Liz,
I'm mad as all (blank), and I don't mean angry. Well, maybe I do.
I've always been kinda on the edge. You know, since Allie died. Now, I think I might have finally taken the plunge. My mother is saying I gotta get "help". The real annoying part is she never comes right out and says what "help" means. First, she ships me off to that (blank) crumby boy's school, say I should be (blank) mature enough to live on my own, but soon as I come home, she acts like I need everything explained to me. (Blank), that (blank) me off. (In case you didn't notice, I was nice for you this time and I (blank)ed out the cuss words. I know you hate it when I swear. I don't do things just for the sake of getting on people's nerves unless they do the same to me first. (Blank), I'm sick of people's head games.)
I think this whole mess has something to do with the day I let my kid sister skip school. You remember Phoebe, right? I was kinda scared to let her go home alone, after we were done playing hooky and all. I mean, she's smart, but she's still a kid. So I took her home. I knew my parents were going to nail me, when I walked in the door a (blank) day early. And when they saw Phoebe was with me, they hit the roof. Hit the (blank) roof. All I did was take her to a (blank) museum! And for a ride on a carousel. A (blank) carousel. Unbelievable. They acted like I'd taken her to a (blank) brothel or something.
Still, I'd arrived expecting the (blank) to hit the fan. I thought Phoebe expected it too, because she kept talking about how Dad was gonna kill me. I guess I overestimated her this once. That shows just how crazy I really am, because if there's one thing I thought I'd never do, it was overestimate Phoebe. They'll never have to send her to the shrink, (blank)me if they do. What I'm getting at is, she panicked right in front of them. She hates lying, but I bet a nun would turn a (blank) prostitute if she got scared as Phoebe was. She lied hard and long trying to throw them off my scent. If they had a professional lying team, Pheebs could be captain, after that night. I swear. She kept going on: how it wasn't my fault, how it was all her idea, how she wrote me and said she was gonna kill herself if I didn't come meet her at the museum, all kinds of amazing (blank). And I thought I was a terrific liar. I never coulda sold that (blank), I woulda given myself away some way or another. Old Pheebs, she didn't even bat an eyelash. There were even tears in her eyes while she was talking. Genuine (blank)ing tears. Fantastic. (Blank), I was half-inclined to believe her myself. But Mother and Dad, they didn't buy it. I didn't believe they didn't buy it. If it'd been anyone else, somebody older, feeding them all that (blank), they would have swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker. Phoebe is probably gonna be a hotshot politician someday, she's that good. Sad truth is, nobody believes little kids. Especially when they're trying to bail out their older brothers. It's a(blank) of a shame, because sometimes little kids say stuff you should believe.
Then they tried to send Phoebe to her room so they could really chew my (blank) off. I knew she was just gonna stand at the door and eavesdrop, so I didn't see the (blank) point. The longer they tried to make her push off, the more upset she got. She was absolutely convinced they were gonna (blank) kill me. I mean, literally. Shoot my head off, or strangle me to death, or some (blank) thing like that. I tried to say as much, but they told me to shut up. Pheebs went tearing into her room after that to hide under her bed. I was scared she was gonna call the (blank) cops. So I went after her. But my dad grabbed my shoulder and told me to turn around and talk to him like a man. Like a man. That killed me. He was getting ready to chew me out, just like I was a little kid. But there he was, telling me to be a man. You can only grow up when it's convenient for your parents. I swear. I tried again to say that he and Mom were scaring (blank) out of Phoebe. Then Mother got all sensitive, and said something like, "You don't think we know how to raise your sister?"
And then came the really scary part. What made it scary is, I can't remember it too well. In fact, I can hardly remember it at all. It was like I blacked out or something. But I don't remember blacking out. I just remember one second I was glaring daggers at my dad, and the next, my mother was in the kitchen, bawling her eyes out, and my dad was bellowing his(blank) lungs out at me. Naturally, I didn't have a clue what was going on, so I asked what he was talking about. That just made Dad madder. He got all riled because he figured I was just trying to act dumb. Like (blank). I'm dumb enough (and crazy to boot). I don't want to make myself look dumber. He said I'd better not talk like that to my mother ever again unless I wanted beaten within an inch of my life.
This horrible feeling began to grow in the pit of my stomach. My mouth started running a mile a minute, apologizing like a maniac, but my brain was completely elsewhere, trying to puzzle out what the (blank) had happened. I kept on talking about what a (blank) disrespectful pig I was and how sorry I was and how I would make it up to them, but no matter what I said, they kept just staring at me, like I'd (blank) broken into the place. I didn't want to look at their eyes, because I could see something there I never saw in my parents before. I didn't want to believe it, but it was there. For the first time in my life, my parents actually hated me. I muttered a tidy little wrap-up to my whole speech and locked myself up in my room before they could throw me out of the house. Not that I actually believed they would throw me out. But nothing that was normal existed anymore. For a second, anyway.
I felt scared like I'd never been scared before. I wasn't scared of my parents. I was scared of me. I've hated myself before. I've had trouble understanding myself. But I'd never been scared of myself before. I tell you, I'd never been more scared of anything in my whole life. I mean, just before all this started, I was gonna move out West. You're always going wild about how (blank) pretty those (blank) mountains of yours are, and I didn't think I had a home anywhere anyway. And just when I finally decided I did have a home and I'd better go back to it, home got yanked right out from under me. (Blank), I even became a stranger in my own head. No home in my head, no home in my apartment, and sure as no home at Pencey. (Yes, for your information, I did get (blank) kicked out. I'll tell you about it later.)
(Blank), maybe they shouldn't bother taking me to the shrink. Maybe they should just lock me up already and have done with it. What would it matter? That would be home just as much as anyplace else. I thought of turning myself over to the police, even, that first night. Thing is, my parents really (blank) me off sometimes. But that doesn't mean I want to hurt them. I especially don't want to hurt Phoebe. I'm afraid I already might have. My family won't look me in the face. They never turn their backs to me. They act like I could kill them all any minute, and for all I know, they could be right. What if I black out again? Who knows what the (blank) I could do?
Don't think I'm getting all sentimental or some dumb (blank) like that. But I figured maybe you'd understand a little bit what's happening with me. No offense, but you live in California and all, and I know you take the "little yellow pills", so you have a kind of insider's view on all this (blank). I need a second opinion, and you're somebody who knows what "crazy" really means.
Am I crazy, or what?
If I am, don't bother writing back. My parents are paying some pallid, affected (blank) to tell me I'm nuts, so there's no reason why you should have to do it for free.
Angst and misery from New York,
Holden
P.S.: Give my regards to D.B. If you see him.
Dear Holden,
When I read your letter, I nearly had a heart attack. At first, I wasn't even going to write back because I was so afraid of saying something that might make matters worse. Finally, however, guilt and fear won out: guilt over my selfish cowardice, and and fear of losing you to my own apathy. I have lost more of my friends to hesitation than to actual mistakes.
Truthfully, I'm not quite sure what to tell you. I've never blacked out in the middle of an argument before; so, should it turn out something is wrong with you, odds are it won't be the same illness that affects me. I won't even venture a solid "yes" or "no" answer on whether you are generically "crazy" or not. A lot of sane people act "crazy" sometimes, but so far as I'm concerned, "normal" is bunk anyway. But no matter what you're up against, know two things: first, I'm here to help, any hour of any day (though during school hours you'll have to content yourself with leaving a message on my answering machine); second, you can FIGHT BACK. Serial killers and rapists who say they couldn't help themselves, the ones who get a reduced sentence by reason of insanity- in my opinion, a relatively small number of such criminals actually have a legitimate case. Insane or not, they learned what is right and wrong just like the rest of us, and for whatever reason, they chose to do the wrong thing. There are few cases in which "always" truly applies, but it definitely applies here: you ALWAYS have a choice. You sound like you want to choose what is right, and on that score I'm behind you all the way. The difference between people who walk free in the streets and the people who get locked in padded rooms is this: "Normal" folks think about what they do, and "crazy" folks do what they think. (And on that note, never let your sister cut class again. That really WAS nuts.)
Most likely, your major problem has nothing to do with your mental health- it probably has everything to do with how brilliant you are. You insist that you are illiterate, but your letters, crudely constructed as they may be, have moved me far more deeply than essays written by college professors. You are different, so others there will always be those who fear you. Further, these people will try to destroy you by one method or another. It has been far harder for you than it has been for me, but it will only become harder as you get older. My dad is forever under fire at work because he happens to know more about his job than the people who hired him. No matter where he goes, the same story repeats itself, but he never gives in. Sometimes he decides he's had enough and moves on to a new employer, but he always leaves on his own terms and not because anyone forced him out. I read a short story by Ray Bradbury, called "The Fireman" (I think). In it, he discussed a future world in which books were banned because they encouraged too much independent thought. What Mr. Bradbury failed to recognize was this: his fictional world exists in reality. His "firemen" and robotic "Hounds" already exist in the form of mediocrities who refuse to allow any room for creativity, originality, or inspiration, because they are unable to cope with the resulting feelings of inferiority.
Subconsciously, you have tried all your young life to subvert this oppression. But bravely as you have fought, your voice is slipping into silence along with the thousands of others which have sought to spread beauty, light, and knowledge. I know you aren't satisfied with allowing the persistence of the status quo, but you haven't many other options. To create a world that makes sense would require a massive shift in consciousness that the masses aren't ready for yet. They are far too comfortable with The Way Things Are. Besides, as you said, no one listens to kids. We're old enough to shave, babysit, and drive, but not old enough to be taken seriously. The path of intelligence is one of innumerable questions, endless searching, and limitless lonliness. My suggestion- allow your genius to be satisfaction to itself and let the stubbornly ignorant morons go their merry way. The secret to staying sane in this world is as follows: You have to realize that everyone and everything is totally nuts. Try to make sense out of any of it, and you really will lose your mind. Make little differences in your immediate environment instead of trying to enlighten the entire planet.
By the time we grow up, we'll have forgotten all this and joined the rest of the world in pretending we aren't "on the edge". I've already begun to play the game. Just look at me- only eighteen, yet I pretend to have all the answers. Meanwhile, I desperately scramble to catch up with a world that moves far too fast. You are right about motion pictures- they don't matter and they never did. Even so, I'm studying to become a screenwriter, just like your brother, because I happen to like writing movies. I'm contributing to the manufacture of a mass narcotic, but what does it matter as long as I'm having fun? On one level, my career choice is terrifically shallow. On the other, it is guided by a rather wise principle- nothing is worth losing your own peace of mind.
If people could see what goes on in my head, they'd have nightmares for weeks. Yet, for all that, I have plenty of friends and healthy relationships. I actually asked about going to a psychiatrist once, but no one believed I needed one because I'm so funny and sweet and hard-working. Holden, I have a confession to make: it's all an act. For every time I ask someone not to swear, I curse inside as loudly as I can. Whenever I turn my head away from a racy scene in a movie, I have to resist the urge to peek. I'm even more nuts than you could ever hope to be, but I also happen to be an extremely good actress.
Do you know why I dress like a sideshow attraction? At first, because I wanted to be different and true to myself. But after a while, I only did it because I was too stubborn to back down and dress like everyone else. Holden, you're doing the same by refusing to act like anyone else. You're trying so hard to be unlike others that you have lost yourself. I used to complain about how you say everyone is phony, but since I have realized you're absolutely right. The entire population of this Earth is phony at some level or another- even you, despite all your efforts to the contrary.
I truly think you should consult a professional- I can try to help you, but I have no idea what I'm doing. I can draw on my own insanity and try to point you in the right direction, but one's personal experience is often a bad basis for advice. In a word, this letter is a perfect example of the blind leading the blind. I'm sure you've heard this from other people before, but I'll say it anyway. Do whatever it takes to keep your own mind intact. Foul-mouthed you may be, but you are also a good friend and an all-around special person. The world would be far poorer if it lost you, mentally or physically. Please don't let your voice disappear.
Peace and love from California,
Elizabeth
P.S.: Don't call me Liz. It reminds me of how people used to call me Lizard-Breath.
P.P.S.: Actually, I don't take "the little yellow pills" anymore. They were outlawed in America last year because they cause liver problems. I take little white pills now instead.