truth, but I’m not entirely sure. I wonder what that really says about me, when even I don’t know if I’m telling the truth or just speaking falsehoods.

          “Jerry, you sound very depressed. I can see it in your face. Maybe we should take you down to the office and call your parents. After that we’ll get you some help.”

          “Fine,” I said hesitantly. I really didn’t feel like cooperating. I mean, she just said she wanted to talk about things, not analyze my goddamn behavior like Sigmund Freud. She led me through the hallways down to the principal’s office. This was obviously getting pretty bogus already. We arrived at the office and she asked me to have a seat, but boy howdy did I not want to cooperate. But I did. But believe me, they knew I wasn’t happy about it. As soon as I sat down in the chair I just buried my face in my hands. I’ll admit I was quite upset. I couldn’t help it though. I mean, how would you feel if you were minding your own damn business, dissecting pig intestines, having a jolly good old time, and the next thing you know you’re being ordered around and psychoanalyzed?

          “So what’s going on, exactly?” the principal Mr. Smith asked my teacher.

          “Well, we have a bit of a situation,” said Mrs. Satan. “I’ve noticed a very serious change in his behavior as well as evidence of self-harm.”

          That killed me, seriously. I mean, Hell, I could tell by just the way she said that that she thought she was being professional. I guarantee she thought she was pretty hot shit talking about my serious behavior and all. She probably had them fooled, but she didn’t fool me. I’m seeing right through your façade like a crystal clear pond ya’ dumb broad, I thought to myself.  

          “I’ll call his father,” said Mr. Smith glancing at his computer.

          I just thought this was slightly ironic. You see, in elementary school, I got sent to the principal’s office every single day. For stupid reasons, too. In third grade I really liked the teacher we had in the beginning of the year, but she got way too old and wrinkly and eventually retired. The school then appointed this monstrous red-headed bitch as our teacher, freckles and all. I didn’t like her and I tried to lead revolutions during class time against her, clearly due to some kind of innate ginger friction. Some kids only laughed and one kid threw an eraser with me once. But it was almost always me that got in trouble. I remember one year we had the five mile run or walk for the end of the year celebration. They wouldn’t let me go. All they did was let me eat a popsicle in the office for my celebration instead of going to the park to frolic with the other children. I wasn’t too happy about that; but it is kind of what I get for being such a smart ass. But I really didn’t think I was that bad anymore. But then again, look where I was; years later, running my mouth in the principal’s office again. Oh by the way, you might want to know that I used to believe that leprechauns lived inside the crab apple tree at the bottom of the playground in Elementary school. Every time I start reminiscing about my Elementary school days I always think of those magical leprechauns eating berries and running Cash for Gold inside that odorous crab apple tree.

          I still had my face buried in my hands. I don’t know where this came from, but my eyes started to get a little teary. I didn’t really know why it was happening at all, but it was. I mean, I definitely wasn’t balling or anything, but there were one or two tears streaming down my face. Not that many tears though. I didn’t want them to think that I was too depressed or anything.

          “Jerry, you have to tell us what’s the matter,” said Mrs. Satan as she leaned over towards me. The school police officer and the dean walked in after she said that. I mean, who were they going to call next? The mayor? Now I was just too upset. I was in a room full of a bunch of distinguished men in uniforms and suits analyzing my behavior. That just made me feel awful. Alright, I’ll admit that they probably meant well. But seriously, this was just not the way to break into my inner psychological world. I sat there for some time while no one said anything. Pretty soon my dad finally showed up.

          “What’s the m-m-m-matter bud?” he said. Like I said, he has a stuttering problem.

          I couldn’t take it anymore at this point. I was about ready to freak out if these people weren’t going to get off my back. You just can’t imagine what it’s like. If there are people all around you trying to figure out what’s making you so sad, you just feel even sadder and sadder. It was quite the situation.

          “I ruined my family…” I stammered. I was so goddamn chattering nervous and uptight at this point I could barely even talk. It was the only thing I could think of to say. I mean, I couldn’t just come right out and say what I did, could I? Not in front of all those people. I mean, I had to at least try to explain to them why I was so down in the dumps; but I couldn’t come right out and say it. I’ll admit it though; I sure haven’t treated everyone in my family with the respect they deserve. I’ll never truly forgive myself for what I did.

          “Show your dad the burn on your arm,” said Mrs. Satan forcefully.

          I reluctantly put my arm out and turned it over. My dad didn’t like the look of that too hot.

          “Gosh, bud. I didn’t even know.”

          I wanted to say, “Well now you do”, but I didn’t. By this time I didn’t really feel like making any smart remarks. I just wanted to go home and bury my face into my pillow for days. I wouldn’t even talk to anyone. I would move to Chilé or Argentina or something, where everyone speaks Spanish and I would have no idea what anyone was saying. Nobody would know my name and I could be a drifter with a bandana and plenty of change for burritos. I would just be all alone. It’s not like I’m anti-social or anything, but sometimes it’s just nice to be alone.

          “So we have to decide what we’re going to do with you,” said the principal.

          Now all of this was really starting to get on my nerves. Here I was, freaking out and they are acting like I’m the problem of the day. I was perfectly happy in Zoology dissecting pig intestines. But some people just have to dive head first into your problems and turn it into some sort of spectacle. These people were just outrageous. It was all too much.

          “The psych ward at Great River only takes adults. We’ll probably have to take him to Iowa City,” said the principal.

          Oh my. I lifted my head right up after I heard that. I did not want to go to some hospital. I mean, not just a hospital, a psych ward for chrissake. The moment I heard those words I started thinking padded rooms and straight jackets and electro-shock therapy. I would meet a creepy autistic that would plant delusions in my mind and upset me if I ever wound up there. We would be roommates and he would convince me that exotic matter was used to build the pyramids and if only he can have a piecemeal mixture of my bodily fluids, we could create this exotic matter. I just didn’t even want to think about it. I was getting extremely nervous over all of this. But I wouldn’t wind up in one of those padded rooms or talking to autistics, draining my bodily fluids or something. I really, really hoped I wouldn’t. I admit it, I was scared.

          “Okay. I don’t want to go to some hospital,” I said. That was a dead serious statement right there.

          “Jerry, these places aren’t what you think. You need help. We are just trying to get you the help that you need,” said Mrs. Satan all compassionate and what not.

          I’ll give her some credit. I’ve never seen anyone pretend to care about someone more in my entire life. I mean, she practically had me convinced. You can never be too sure about people. But I was pretty damn close to thinking she might have cared about me, if even just a little. Maybe she actually did?

          Mrs. Satan stepped outside to talk to my dad, and the principal made a few more phone calls while I just sat around weeping mildly and hiding my face in my hands. Pretty soon the whole plan was in motion. They were sending me to the Children’s Psychiatric Unit at the University of Iowa. I was very scared. I didn’t want to go to the hospital. But I was going, no two ways about it. They let me go home for awhile to pack my things and eat something. It was very depressing. It felt like I was going to jail.