Meet My Dysfunctional Brain
I made an
appointment with a psychiatrist. Maybe she can fix my mental disarray and the
anarchy I carry in my mind. I did it because I see a remote possibility to have
a normal life. Sadie opened the door to that possibility. She’s half my age,
but like I said in my poem, the first half of my life doesn’t count, I didn’t
have a life. I was absent from this world, because of my stupid shyness. Then
Leticia showed up, and in the end, she was also cruel to me, like my father. I’m glad both of
them are gone. Now I don’t have an excuse to be a psychopath. Now no one is
pushing me over the cliff.
I think I
can compare a priest with a psychiatrist, they have the same objective: to help
you put your mind at ease. To erase your wrongdoings or fears.
If I want to
be exonerated from my sins, or if I want to get rid of my repulsive thoughts, I
need to appeal to two people, a priest and a psychiatrist. The last time I had
a confession I was thirteen years old. That’s when my dad and my grandfather
forced me to become an adult. At that time my childhood disappeared. There
wasn’t a transitional period. Just a drastic traumatic change. When I lost my
innocence I also lost my faith.
To have your
soul cleansed and renewed you need to be sincere with your priest, without
restrictions. It’s the same thing with your mind. You need to be genuinely open
with your psychiatrist, if you want to have a sane mind. But how can I confess
my sins or crimes without expecting a deserving punishment? Actually my sins
don’t concern me too much, because I can confess just before I die, and it
would be okay. That’s the only thing I like about being Catholic, but even if
the psychiatrist doesn’t denounce me to the authorities, or the priest
convinces me to voluntarily surrender myself, I wouldn’t dare to tell anybody
about my homicidal record. Still, I have to give myself an opportunity to clean
up my act. I need to rearrange my life. My dad was one of the main causes for
my erratic behavior, and thank God, he’s gone. (Actually, he's gone thanks to me.) The
other reason for my suffering was my stupid shyness and inferiority complex,
and I believe that miraculously I overcame that bothersome defect.
I chose a
female psychiatrist. I believe that a woman might be less aggressive and more
patient than a male counterpart, or it might be that a woman might be easier to
get rid of, if things get out of hand. I don’t mean ‘get rid’ as in ‘make disappear’,
but I think that it might be easier to ignore and quit. That’s what I’ve been
trying to do all my life with women . . . to ignore them. Obviously without any
success.
When she
asked me what was wrong with me, I said that my mind had irrational thoughts. That
I was mixed up, that I was in constant turmoil, in chaos. I told her about my
shyness and insecurities, but not about the heavy stuff, of course.
The entire
first session was dedicated to tell her about my life since I was a kid. She
let me talk for an hour. At some point I felt profoundly ridiculous. I mean, I
felt that nobody could help me, but me. I know what’s wrong with me, and I know
that all I have to do to change in a positive way is to stop killing people.
But there I was, thinking about ways to kill her in her own office. Going
behind her chair, removing my belt and strangle her, or hitting her in the head
with the oversized crystal ashtray that I see on her desk. But I know I
wouldn’t do it, or would I? First she needs to help me, if she succeeds, she’ll
go on living, but if she fails, well . . .
she dies. It’s up to her. Her life is in her hands, but she doesn’t know
that.
The reason
I’ve never been to shrinks, it’s because they seem so arrogant to me, so sure
of themselves, like they underestimate and underrate the rest of us. Well, they
must be analyzing themselves all the time. At least, that’s the impression I
get from watching them in the movies.
She is in
her forties, she’s elegant and professional. Anyone would notice or assume she is
smart, just by her looks. Women like her, I never saw at my butcher shop, or at
my AA meetings. Actually, I never had contact with any smart ladies in my life.
But I don’t feel inferior, because of the thoughts I now carry in my mind. I know
her life is in my hands. But the reason I’m here, is to lose that absurd
feeling that I have, that I can destroy anybody’s life without any motives. I
want to become normal. (If possible)
I feel like
I’m in front of two doors. One leads to heaven and the other to hell. Both
doors are closed, and I don’t know which one I’ll end up opening.
The other
day, as I was crossing the park in front of my shop a homeless man asked me
when I was going to prepare hamburgers for them again. I said, soon. I know
it’s been a while. Who did they have last time? Was it Leticia? Was it Fredo,
or the hooker? Hmm, I don’t remember. I think it’s
time for me to sharpen my knives again and look for a temporary friend. I felt
certain pride, to know that I’m appreciated by my cannibal friends. But if my
shrink succeeds with me, they might as well go on a hunger strike until they
die. Or perhaps, I’ll start giving them animal meat instead.
I took Sadie
to the Sequoia Park, I thought she was going to be impressed, but she said that
all of Oregon was like that. We were on the same bridge where my dad pushed my
grandpa, with our feet hanging from the bridge, lying down and watching the
clouds.
“I read
somewhere that God hides behind the clouds when he is ashamed to see some of
the things we do, but I think he hides because he is unable to help us. He is
ashamed he can’t help us. I wonder what he feels when he sees we’re killing
each other. If he watches a man killing another man, why doesn’t he intervene?
For centuries he’s been watching war after war, all over the world, a war gets
solved here, but another starts over there. Obviously he can’t help us, because
this is never ending. What you think, Sadie?”
“All that
you’re saying makes sense, but I hope you’re wrong. Otherwise, why do we have a
God, if he can’t do a thing? Why do we need him for, if he can’t fix what he
created?”
“Maybe he
just created marionettes or puppets, and he’s just pulling our strings?”
“I don’t
know, Angel, but I think he did at least one thing right. He brought us
together.”
When she
finished her sentence, I felt supremely happy. I thought it was great, to have
her next to me, on the same spot where I had the worst moment of my life.
“I told Joy about
us. She was a little upset, but in the end, she accepted it. I’m glad she did,
because I didn’t know what I would have done, if she had opposed to it. I love
her so much. She’s like a mother to me. Did she tell you, she was raped?”
“Yes, she
did.”
“I remember
my dad went to pick me up at school that day. My mom was at work. When we
returned, we heard noises coming from Joy’s bedroom. Joy wasn’t supposed to be
back home yet. To reach Joy’s bedroom, we had to go through the kitchen, my dad
grabbed a big knife from the table. Without making any noise my dad opened the door
and we found a guy with his pants down on top of Joy. He had Joy’s mouth
covered with his hand. Joy wasn’t screaming, but she had a look of terror in
her eyes. She was just lying still.
Then, my dad stabbed the man on his back. The knife went all the way in
and the handle was all we could see. That man was my dad’s best friend. I’ve
never seen so much blood in my life, not even at the butcher shop. Joy didn’t
move, she was paralyzed, for a moment I thought she was dead too, she had so
much blood on her. When we cleaned her, we noticed she had been stabbed too.
After the knife penetrated the man’s body, it had entered an inch on Joy’s
chest. If the man had been a little skinnier, my dad would have killed both of
them.”
Of course,
I’ve seen that scar in the middle of Joy's chest. When I asked about it, she
didn’t answer and changed the subject. I didn’t insist and never asked again.
Then Sadie continued.
“The police
took my dad to jail, for an interrogation, they said, but they kept him there for
two years. Joy remained in shock and couldn’t talk for a whole week. Two months
after Joy was raped, my mom moved to California with her new boyfriend. She
left us when we needed her the most. She said she had it all planned even
before our dad killed that guy, she didn’t say, "before Joy was raped." The
following day our mom left, Joy quit school and started to work. She was
sixteen years old, I was twelve.”
I had tears
in my eyes when she finished. I thought my life had been hard. What a fool.
For no
apparent reason, or maybe just because her story broke my heart, I told her
about the events that happened on this bridge. About my grandpa wanting to
retire to Mexico, about his plans to sell the butcher shop, about my grandpa
wanting to return to the place where he had met my grandma, about that time
when my grandma’s mom disappeared from her hand. And about all that sad stuff
that happens in most normal lives, not just mine.
The sharing
of our tales, brought us together even closer. Sadie learned that day to love
my grandma, even more. She kept calling her ‘abuela’ or grandmother, which made
my grandma very happy. A few years later, just days before my grandma passed
away, she gave all her jewelry to Sadie, all her letters and memories too. My
grandma loved no one more than she loved Sadie, not even me.
My shrink
began each session with just a question, and then I spoke for an hour. I began
to like her. She was very quiet, almost shy, or maybe that was her method to
learn more about me. It was a good therapy, like a massage to my mind. All I
had to do, was talk, talk, talk, I didn’t have to worry about being judged,
criticized or scolded. There was not much to tell, if I didn’t tell about my
crimes, which were the consequences of my traumas. My damaged mind hadn’t suffered
any wounds lately. The last one had been when Leticia left me for her
ex-boyfriend, and before that, when my dad humiliated me in front of a friend at
the butcher shop. My solution had been to kill both of them. Some might say
that my decisions had been too drastic for the little mistakes they had
committed, but my fragile impatient mind couldn’t bear any more deceptions.
“Of all the
movies you’ve seen, who’s your favorite villain?” My psychiatrist asked.
I loved that
question, right away I thought about all those miserable moments I spent hiding
in my room. The only thing that could help me deal with my vulnerable mind was
to watch movies, and almost all villains I liked, were my heroes too.
“Without a
doubt, Nurse Ratched,” I replied.
“And what
about your favorite hero?” She asked.
To me, super
heroes were super false. Superman, Iron Man, Spider Man. They never came to my
rescue. In that case, my only superhero would be my grandma. My grandma had
been a real hero. Just like my dad had been a super villain, even worse than
Nurse Ratched. Now that I think of it, my dad is the only villain that I hate.
“Wait, I
have more favorite villains than heroes. Another villain that I like a lot is
Hannibal Lecter. I love cannibals.”
“You do?”
“I mean, I
love stories about cannibals, zombies, vampires, and all those bloody suckers.”
I better
control myself, she’s making me talk too much, and about things I shouldn’t
talk about. I almost forgot that this is not a conversation. She is studying
me, getting information to make me sane.
“So, what
about your heroes? You must admire a few of them, who are they?” she asked.
“No, not
really, I always want the villains to win. I’m always on the loser’s side.
That’s why my favorite movies are, One
Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and Silence
of the Lambs. The villains win on these two movies. I don’t like heroes, I
hate them.”
“What would
you like to be, a hero, or a villain?”
“A villain.”
I know I
fell on her trap, but I didn’t care.
Edmundo
Barraza / Visalia, CA. 12-05-2012
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