today was a bit maddening at work. that lunch at golden corral with the floridly psychotic dude? a two hour block of relentless, misplaced pop culture references..."i went to the moon 30 times. you know robert kennedy? they shot him. i have it on hidden video. i caught all the suicide bombers."

i say "okay". i know it comes out as "schyeah, right". i can't keep the incredulous inflection from the syllable. i can't play along with psychosis, and i doubt anyone would recommend it's clinically appropriate to do so. but what do i say then, for two hours? what do i say to this flood of delusions? what conversation?

"tell me what it was like growing up in your family," i say. dangerous question in general; childhoods can be such hells, but i'm desperate.

"i left kentucky when i was 9 years old to work on the oil rigs in Texas."

"okay"

in my stomach, there is a spring that gets tighter and tighter as he's talking. each new insistence--"i'm a creator, i went to find john mellencamp to get a little money, i wrote all his songs"---twists the coil of it. i excuse myself to the bathroom for deep breathing, i coach myself that this is schizophrenia, this is the illness. but i don't know what i'm supposed to DO. what am i doing for this man? how am i supposed to help him? what can i do except buy him a meal?

the ride back the center is more of the same until i play the "shh, i'm driving" card. i have to play that card, that spring is getting so tight that i'm distracted by the pressure, i have to slam my brakes a few times in the traffic to avoid collisions.

and the tide keeps coming. "fuck that white house job. the police are looking after me. i starred in all of elvis's movies."

"okay"

i let him out of the car at the door. as i drive off for a brief break, i roll up the windows of my car and scream my way around the block until the spring loosens.

when i get back to work, i am teaching "life skills" in a group. today, i'm talking about taking care of your face, which has somehow become "Let Elizabeth Give You a Facial". i'm not sure how my giving someone a facial teaches them to wash their face every day.

i don't like touching people. i'm extremely touchy with my friends, family, close ones. i don't touch people outside that circle. if i wanted to touch people, i'd get a massage therapist license and rake in cash.

still, for 30 minutes, i find myself rubbing my fingers against people's faces. wiping off face mask goo. one person has scars tracing the neck all around. i can't let myself think about what could have made those scars, i just hold my breath and rub lotion onto faces.

i think, how did i get here?
i think, what am i doing?
i think, how long until i'm worn down, can't control the spring and something is Broken capital B? it doesn't feel terribly elastic, it doesn't seem like something that will resume normal shape 1000 times more.
i think, what fork in the path was it that led me so astray?