Monday, April 6, 2009
Against Medical Advice
One afternoon my father takes me to my favorite Chinese restaurant, and when the waiter places my meal in front of me, I just stare ahead with a long string of drool hanging down from my mouth. I imagine I'll never forget the sad look on my father's face as he watches me try to eat, to function on the most basic leve.
I'm not living the life everyone else is living. I'm not here anymore.
Before I get to the front door at school, I do my leg shuffle, followed by a brand-new tic that seems to have developed just for the occasion. Every few seconds, I punch the air three times in a row, then bring my fist to my chest for a beat, then punch again. I do this one or two more times before getting to the door. What a way to start.