Girl, Interrupted
One of my first online dates suggested that I pick her up from her house. This didn’t follow the usual protocol, but lucky for her, I’m harmless. I pulled up to her house and she was sitting on the curb with her shoulders slumped over like a schoolchild, moodily pushing a rock with a stick.
We’re drove to Starbucks — at her suggestion — and I noticed that her affect was flat and there was no laughter except a grim, thin-lipped little “heh heh.” Weirdest of all, her eyes had a perpetually alarmed look.
I learned that she had no job and lived with her mother. I noticed her hand quivering. I asked if she was nervous. She said no, it’s just the coffee.
A couple minutes later, she says, “You know that thing about the coffee? It’s a lie. My hands shake from my medication.”
The hair on my neck stood up.
“Medication for what?” I asked.
“Schizophrenia.”
There I was, sitting across from a mentally ill woman. She told me that the sickness had been triggered by a monthlong drinking binge. I asked what it was like. She said that everyone in the world had Adolf Hitler’s face. Imagine thousands of cutouts on everybody you know. I asked if she knew she’d been sick at the time. She said yes but didn’t care: it was outrageously fun.
I just felt very, very sad for her. That’s why it’s my worst date ever.
….
Mental illness is no joke.
