Suzanne Belcourt's Marshmallow Girl
January 15th, 2007
The Hideout
I like to think that I am a genius. I like to wear black clothes—always have, even as a teenager—like Johnny Cash. But I think that at thirty-eight years old I more than likely qualify as an eccentric. Besides, I have no musical talent that could qualify me as a genius. But I will come up with these great ideas at night as I am falling asleep. Ideas that I have about anything—from a commercial, to a graphic design idea. I thought of a Breath.com commercial that was so brilliant that I had to get out of bed, turn on my computer, and e-mail Shane the idea right away; the response to my idea was polite: “Not sure about that, Suzer. What about this instead?” And he’ll go on to tell me about a great idea. So I guess I’m not a genius after all.
I think if I had a boyfriend I wouldn’t be considered just the cat lady that lives in apartment two above that clothing store on Main Street. I am obsessed with my cats. I used to think that I was just a caretaker of the three of them, but just recently I started to call them my babies. (Eccentric for sure.)
But how do I build up my confidence enough to smile at someone I think is cute? When I watch TV and a cute guy is there on the screen, I have a huge grin on my face and say under my breath so my neighbours don’t think that I’ve completely lost it, “Wow, He is So Gorgeous.” But if I meet a really cute guy in what is known as reality I pretend that I don’t notice him. A pure genius.
It’s hard for me, to be honest. I think when I came down with this illness I lost a lot of my confidence. But I guess that’s kind of a given. People avoid you because you are not speaking English at the beginning of an illness like schizophrenia, and you also think that you are not liked. I asked my sister about this later on when I was feeling a bit better and said, “I don’t think anyone likes me.” Where she told me frankly, “Stop thinking about yourself for once. Think about the rest of the world.” “I think the whole world hates me,” is all I could say.
Brad Pitt said in an interview that having kids is the best thing that’s happened to him because it finally took the focus off of him. I would love to have kids. I have always wanted to adopt, never wanted any of my own, but I think that if I could adopt this would still be selfish of me because the main reason I would have adopted the child was to take the focus off of me. So maybe this makes me a little vain as well.
The combination of thinking I’m a genius ’cause black is my favourite colour, (don’t tell me it’s not a colour. You can see that it is different from red, unless you are colour blind) thinking that the whole world revolves around me (and I’m not even a movie star), and being eccentric...well I guess this just means one thing: I have a mental illness. But I refuse to hideout in my apartment. I’ll just keep trying to get better and smile more at my neighbours and people on the street. And not get another cat.
Say Hello, Wave Goodbye
The wind was blowing so hard I was sure that I was going to be impaled with a broken tree branch. It can happen. I read about this same thing in the news. Well, I didn’t really read about it, I watched a newscaster on TV tell the story to me. This thought came about as I was walking past a funeral home coming home from the gym. I then thought about my cats and realized that they could survive a couple of hours without food until my mom found out I was lying on a gurney in the morgue waiting to be identified. Then she could get my apartment keys out of my effects from the plastic bag from the nurse with the sad face. Now, don’t get me wrong, I drink green tea, I exercise (as mentioned above), eat according to everything I’ve learned so far about healthy eating in magazines and on Oprah—with some chips and chocolate sprinkled in here and there, and just started taking iron pills. But I am also obsessed with death. Yes. Obsessed.
I wonder how I’ll die. Will it be in a car crash? Who will be driving? It can’t be a drug overdose because I don’t take drugs (except of course for my schizophrenic medication I take every evening, but that doesn’t really count because taking more of the stuff should just make me sane, non?). If it is in a car crash I wonder if a loose tire from a huge transport truck will come off and hit me on the passenger side and kill me instantly as I’m being driven down to Paramount Canada’s Wonderland. (Knowing my luck, the tire will be from the transport truck carrying some plastic dinghies for the water theme park.)
I don’t have a death wish. OK, I kind of do. I wish I would die of old age. I don’t know why I would want to die of old age when I’m not the happiest of people right now and don’t know when I will be in the future. Maybe I just want to see if this illness will wear off as soon as I turn eighty and I will be the latest and greatest news story of the year: “Eighty-year-old Woman Loses Schizophrenia, Loses Life Next Day.” Then I could kick off happy.
But if I do die young my only wish is that there be no procession. I don’t want any cars following each other, except one. One car. That’s it. And does it have to be black? My only request—except for the one car thing…and wanting to be cremated, and my ashes thrown into the ocean (no, my ashes can’t be thrown in a lake or river or down the toilet)—is to have an extremely large, plush stuffed animal tied onto the top of the one car with extremely thick rope. I have no idea why I want this. Maybe because my secret wish is to make people laugh or wonder. They’d say, “Good God—ooh, excuse my language—she was one crazy chick…I never knew she liked to hunt.”
When I do think too much about death and how I think I’m going to go I try to push the negativity out of my head and always remember what Rumi states (Coleman Barks’ translation)…Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.
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