Crazy Lives Across the Hall
I have a new neighbour. One that has just moved into the revolving apartment across the hall (I think that about 8 different people have lived there since I moved in, and I'm not speaking with hyperbole). I was here when she moved in, with help from her "special" friend (note that quotations only encapsulate special: yes, that's on purpose). She was very loud, and spoke with that slow and slightly cotton-filled drawl that only those with an IQ below 70 seem to possess.
So naturally, I thought she was retarded.
"That's nice", I thought to myself, "She has been given an opportunity to go out and live on her own. She must have acquired the necessary skills to be self sufficient and gain a sense of independence. So what if she lives across from me? If she needs any help, I'll be more than happy to give it to her. I like to help the mentally challenged whenever I can."
Turns out, she's not so much retarded as she is schizo.
And I don't mean schizo in the if-I-can't-get-a-hold-of-my-boyfriend-I'm-going-to-call-all-of-his-friends-and-friends'-friends-until-I-find-him schizo.
I mean she is a full blown schizophrenic. Big time.
Now, even though I am *technically* a psychology major, I know absolutely blue-fuck-fall about abnormal psychology. I never took it, taught it, nor TA'd it. My only exposure is through Lynne's (and once upon a blue moon Amy's) discussions of what was going on in class.
(sidenote: To be honest, until relatively recently, I had the naive opinion that most psychoses were just calls for help, and not anything that had any sort of true physical pathology (I've met a LOT of attention seekers in my day). I learned how stupid that opinion really was after seeing a friend going through a genuine manic phase. That shit is real. No question. And I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.)
So I have never seen a schizophrenic episode. That is, until the other night. I was sitting in my apartment, getting ready to watch "Pretty Woman", all bundled up in me PJs and wrapped in a blanket, when I hear:
"FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT. I DON'T HAVE ANY FRIENDS AND I NEED SOMEONE TO HELP ME"
It was obviously from across the hall (and I didn't realize until then until how truly non-sound-proof my apartment is: the rest of my neighbours must be quiet as mice). I thought there was an argument over the phone. However, this profanity went on for quite a while. But then it stopped. "Must be off the phone," I thought.
But then it came out into the hall. Right outside my door.
"I'M LOSING MY BAAABY. MY DEAD BAAABY IS TRYING TO COME OUT. JACOB'S TRYING TO COME OUT. I'VE GOT TO GIVE BIRTH TO A DEAD BABY. WON'T SOMEBODY HELP ME?"
Obviously, something is wrong. I was never concerned that she was actually having a miscarriage, as she had been yelling for quite a while, and I figured would have called an ambulance if that was actually the case. Nope, something else was going on there.
"PLEASE SOMEBODY HELP ME. I'M GIVING BIRTH TO MY DEAD BABY. I BEEN SHOT IN THE STOMACH. I HAVE NO FRIENDS AND FAMILY. WON'T SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME?"
For a brief moment, I thought about going out and helping her. I felt pretty bad... I thought about how it would be to have no friends or family, and became more empathetic indeed. This brief period of altruistic logic was quelled when she screamed:
"FUCK YOU ALL THEN. FUCK. YOU. NOBODY WANTS TO FUCKING HELP ME. FUCK YOU."
She then went back into her apartment, and started screaming from there again.
Now, this went on for 4 hours. She would periodically come out into the hallway and yell again. She knocked on my door a couple of times. Sometimes, she talked about her dead baby Jacob. Othertimes, she would yell at 'David', who was apparently in her apartment and wouldn't get out (she was, in fact, alone). She also brought out some pillows and a vase of flowers, so when she was sitting in the hall, she was at least comfortable. For a good deal of this time, my eye was glued to the peephole out of sheer curiosity (also, I had nothing better to do: I had to shut my TV off because I didn't want her to think I was home and I couldn't do any work over all that rigamorole).
Finally, at 11:30, the cops came and took her away to the rubber-room. I heard them ask her if she had taken her meds, and she said she hadn't because she had been drinking.
Ah. That was it.
I wonder how I'm going to deal with this in the future. She's home: I can hear her TV. I'll just have to make sure not to make eye contact.
So naturally, I thought she was retarded.
"That's nice", I thought to myself, "She has been given an opportunity to go out and live on her own. She must have acquired the necessary skills to be self sufficient and gain a sense of independence. So what if she lives across from me? If she needs any help, I'll be more than happy to give it to her. I like to help the mentally challenged whenever I can."
Turns out, she's not so much retarded as she is schizo.
And I don't mean schizo in the if-I-can't-get-a-hold-of-my-boyfriend-I'm-going-to-call-all-of-his-friends-and-friends'-friends-until-I-find-him schizo.
I mean she is a full blown schizophrenic. Big time.
Now, even though I am *technically* a psychology major, I know absolutely blue-fuck-fall about abnormal psychology. I never took it, taught it, nor TA'd it. My only exposure is through Lynne's (and once upon a blue moon Amy's) discussions of what was going on in class.
(sidenote: To be honest, until relatively recently, I had the naive opinion that most psychoses were just calls for help, and not anything that had any sort of true physical pathology (I've met a LOT of attention seekers in my day). I learned how stupid that opinion really was after seeing a friend going through a genuine manic phase. That shit is real. No question. And I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.)
So I have never seen a schizophrenic episode. That is, until the other night. I was sitting in my apartment, getting ready to watch "Pretty Woman", all bundled up in me PJs and wrapped in a blanket, when I hear:
"FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT. I DON'T HAVE ANY FRIENDS AND I NEED SOMEONE TO HELP ME"
It was obviously from across the hall (and I didn't realize until then until how truly non-sound-proof my apartment is: the rest of my neighbours must be quiet as mice). I thought there was an argument over the phone. However, this profanity went on for quite a while. But then it stopped. "Must be off the phone," I thought.
But then it came out into the hall. Right outside my door.
"I'M LOSING MY BAAABY. MY DEAD BAAABY IS TRYING TO COME OUT. JACOB'S TRYING TO COME OUT. I'VE GOT TO GIVE BIRTH TO A DEAD BABY. WON'T SOMEBODY HELP ME?"
Obviously, something is wrong. I was never concerned that she was actually having a miscarriage, as she had been yelling for quite a while, and I figured would have called an ambulance if that was actually the case. Nope, something else was going on there.
"PLEASE SOMEBODY HELP ME. I'M GIVING BIRTH TO MY DEAD BABY. I BEEN SHOT IN THE STOMACH. I HAVE NO FRIENDS AND FAMILY. WON'T SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME?"
For a brief moment, I thought about going out and helping her. I felt pretty bad... I thought about how it would be to have no friends or family, and became more empathetic indeed. This brief period of altruistic logic was quelled when she screamed:
"FUCK YOU ALL THEN. FUCK. YOU. NOBODY WANTS TO FUCKING HELP ME. FUCK YOU."
She then went back into her apartment, and started screaming from there again.
Now, this went on for 4 hours. She would periodically come out into the hallway and yell again. She knocked on my door a couple of times. Sometimes, she talked about her dead baby Jacob. Othertimes, she would yell at 'David', who was apparently in her apartment and wouldn't get out (she was, in fact, alone). She also brought out some pillows and a vase of flowers, so when she was sitting in the hall, she was at least comfortable. For a good deal of this time, my eye was glued to the peephole out of sheer curiosity (also, I had nothing better to do: I had to shut my TV off because I didn't want her to think I was home and I couldn't do any work over all that rigamorole).
Finally, at 11:30, the cops came and took her away to the rubber-room. I heard them ask her if she had taken her meds, and she said she hadn't because she had been drinking.
Ah. That was it.
I wonder how I'm going to deal with this in the future. She's home: I can hear her TV. I'll just have to make sure not to make eye contact.
posted by Anderson at 4:59 PM
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