I Don't Want to Be Crazy by Samantha Schutz

doesn’t say it
and then let it go.
He goes on and on.
    I try to end the conversation,
but he won’t let it drop.
On my way out of his office
he reaches into his desk
and pulls out German chocolates
wrapped in colored foil.
    Now if I come into the office in the morning
and do not go directly to his office
he calls me at my desk
and asks why I haven’t come to say hello.
    In his office one afternoon,
he tells me he took one of my coworkers out for dinner,
that he does that with his staff from time to time.
He asks if I would like to go to dinner
and I say yes, without thinking.
But as the word comes out of my mouth,
I wish I could take it back.
As he hands me chocolates, I wonder
if he’s ever asked my sister to dinner
or given her chocolates.
    Later in the week
he asks when we should go to dinner.
    I try to maneuver around the subject.
He asks where we should go.
I feel trapped.
How could I go out with him?
I’m nineteen and he’s in his fifties.
What would we talk about? Golf?
I don’t even know what to say
to my father when we have dinner alone.
    I can’t stop thinking about it
and he won’t let it drop.
He asks me nearly every day.
I never wear skirts anymore—
no matter what length—
and my stomach knots
every day before work.
Now when he gives me chocolates
I throw them out.
    I ask my new therapist
how I can make him stop
and she says to tell him I thought about it
and that it makes me uncomfortable.
She emphasizes the word uncomfortable.
    She says if a manager hears that word,
he’ll get the point and back off.
    In his office the next day,
I tell him what I have rehearsed,
but it doesn’t work.
He wants to know why I changed my mind.
I tell him that when he asked,
I spoke too quickly,
and that I was sorry,
but I thought about it
and it makes me uncomfortable.
Maybe he missed that word the first time
so I say it again.
    Now instead of asking me out every day,
he wants to know who I talked to,
who changed my mind.
I have headaches every day,
my stomach is always upset,
and all I can think about is my sister
and how I feel guilty
for getting the attention.
    I barely see Nate this summer.
I visit him a few times downtown
while he paints.
We talk about how he’s going to Spain
for the fall semester
and he shows me a painting he did
and points to this one part,
a bridge, and tells me he thought of me
when he painted it.
It is so sad
how knowing something
so small
can make me so happy.
    New York City skyline
at night, twenty-seven floors up.
In my head I can hear it like a chant,
like a dare.
Jump.
Jump.
Jump.
    I don’t want to jump,
but I feel like my body will betray me
and I will swing my legs over the balcony railing
and push myself onto First Avenue.
    I cannot trust this body,
or maybe this is what I really want.
Maybe this is the truth.
    Backed up against the brick wall,
I hold on to the handle of the sliding door
with one hand and trace the space
in between the rectangles with the other.
    I run inside the apartment,
slam the door shut, and get into bed.
    The bathroom light is on
and the door is open.
I hear it again, stronger.
You will get up and put your head in the toilet.
What will my parents think in the morning
when I’m found dead,
head in the bowl?
    In my head I hear, This is not a choice. I tell myself over and over,
I am stronger than you,
stronger than you,
stronger than you.
    I get out of bed and run to the bathroom.
I switch off the light
and lock the door from the outside.
I am stronger than this,
than you,
than what you think I am.
    This is not real.
Not real.
Not real.
    I am scared of myself,
I tell my therapist.
I tell her what happened on the balcony
and how I felt like I was at war
with my body.
I don’t think
I want to kill myself, I say.
She tells me this is common
for people who have anxiety disorder.
    It’s good to know
that I’m not the only unsuicidal person
thinking about killing herself.
    I see Jason
for the first time
in a long time.
We go swimming
and dive around