A Danger to Herself and Others

by Alyssa Sheinmel

suppose your name is the first thing that ever really belongs to you, but when you think about it, it’s not yours at all.

It was so easy when I was five, to manipulate my parents’ friends into being ashamed of their own children, into thinking I was so much better. It’s still so easy.

Here’s something they never tell you in books and movies about being imprisoned or institutionalized or trapped (books I’m not allowed to read and movies I can’t watch now that Lightfoot controls all my media access): Being locked up is absurdly boring. The monotony is enough to drive a sane person crazy.

I don’t like how it feels to be sedated. I know I’m angry, but I can’t quite feel it, like there’s a barrier between me and my emotions.

But can you really call it sanity when it isn’t real, it isn’t natural, it’s chemically induced? When it doesn’t technically belong to me because I wouldn’t have it without the pills they keep giving me? Maybe I’ll never know for certain what’s real, what’s madness, what’s the medication.

So then if we alter our brain—through drugs, alcohol, injury (Agnes), or antipsychotics (me)—are we less our true selves than we were before?

If I’m not responsible for my words and actions, then I’m nothing. No free will, no self. Even toddlers are taught to say they’re sorry when they’ve done something wrong.