This is Not a Cancer Book

This is Not a Cancer Book (Or, How My Life Went to Absolute and Utter Hell) Part One: In Which He Checks Himself into the Loony Bin "Well, Douglas", the Doctor said, holding her clipboard and smiling at him, "I really think that you're going to like it here". Doug snorted. There were a lot of things he really wanted to say to her, starting with: "Maybe I would if you'd stop treating me like I'm frickin' five years old", and ending with something along the lines of "fuck off", or "This place sucks dicks". But he didn't. That wouldn't prove anything. Because Doug most certainly wasn't five, he was sixteen. Hell, he would be cruising around in his new corvette right now if the voices in his head would just shut the frick up. It had all started about six months ago, when Doug first heard the voices. But it didn't worry him. Everyone talked to themselves, right? But then the voices started to take on a mind of their own, and Doug started to feel paranoid around things that had never bugged him before, like security cameras; he constantly felt like he was being watched. He'd been able to hide it for a few months, that is, until he'd had a panic attack/nervous breakdown right in the middle of AP Calculus. That was what had got him sent here. The Doctor led Doug down a long white corridor. He didn't belong here. If there was one thing that Doug wasn't, it was crazy. "We're almost there" the Doctor smiled, "I really do think you'll like it here", she repeated, as if he would actually believe her the more she said it. "Well, just hand me my strait-jacket and plop me in a padded cell", Doug deadpanned. The doctor frowned. Doug glanced at her innocently. The Doctor adjusted her glasses. "This is not an asylum, Mr. Bailey", she said. "Really? I couldn't tell. This hallway just kind of screams 'insane asylum'" "We are here to help you recover. There are no strait-jackets here. And your family can visit you as much as you like". Doug scoffed. His family would never visit him, even if he'd wanted them to, which he certainly didn't. That was why they'd dropped him here in the first place, because they didn't want to deal with him. His mother: an Oxford grad, with three doctorates in quantum physics, biology, and chemistry, currently a professor at Princeton. His father: a Harvard grad, currently a professor at his Alma Mater, and a published author of several books which had allegedly "Changed the American Diet!" He had two brothers as well. The oldest, Josh, was a big shot lawyer in New York. The favorite of everyone, their parents included. In truth, Doug always thought that he was kind of a dick, but Doug’s parents loved him. His second brother, Gordon, was the classic middle child, and hated their parents almost as much as Doug did. He’d even gone so far as to change his last name as soon as he turned eighteen, just to get away from them. Last Doug heard, Gordon was working as a lab technician at some research facility in New Mexico while getting his PH.D. And then, there was Doug. More like Disappointment Doug. He wasn’t charismatic like Josh, or intelligent like Gordon. No, wait. He could be intelligent, if only he “applied himself”, his “Mandatory” IQ test proved that much. Turned out that Doug was a “genius”, with an IQ straight through the roof. Not an Einstein, by any means, his IQ was all the way to outer space, but a low-grade genius. His mother had wept “tears of joy” when his results came in the mail. “It’s even higher than Gordon’s!” She had exclaimed. Doug, on the other hand, certainly didn’t feel like a genius. Sure, school came easy, so easy, in fact, that he didn’t even have to try, and he really didn’t. But geniuses were people who did big things, and other people always remembered them. Doug was about as memorable as floral wallpaper; He was a little punk with a dirty mouth and a deplorable attitude, basically like any other teenager. That is, until this whole mess started. His relationship with his parents had never been great. Now they treated him like he was a delicate piece of china that would break if you spoke too loudly. That was why he’d tried to hide it, he wasn’t a freak, and he didn’t want to be treated like one. He hadn’t been scared, not really; he knew what was going on. Doug had diagnosed himself long before any doctor. It was easy. He just looked up his symptoms in one of his dad’s medical journals, and boom! There it was, right at the top of the list: schizophrenia. He’d been a little freaked out at first, but he’d done some research on the internet (History = delete, delete, delete), and found that it wasn’t as bad as people made it out to be. It could be controlled. Unless it got worse, which Doug was sure it wasn’t, it was easy to hide. But then, it did start to get worse. The voices grew louder, more insistent. And Doug was often nervous; he jumped at sudden noises, locked his bedroom door at night, and he’d even had to tape over the webcam on his laptop because he kept getting the feeling that it was watching him. But he was dealing. Still in control. Until that one day in calculus. Doug had been staring at his calculator, trying to look like he was concentrating. His leg bounced up and down in nervousness, but this wasn’t strange for him. His heart, though, was doing somersaults in his chest, and he had no idea why. The teacher at the front of the classroom was droning on about something or other, except that Doug was finding it increasingly harder to look like he was paying attention, because the voices in his head were droning too. He knew that they weren’t real, but try telling them that, because he already had. They were so insistent, nagging at him, and oh god the door to the hallway was open, and Doug didn’t know why that scared him, but it did, and now there was this high-pitched whining in his ears, and Doug just wanted it all to stop. He threw his calculator on the ground and stomped on it, smashing the damned thing to pieces, and he screamed “Shutupshutupshutup!” No sound. The classroom had gone silent. His head had gone quiet as well. Finally, if was fucking quiet. Doug was so happy that he started laughing. Everyone was staring at him, but he could not give a shit. Doug walked to the door, shut it—it clicked satisfyingly—and sat back down at his desk. Grinning from ear to ear, Doug said “Really sorry about that. Please continue”. His parents had been contacted, of course, what else would he have expected, and they had set up a meeting with the principle to decide just what to do with him. They discussed options, psychiatrists, professional help, and most importantly, an extended vacation—aka suspension—during which he would be exempt from all missed work. They thought it was stress. Poor little Doug was just overworked. Their minds were so busy trying to rationalize the concept that a sixteen-year-old boy had suddenly lost it, that they didn’t notice the answer that was right in front of them. His counselor suggested that he drop one of his four AP classes, but his parents protested on his “behalf”. The principle turned to him. “You’ve been awfully quiet, Doug. What’s on your mind?” He asked, not unkindly. Doug had paused. Should he tell? But he dismissed that idea quickly. They’d never believe him. Never believe that a teenage kid was able to diagnose his own damn mental disorder. Or they’d think he was crazy...well, crazier than he was, anyway. “I think that you’re barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Boettcher”. That got him some strange looks. But chalk it all up to the fact that he’d just had a nervous breakdown in front of thirty people. He could afford to be cryptic. So, they’d gotten him a psychiatrist. “The best that money can buy”, his father had said. And he went to the sessions, but he didn’t tell the old bat a thing. “Douglas, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s been bothering you”, he’d said, as Doug lied for the millionth time from the classic black physiatrist chair that he currently occupied. “Nothing’s wrong, Doc”, said Doug, exasperated. But it clearly wasn’t true, anyone could see that. Doug fidgeted in the chair, nervous. It had gotten even worse in the last couple of weeks. The voices had been leaving him alone for the most part, but the paranoia had increased ten-fold. He’d hardly left his room since his extended vacation had started. And the lock on his door just didn’t seem to be enough. So he’d shoved a chair under the door handle for good measure. But still, he didn’t tell. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to tell someone, because he did, but telling someone would make it real. “I might be inclined to believe you, if, that is, you hadn’t recently suffered from a nervous breakdown”, said the psychiatrist, equally exasperated. That was it, Doug couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up, the voices spurring him on. “You want to know what’s wrong, Doc? I’ve got fucking schizophrenia, that’s what! I feel like I’m constantly being watched, and I’m always nervous, and I keep hearing these fucking voices in my head that sure as hell ain’t mine! You think maybe that’s why I had a freaking nervous breakdown in the middle of calculus, you pathetic shithead?” Then he realized what he’d just said. It sounded crazy. He sounded crazy. Doug sat back down in the chair and covered his face with his hands. “I need some fucking help”. After that, his calm façade crumbled completely, and Doug told the psychiatrist everything. It was a fairly quick diagnosis, and it turned out that Doug had been right all along. Surprise! He had schizophrenia. Congratulations! Give the boy a medal! His parents had, of course, freaked. His mother sobbed, and his father said some very nasty things after the psychiatrist gave his “Good news, Bad news” speech that Doug had a feeling he’d given to a lot of people before (Good news? No serious nervous breakdown. Bad news? Well, he kind of has a slight case of schizophrenia). A favorite phrase of Doug's father was "No son of mine will (Insert Offense Here)", and he started to say it right there in the psychiatrist's office, but he stopped himself. Why? Doug surmised that unlike not going to collage (Doug), or not taking that fifth AP class because it was simply too much work (Gordon), or partying and smoking pot (Josh), Doug's father simply had no control over his son's mental condition. It was slightly liberating to know that there was one thing in his life that his dad couldn't plan for. Sucks that it had to be his own twisted head. After the atmosphere in the office had cooled about a thousand degrees, the psychiatrist explained that Doug's case was extremely rare, because on average, most people didn't start to display symptoms of schizophrenia until their mid-thirties, and that he'd only had one other case like his in his decades of practicing psychiatry. He was also surprised that Doug had managed to hide it as long as he had. His parents demanded the cure, no matter how much it cost, and to Doug's twisted enjoyment, the psychiatrist confessed that there was no cure. Parents freak out #2. But when he was finally able to talk over the extremely loud, extremely "inappropriate" accusations about the psychiatrist, his profession, and his mother, the psychiatrist explained that while there was no permanent cure, there were things that could be done. There were several very unattractive options, which both Doug and his parents dismissed quickly. There was a boatload of pills that Doug could take, to which Doug replied that he didn't really want to feel like a sick, bloated hippopotamus. "Or", the psychiatrist mentioned hopefully, "some of my colleagues at the Mental Wellness Center for Troubled Youth will be very interested in studying a unique case such as Doug's, so that they can better treat similar cases in the future". Of course this "For the Good of Science" approach had appealed to his parents immediately, but all Doug could help thinking was great, they want to make me a lab rat, that's just flipping fantastic. "Here we are", the doctor said, stopping at a heavy metal door. "The commons are through here". This was it. Welcome to the loony bin, Douglas. We hope you enjoy your stay! "Welcome to the Mental Wellness Center for Troubled Youth", the doctor said. Doug scoffed. More like the Mental Institute for Fucked-up Rich Kids. That's not nice, said a voice in his head. You shouldn't say things like that. This was ridiculous, he had to have voices in his head, and they weren't even the cool ones that told you to kill people and stuff. "You can shove it", Doug said. "Excuse me?" asked the doctor. Oh crap, he'd said that out loud. He shrugged. "The voices made me do it", Doug said, the corners of his mouth twisting into a crooked smile. The doctor did not look amused. She opened the door without saying a thing. Doug saw with satisfaction that the door had several locks on it. There was finally someone with enough sense to lock a door!