An Old Conversation With My Mother When I Was Falling Apart
My Mother: What is going on with you, Jessica. You sound like shit.
Me: I think I’m finally falling apart.
My Mother: No you’re not. I’m falling apart. You’re only falling apart by proxy.
Me: Well by proxy or not, I think I need to be medicated.
My Mother: For what.
Me: For ocd. For whatever this glue is called that won’t let my thoughts pass by.
My Mother: Why must you always have something wrong with you?
Me: I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me. I just want a break. Like you need a break sometimes.
My Mother: But you’ve never had a problem with your thoughts.
Me: That's not true, Mother.
My Mother: Tell me one problem you’ve ever had with your thoughts.
Me: I used to number all of my belongings.
My Mother: You were organized.
Me: And alphabetize them.
My Mother: You did not.
Me: I did so. You were too busy to notice.
My Mother: I knew that was coming.
Me: Well you were. And after they were alphabetized, I color-coded them. I couldn’t stop, Mother. And I still can’t stop!
My Mother: Why must you need so badly to have something wrong with you?
Me: I'm merely addressing a problem so I can fix it.
My Mother: Well, you don’t have a problem to fix.
Me: I grinded my teeth so obsessively, my front tooth broke off!
My Mother: You fell.
Me: Like hell I fell.
My Mother: Fine, then go on medication like the rest of planet earth.
Me: Maybe I will.
My Mother: Then do it.
Me: I will.
So, I hung up with my mother and did some research. Found a place in the Bronx that would see me right away and medicate me immediately.
The line to see the psychiatrist was enormous.
People waiting and waiting and waiting on the hallway floor, hoping that for once in their lives, they’d get to escape the private jail cells of their minds.
Finally, I was called.
And I was led to an office that looked like it was making fun of a psychiatrist’s office—this old gray-haired man in a maroon leather chair hand-jotting notes into a pad.
Well, then. What seems to be the problem?
I decided to cut right to the chase.
I'd like to be medicated.
And why's that, dear.
I’m unable to handle myself.
In what capacity, dear.
I’m addicted to thinking. One thought needs the next. That next one needs the next. And pretty soon 7 or 8 days have gone by.
I see.
(Pause. Awful pause. He was looking me over.)
Just one question, dear.
What is it.
People shouldn't throw stones at glass houses.
He was staring at me.
I wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a trick question or if he was working on the crosswords.
No, they shouldn't, I said, that's extremely rude.
No, dear. Define the sentence. Tell me what it means.
Oh! Sorry. I’m not very good at thinking functionally on the spot. I’m very good at it retrospectively though. Like one time, a friend got a cat and named it Pause and I said, ‘Wow! That’s a great name! Like the space between words!’ Of course in retrospect, I knew it was a reference to its hands and feet… But back to your question.. What was it again?
It’s ok, dear. I'm writing the prescription.
Oh. Wow! Just like that?
Just like that. If you need a follow up, my girl will set one up for you.
Ok! Thanks!
So I popped one immediately on the train ride home. And by the next day, I felt worse than I ever had in my life.
I called my mother in tears.
My Mother: What the fuck is going on?
Me: I took the pills! I went to the psychiatrist and I took the pills and all my thoughts are very angry! They’ve never been angry before! They used to skip and dance and I never appreciated them!
My Mother: Get ahold of yourself Jessica.
Me: No! I betrayed my thoughts!
My Mother: Jesus Christ. Listen to me very carefully. Dump the fucking pills down the fucking toilet. Right now.
Me: Ok, I said in tears.
My Mother: There was never anything wrong with you, Jessica. Other than the same thing that’s wrong with all of us—the fine print, Jessica. The fine print that no one wants to take the time to read. That we’re born without knowing why and that we’re all going to die still not knowing why. And the real big problem is that no one is quite sure what the fuck we’re all supposed do in the meantime. But I, happen to know what the fuck you’re supposed to do.
Me: And what’s that?
My Mother: You give yourself a motherfucking break. That’s what.
Me: You know what? You’re right, Mother! Why didn’t you ever tell me this before?!
My Mother: You are aging me, Jessica. Rapidly.
Me: Sorry.
My Mother: Now I want you to go get yourself a little treat and stop thinking so much about yourself. Because you know who you should be thinking about?
Me: Who?
My Mother: Me. That’s who.
Me: I knew that was coming.
My Mother: Well you were right. You should be thinking about your poor aging mother who can’t get a motherfucking break.
Me: Very well.
My Mother: Very well my ass. Now I have to run across the street for ciggies. So I will call you later.
Me: Ok. I love you, Mother.
My Mother: Always and forever, my darling.
-JLK