Maybe I'm Going Mad Too

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
The diary of a very sad girl.Elizabeth.Lizzie.She thought she was going insane.Maybe she already was.After all,she had been admitted into a mental institution.Maybe she belonged there.

Submitted: July 20, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 20, 2012





A Story…My Story

Although avoiding the whole subject of my existence seems much more appealing ,I suppose this is inevitable .I realise that my freedom from this not so lovely institution is one little lie away ,but I can’t help but feel like cheating right at the end would turn all the hard work I put into this  into nothing. So, instead of filling white pages with lies about being cured and looking forward to a happy life, I’ve decided to just tell the truth. The oh so disappointing truth. Because, the truth is, I don’t feel cured one bit. I don’t feel content with myself, I don’t feel at peace, if anything I feel worse. I feel like I’ve gone mad. The world isn’t like it used to be. These people are all insane and I’m afraid I’m becoming just like them. They’ve all come here looking for help, looking for a guiding light that would give them the key to recovery, maybe happiness. All these girls scratching furiously at the pink lines adorning their arms, they’re lining the bathrooms when your vultures aren’t looking, waiting to get rid of their meals, their sins, waiting to feel pretty. If you ask them their favorite season, they’ll all say “Winter” and you’ll think of the beautiful snow and the laughter of children unwrapping presents, when really they’re thinking of thick sweaters covering  protruding bones and feeling embarrassed over too tight hugs and ‘ohmygod what if they can feel? what is they know?’. I suppose you can’t listen to anything I say, since I am one of them. But the thing is, I didn’t do it because I didn’t feel pretty or wanted or I didn’t get enough attention from my mum growing up.

And here my story begins. I suppose I ought to start from the beginning .Hi. Hello. My name’s Elizabeth(Mum always said a lady should introduce herself by her full first name, that was one of the many rules my mum tried to burden me with).You can call me Lizzie. Everybody does. Maybe except from grandpa, who sometimes forgets who I am and calls me by my great aunt’s name, who everybody says I look like. I don’t mind, though. Sometimes grandpa forgets his own name! Plus, Cass is a very lovely name. My great aunt was a very lovely person. She always gave me candy and made sure I never left her house without a bouquet of the beautiful pink roses she grew in her small cozy garden.

I have a brother. His name’s Charlie, but I call him Slug sometimes, because he always manages to get covered in dirt from pretending to be Peter Pan and leave a trail of mud everywhere he goes. Plus, he rarely does anything. The doctors say he has mental problems, but I know he’s just observant. Unlike other siblings, we rarely ever fight. He keeps mostly to himself and I do too. But sometimes, we have these rare, special moments where he asks me grown-up questions, and I can swear he’s not a little boy anymore. His voice is so sad and tired and instead of little , shy Charlie, I can see sad, tired Charles. Once he asked me

‘Lizzie, what happens when we die? Do people remember us?’ and he looked at me with his honey eyes, curious as ever and I said

‘Well, Bumblebee(that’s what I called him in our special moments) , do you remember aunt Helen?’


‘Then see ,when we die, we go to another place, and maybe we get to be other people. Maybe when you die, you’ll get to be an astronaut, or a pilot. But we’ll never be forgotten by the people who loved us. They’re the ones who’ll always remember us.’ I tried explaining as soft as I could, not wanting my little brother to wonder about the aspects of death as such a young age.

‘I wish they didn’t.’

‘Why do you say that, Bumble? Don’t you want to remember all the fun we had once I’ve gone off to be a ballerina ?’ I asked him, chuckling softly at his strange thoughts. I’ve never once wished my brother was normal. Surely, we enjoy annoying each other and bickering , but never once have I wanted to trade my little brother for another. He’s special. He thinks like most adults. He rarely gets excited about anything like the rest of the children his age do. Our parents have a problem with that. They think his mind is sick. They once tried giving him little capsules the doctors thought would make my brother’s thoughts happier. He came to me crying that night,  clutching the bottle of medicine in his little fist, scared out of his skin, thinking our parents were trying to change him because they wanted a normal child, a better one. I kissed his forehead and held him close and promised him I’ll always love him, no matter how dark his thoughts turned and I would never let anyone change him, not even our parents.

I stopped eating for the following two weeks. When Mum gathered the courage to ask me why, I started shouting and throwing things around and Charlie ran to his room and Father came downstairs and I kept on shouting and I accused my mother of ruining her son and making him think he wasn’t good enough and trying to erase his thoughts with her pills. And she started crying and I didn’t realise I was shaking until the edges got blurry and I had to clutch the dinner table to stay upright. And then I woke up in the hospital and my mother wasn’t in the room and Father asked why I had stopped eating and I started crying too, and I begged him to leave Charlie be , because he was an amazing little boy and he didn’t deserve to feel bad about himself, and he promised me they’d stop trying to change Charlie. And for the next two hours he held my hand while I watched television, not really paying attention to the images. Instead, I thought of how much power I held. How quickly they fell to their knees when they thought I could die. It felt nice. I had never been in control of someone’s decisions before, so it was all new to me. I suppose I could see why big, business men were so happy, puffing merrily at their cigars, with fancy drinks in their hands and beautiful women waiting for them at home, and some in five stars hotel rooms. I liked being in control. I liked having power over my parents, and I certainly enjoyed telling them exactly what I thought of their decisions. My father’s hand only left mine when my mum entered the room, accompanied by little Slug. While Slug beamed up when he saw that I was indeed alive, and jumped quickly in my arms, Mum was very reserved, eyeing me warily. Charlie clung hard to me, and I could feel his hot tears soaking my hospital gown.

“Shh, Sluggie. I`m here aren’t I? Why are you crying?” I cooed him  and rubbed soft circles on his back and stroked his blonde hair until his tears subsided and he looked up at me with his big eyes and he did something I wasn’t expecting. He kissed my forehand and then my cheek and he whispered “Thank you”. And I swear my heart grew three times bigger and I wondered what I had done to deserved this wonderful little boy as my brother.

“Hey, Slug , why don’t we go buy Lizzie some sweet treats, huh? Don’t you think she’d like that?” Father asked him and Charlie actually smiled brightly at him and jumped out from the bed, clutching Father’s hand.

“Yeah, we can buy her gummy bears and lollies! You’re going to be surrounded by so much sugar, you’ll be able to start your own candy factory!” Charlie turned once again to me and kissed my cheek and left the room looking as excited as I had ever seen him.

“ Elizabeth, I think we ought to talk, don’t you?” my mother said, reminding me of her presence.

“Yeah, the weather looks positively nice , doesn’t it?” I said as she dragged the chair my father had previously occupied and sat on it, crossing her legs, just like a proper lady would.

“Don’t play smart with me Lizzie! I need you to tell me why you did this.” She said sternly, reminding me of Mrs.Beackly, who used to tutor me when I was ten. She always dressed so colorful and she always smiled at anyone she ran into. But there were times when I was being quite insolent and she tried so hard to look stern, but the frown she worked so hard to keep on her face just made her look funny  and it made me laugh and she always ended up sighing in defeat and pleading me to behave like  the good girl she knew me to be. That’s how my mother looked right now. The big frown gracing her porcelain features only serving to make her look like a caricature and her crossed arms making her look like a peacock.

“Why I did what?” I said amused by the ridiculous sight in front of me. My mother had never once gotten mad or tried to scold me or my brother. Of course, I’ve never needed scolding, and whenever Charlie did something naughty( that’s when he was still active and jumping around all day) , it was enough from Father to wave his belt a little and Charlie would be still as a statue, head bowed down, apologizing for his mess. So seeing my mother trying to look angry was as peculiar as seeing auntie Mabel without a piece of pie in her hands or seeing uncle Peter without his reeking bottle of amber “juice” that made all his problems go away and helped him stand being around his sisters. I tried it once. He called me to the “adult” table, put his heavy arm around my shoulders and pushed the old bottle in my hands. I took a swing of the alcohol , but as soon as the liquid hit my tongue, I spit it all out ,which made all the other adults at the tabled double over with laughter. I felt silly and embarrassed, and my throat was burning and my problems weren’t going away and I didn’t feel lighter.

“Why you had to make yourself sick to get our attention! You know, you could have just talked to us, like a responsible young adult! You’re nineteen Lizzie, you can’t just clench your fists and scream because you want something. Now, I reali-“

“No, you don’t know anything!! I wasn’t clenching my fists, I stopped eating. And this wasn’t just me wanting to not go to school, this was me defending my little brother, your son, who came to me crying because he thought you didn’t love him because he wasn’t normal!! If I had talked to you, you would have told me I was too young to understand! And I wasn’t going to just stand and watch you ruin this wonderful boy because he doesn’t play with toys or throw a ball outside!. God, you’re ridiculous.” I sighed with annoyance. God, this woman was so proper. A proper beauty queen.

She was barely twenty when she fell in love with my father and married him. She was so beautiful, shiny golden locks that fell in ringlets around her shoulders, crystal blue eyes and a bright white smile always on her face, always ready to wave and take a picture, like any pageant queen (her mother was a strong believer that beauty didn’t last forever and it should be flaunted while it lasted). Not long after getting married, I was born and my mother suddenly had a little doll of her own to dress up and play with and teach proper etiquette to. Twelve years and numerous beauty pageants I got entered into later, along came Charlie and we were finally a very proper, almost normal family. I can’t say we weren’t happy, I can’t say my mother was mean and cold, but she had her rules and whenever we upset her , she’d start crying and me and Charlie always used to make fun of her ,saying she only cried because frowning would leave marks and we can’t have anything destroying that beautiful , porcelain face of hers, can we. And whenever I behaved childish, she’d remind me that I was almost a young lady and then almost and adult and I ought to be more responsible. And when I  tried to listen in on their grown-up conversations full of words I didn’t quite understand, she’d shoo me away, telling me not to worry about such dull nonsense and go be with children my age. My mother was really confusing at times. Now, barely forty, she found herself with a freakishly tall husband that could really use a bit of muscle, a young boy that liked to hide inside duvet covers all day and read or just dream about the many adventures he was to shy to live, and ,well…me. Bland me, with honey coloured hair (not blond like Mother’s or light brown like Father’s or even pretty and soft like Charlie’s) that hung limp around my face, and boring brown eyes and teeth that looked like a rabbit’s ( my mother really disliked that ‘A proper beauty queen must have a perfect smile’ she used to say) and dark circles under my eyes for staying up all night, dreaming with Charlie and sometimes answering grown-up questions. My mother kind of lucked out with me. I always managed to ruin my family’s image. When we were supposed to take pictures, I’d always manage to ruin my dress and at important dinners when my parents wanted to impress snobby people, I’d always manage to stain my clothes or make little children cry ( they always picked on Slug, was I supposed to just let him take it?). Not to mention, after reading Alice In Wonderland  I spent moths dreaming of white rabbits dressed in vests and I swore every cat I saw was always smiling at me wickedly. Much like Slug, I was very lonely, my lack of excitement over any childish thing driving away other kids. I guess that’s why I’ve always defended him. He reminds me too much of myself. And although I don’t want him to grow up like me, awkward and depressed and never happy (only where the dandelions grown, and I’d find my Wonderland and I could be happy and not care and my dress would spin around me and by the end of it, I’d have dandelions in my hair and flying everywhere ) , I know I wouldn’t like anyone trying to change me just because I was …me. I sometimes wondered why my parents tried so hard to change Slug. I even felt a bit jealous, because at least they cared about him enough to try and make him a normal boy. Never once did they try with me.

“You can’t do this every time you want to talk to us, Lizzie. You could have died!” Mother whispered harshly after what seemed like hours of silence. She sighed in defeat, uncrossing  her arms and wiping that funny looking frown off her face. She relaxed her shoulders and took my hand, rubbing my knuckles.

“We love you, honey. You can’t do this to us ever again. Do you promise?” she looked at me with her crystal blue eyes, her gaze boring holes  through my skull.

“I do…I promise” I was disgusted by my own voice. It sounded so weak and pathetic… I never kept that promise anyway.

We spent the rest of that day talking to the doctors about my possible release date and eating the many sweets that Charlie and Father had bought, and playing card games we didn’t really know the rules of. And I truly felt happy in that moment, with my little brother curled up besides me on the hospital bed, munching on gummy bears and jelly beans, and us playing silly card games we had made up, our parents exchanging secret smiles and looks that meant Mummy was going to kiss Daddy twice as long and hard that night.

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