I can erase your personality. No psycho. by Beauregard Rivverat

The door to the accessible entrance is locked. I keep arcing around to the front entrance with the four or five mean steps (

leg walkies gazing sternly down at me, like that,

clomp clomp or clip clip I think- it must make walkies feel accomplished

going up down steps,

On my third arc back to the front and no one at the reception desk answering the phone

I see a vaguely bright and brown looking man hopping up the steps.

I stop him with my big little girl voice and ask him to tell the receptionist I have an appointment and a wheelchair.

Dr. Peter Ferber meets me at the back door. He is trying to smile at me but I can tell that it is difficult for him. I recall the two x’s to mind, under my eyes done with green and grey eye make up. They make my head reminiscent of a piece of shiny older meat. I smile wider.

The waiting room is playing smooth jams.

Two pretty words have never been more gruesomely combined.

Smooth jams are for white upper middle class folks who feel that they might have the potential to like jazz but have no idea what those crooning spinny sparkly strange black folx is complaaaaining about and Dr. Ferber takes me early because I overestimated the amount of time it would take me to walk from the bus stop on Bay Road to Russell Street in Hadley.

He wants my ids and my money, my tongue and teeth and fingers and toes. He wants my memories, my excuses, my hysteria, my shame. As soon as he sits down I feel my ribs tingling, my stomach hollowing out the way that it does when a lover tells me “we have to talk”, without an inkling about what or about what we will be eating during the talking.

-You look very different from your id photo, what happened? Dr. Asks.

Three and a half years happened. We become different people, grow new skins.

-What is your rationale for looking the way that you do?

I am my own canvas.

But you speak more civilized than you

look look look lil crazy indian girl dig up your land for funnel

out your own memories minerals for me for I am old I am the machine.

Scrape off your war paint I can’t tell who you are,

your eyes are a challenge your lips are a sin.

Who was your daddy lil brown baby?

I bet you don’t know bet you don’t i bet your mama don’t either and if she do I bet she lied to you about it.

You smell funny, you dirty little devil where is your home

were you ever homeless that fucks you for life your friends cannot be your family, your people cannot be your house.

Your monsters cannot be your friends because they are hallucinations, your family cannot be your friends, your people cannot be your future.

-It’s good that you came to see me when you did. Dr. says. Better late than never. It’s clear to me that you have psychotic episodes. Which would make you bi-polar one. Lots of doctors are prescribing lamictal now, but abilify takes a much shorter time for results to show. 10 mg. It’s an anti-psychotic and I got a woman to stop talking to God in her attic.

This entry was posted in Creative Writing, Disconnect Issue # 2 May 2010, Social Constructions. Bookmark the permalink.

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