I worked with a girl years ago. She said she would go out with me, but she warned me that she was a little crazy. She was a little too quiet. Sometimes her eye lashes would flutter, and I would notice that she wasn’t all there for a split second.
After we had slept together, her head could have turned all the way around like the girl on The Exorcist and I would’ve still dated her.
Then, after four months of dating, we were lying on the couch in her well-organized, very clean apartment. I had my hands on her, and she said, “Stop. I need to tell you something.”
“What is it,” I asked.
“There is something about me that you don’t know,” she said with tears in her eyes.
In those days I was a horny toad, and I put my hands around her butt and said, “This is the only thing I want to know more about.”
She cried out, “I have schizophrenia.”
Once again, I messed up and said, “Don’t worry, I was going to wear a rubber.”
She said, “No, I can be very mentally ill, and I can feel it coming.”
Then her eye lashes fluttered for maybe five seconds. It dawned on me, what she was saying, and I could feel my heart sink. She had been my everything for four months. I left her that night feeling so alone.
The next day she did not show up at work. She wouldn’t answer my calls. After work I went straight to her apartment. The windshield was broken out of her car. Her apartment door was open. Lying on the couch in some sort of cape and nothing else, she was smoking a cigarette.
She looked at me and said, “What do you want asshole?”
I had never heard her cuss and never seen her smoke.
She screamed, “Get out! Get out and leave me alone!”
Her place was a mess, and she was a mess. She needed help.
So, I called her father and told him what I had seen and heard. He said that he and her mother would take care of her, and that she would get better. I didn’t see her again for three years.
I was at the Baker Park pool and she swam up to me and said, “Stephen, I’m better now. I’m fine.”