It's Kind of a Funny Story

“So all these people know where I am now.”

“Dude, we think it’s awesome where you are! We want to visit!”

“I can’t believe you.”

“What?”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“Don’t be a girl. You know if I was in the mental ward, you’d call me up and rag on me a little. It’s because we’re friends, man!”

“It’s not a mental ward.”

“What?”

“It’s a psychiatric hospital. It’s for short-stay patients. A mental ward is longer.”

“Well, clearly you’ve been there long enough to be an expert. How long are you staying?”

“Until I have a baseline established.”

“What does that mean? Wait, I still don’t get it: what was wrong with you in the first place?”

“I told you, I’m depressed. I take pills for it like your girlfriend.”

“Like my girlfriend?”

“Craig, shut up!” Nia yells in the background.

“My girlfriend doesn’t take any pills,” Aaron says.

Ronny yells, “The only thing she takes is—” The rest is cut off by laughter and I hear him getting hit with something.

“Maybe you should talk to her a little more and figure out what she’s actually like,” I say. “You might learn something.”

“You’re telling me how to treat Nia now?” Aaron asks. I hear him lick his lips. “What, like I don’t know what this is really about?”

“What, Aaron. What is it really about?”

“You want my girl, dude. You’ve wanted her for like two years. You’re mad that you didn’t get her, and now you’ve decided to turn being mad into being depressed, and now you’re off somewhere, probably getting turned into somebody’s bitch, trying to play the pity card to get her to end up with you . . . And I call you as a friend to try and lighten your mood and you hit me with all of this crap? Who do you think you are?”

“Yo, Aaron.”

“What.”

I’m going to do a trick Ronny showed me. He used to do it a long time ago, and I think Aaron’s forgotten it.

“Yo.”

“What?”

“Yo.”

“What?!”

“Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo—”

I pause. Hold it, hold it. . .

“Fuck you.”

And I slam the phone down.

It hits my finger and I go howling into my room, next to Muqtada.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I don’t have any friends,” I say, jumping and holding my finger.

“This is tough thing to learn.”

I look out the window, through the blinds, into the night. Now I’m really screwed. I run my finger under cold water in our bathroom. I didn’t think I could get more screwed than last night, but here I am. I’m in a hospital. I’ve sunk to the lowest place I can be. I’m in a place where I’m not allowed to shave by myself—even if I needed to shave biologically—because they’re worried that I’ll use the razors on myself. And everyone knows. I’m in a place where people have no teeth and eat liquid food. And everyone knows. I’m in a place where the guy I eat with lives in his car. And everyone knows.

I can’t function here anymore. I mean in life: I can’t function in this life. I’m no better off than when I was in bed last night, with one difference: when I was in my own bed—or my mom’s—I could do something about it; now that I’m here I can’t do anything. I can’t ride my bike to the Brooklyn Bridge; I can’t take a whole bunch of pills and go for the good sleep; the only thing I can do is crush my head in the toilet seat, and I still don’t even know if that would work. They take away your options and all you can do is live, and it’s just like Humble said: I’m not afraid of dying; I’m afraid of living. I was afraid before, but I’m afraid even more now that I’m a public joke. The teachers are going to hear from the students. They’ll think I’m trying to make an excuse for bad work.

I get in bed and put the single topsheet over me. “This sucks.”

“You are depressed?” Muqtada says.

“Yeah.”

“I, too, suffer from depression.”

I feel the Cycling starting again—I’m going to get out of here at some point and have to go back into my real life. This place isn’t real. This is a facsimile of life, for broken people. I can handle the facsimile, but I can’t handle the real thing. I’m going to have to go back to Executive Pre-Professional and deal with teachers and Aaron and Nia because what the hell else do I know? I staked everything on that stupid test. What else am I good at?

Nothing. I’m good at nothing.

I get up and go to the nurses’ station.

“I’m not going to be able to sleep.”

“You’re not able to sleep?” The nurse is a white-haired little old lady with glasses.

“No, I know I’m not going to be able to sleep,” I respond. “I’m taking preemptive action.”

“We have a sedative, called Atavan. It’s injectable. It’ll relax you and make you sleep.”