The Masked Truth(36)
But he doesn’t have all the other symptoms either. His speech is clear. His personal hygiene is just fine. There’s no flattened affect. No social withdrawal …
That’s why it’s a spectrum, Mrs. Cross. Think of it as a buffet, not a set table.
A buffet. Ah, that helps. Yes, indeed. I’ll have the delusions and the visual hallucinations with a small side of audio hallucinations and disorganized thought. And hold the lack of bathing, please, because I’m not ever going to lead an ordinary life with that one. No bathing, no friends, no girlfriends.
Umm, wait. Better strike the friends and girlfriends anyway. Delusions and hallucinations really aren’t conducive to a proper social life.
Another doctor. Another failed test.
Fail, fail, fail. That’s all you do these days, isn’t it, Maximus? Make a mockery of your name. Greatest, indeed. Greatest disappointment ever.
Then his father …
Stop fighting the diagnosis, Alice.
But he’s not—
Yes, he is, damn it. Stop fighting and just get him fixed up.
Fixed up. Yes, sir, Dad. Stop messing around, Mum, and fix me up. That’s your job, isn’t it? Fix the mess that is your son. Get him on the proper meds, and it’ll all be fine. Right as rain, old chap. You’ll be right as rain. Just as soon as we get these meds sorted. Well, except for the side effects and the fact that you can never stop taking the medications and that at any point they might lose their effectiveness and you won’t know it because it’ll seem normal to you. Crazy is your normal, Max. Live with it. Or don’t. Your choice.
Your choice.
He remembers when he agreed with his mother and fought the diagnosis and the meds, convinced they didn’t understand, he was fine, better than fine, more alive than ever, everything brighter, sharper, clearer. The world had snapped into focus. It made sense in a way it rarely did to a boy still a month from his seventeenth birthday. The meds muted that world, crushed his creativity, doused his spirit. Why were they trying to control him when he was so much better now?
What saved Max, as much as he hated to think it, was attacking Justin. Once the medication stabilized him enough that he realized what he’d done, the horror of that memory kept him taking those meds, would always keep him taking them. What if that hadn’t happened? If it had been a slow build to a violent break? Or no violent break at all? Would he have refused the meds once he turned eighteen? Left home if his parents tried to force them on him? Ended up like the untreated schizophrenics you see in the streets, homeless and filthy, muttering and ranting to himself? He can’t think of that. It terrifies him almost as much as the memory of what he tried to do to his best friend.
Terrified: caused to feel extreme fear.
He will admit he’s a little terrified right now, following Riley down the hall. He’s overdue for his meds. Thirty minutes and ticking, and he’s starting to sweat, catching a whiff of …
“Just a moment,” he whispers, and he slips into the room, grabs his deodorant and slathers it on.
Yes, oh, yes, wouldn’t want to smell bad around a pretty girl. Can’t blow your shot, Max. Even if you don’t have a chance in hell.
That’s not it.
Oh, I know. It’s not about the girl. It’s about the symptoms. Ignore a faint whiff of body odor during a life-threatening situation and it might be that “lack of attention to hygiene” sign you’re so worried about.
Or maybe the fact he worried about it was a sign of something else. Paranoia.
Sign, sign, everywhere a sign.
He’s back to Riley now, and they catch up with Brienne and Aaron, who confirm they’ve found nothing useful. On to the kitchen, then.
Anxiety is not what he feels, walking down that hall and then the steps, every creak and shadow making him jump, certain he’s not seeing actual dangers but those that exist only in his mind. Certain the meds have worn off already.
No, “anxiety” is too weak a word.
Panic: sudden, uncontrollable fear or anxiety, often causing wildly unthinking behavior.
Also not correct, because it is, for now, controllable. He tells himself it’s not possible for the meds to wear off so fast. He’s asked the doctors about that, as he asks about every possible detail, trying to make sense of it, to bring order to the chaos.
Not order. Control. That’s what he needed. That’s what he’d always had. It’s why he’d never felt those so-called butterflies before an exam. Because he knew he had studied to the best of his ability, and he’d considered and managed all variables and therefore he would get the top mark in the class, because he always did. It was simply a matter of control.
Likewise, schizophrenia could be controlled. Or that was the theory. After months of changing medications, they finally seemed to find a cocktail that worked.
Cocktail: an alcoholic drink consisting of a spirit or several spirits mixed with other ingredients, such as fruit juice, lemonade or cream.
Mmm, not quite right, old chap, though it’d be lovely, really. But no. Sadly, no.
Cocktail: a mixture of substances or factors, especially when dangerous or unpleasant in its effects.
Now that, that, was the proper definition. Terrifyingly accurate, though Max suspected his doctor’s vocabulary was not quite as advanced as his own, and when he called it a cocktail, the man simply meant a mixture, not realizing his word choice had an added nuance.