“When should I tell her I have schizophrenia?” My buddy Ken and I maneuvered the golf cart through the hills and valleys of Pine Valley Golf Course. Both shots were in the fairway.
“I dunno man. Just enjoy the dates first. You’ll figure out when the time is right.” Ken was a solid guy standing six foot one. He slowly applied the breaks and we waited for the group in front of us.
“Yeah, that’s good advice. We’re going out again tonight.”
“You nervous?”
“Nah, not really. Just trying to figure out what club to hit here. I’m in between a six and seven.” I fixed my collar, tightened my glove, and stepped over the ball. I hit the six and the ball struck the green several feet from the pin.
“Nice shot, man. Well played.”
“Thanks.”
Ken stepped up to his ball and struck a nine iron the same distance. We fist pumped and hopped in the cart. “So she thinks you’re a licensed mental health counselor?” he asked.
“Yeah, I didn’t know how to avoid questions about being a peer counselor. I mean, you tell her you’re a peer counselor and you work in the psychotic disorders division — it discloses the diagnosis.”
“That’s true, yeah. Well, it’s always a good test. See where she stands.”
“Yeah, good point.”
***
That night, I was sitting in the restaurant texting Mariah. She was five minutes away. “Do I tell her tonight? Is she even going to care? I don’t think she’ll care,” I thought.
“Hey, how’s it going?” Mariah asked. She walked up to the table.
“Good. Doing well. How are you?” I asked.
“I’m fine. It’s good to see you!” I stood up, we kissed, and we sat across from one another. The restaurant had modern light gray tables with hanging ceiling lights and an open kitchen. Flames flared from the grill as the food sizzled.
“So, you excited for your classes?” I asked. We held hands across from one another.
“Yeah, so excited. You’ll have to help me with the work. I have two classes this fall.”
“Cool. Absolutely. Which ones?” I asked. “Do I just tell her about my diagnosis? I know nothing about grad school. How’s she going to react?” I took a sip of beer hoping to take off the edge a little bit. My neck felt tight from golf.
“What’s on your mind?” she asked. Her brow was wrinkled.
“Not much. I’m always thinking. Just processing my golf game.” I looked around and it was busy for a fall Saturday night.
“Cool. So as far as classes go I’m taking a policy course and a human behavior course. Did you take either of those?” she asked.
I froze in place, sat upright, and looked away and upwards through the skylight. “How do I answer this? She seems pretty cool. Should I just tell her,” I thought. “This is so cool you’re going for your masters,” I said.
“What got you interested in mental health so much? You seem really passionate about what you do,” she said. Her eyes were blue and her light brown hair ran down her shoulders. She looked really pretty.
“I umm–– There’s no way to really say this. I have schizophrenia,” I said. The intensity of the statement resonated in my ears. A light buzzing sounded in them. The noisiness of the room felt like I was in a ship that was just flipped upside down on a stormy night. “But I never went to grad school. I’m a peer counselor.”
“You never went to grad school? You lied to me?”
“Well, I’m sorry but yeah. There’s no easy way to tell someone you have schizophrenia,” I said. “That’s why I don’t watch movies because they cause me to see and hear things.”
We sat quietly for several seconds. “Look, I’m sorry I lied to you. I just didn’t know how else to do this.””
“I’m not mad about the diagnosis. I’m just mad that you lied to me.”
She had pulled her hands away. I looked into her eyes and she looked away.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“You lied to me. I don’t even know who you are right now!”
“I didn’t lie about anything else. I still coordinate a group program, I do a ton of good work in the hospital, I own a condo, I’ve lectured all over New England. I’m a writer.”
“Integrity and honesty are my really most important values that I have. You were dishonest. When I asked you if you want to have kids and you said I don’t know, what did you mean?”
“I meant I don’t know. I don’t know. It could be good, it could be something we don’t decide on yet.”
“What about marriage? You said you want love when I asked you if you want marriage.”
“I do want love. Love’s important,” I said.
“Who are you?” she asked.
A flame flew up from the grill illuminating our faces. The heat felt unbearably hot for several seconds. I turned away. “Why is she mad? Does she not get this? How do I explain this?”
“I have more integrity than anyone. You don’t understand the stigma involved in having schizophrenia,” I said. “People speak to you differently when you tell them you have it. They judge you. They change the way they interact with you.”
“There’s stigma around cancer too. I tell people that my Dad had cancer. I don’t lie to anyone.”
Pictures of October football and baseball stadiums passed through my mind with tens of thousands of people holding Stand Up To Cancer signs. I pictured the fans, coaches, and teams united in these moments. “Why can’t they be Stand Up To Schizophrenia Signs?” I thought.
“You can’t just tell someone you have schizophrenia and you’re a peer counselor on the first few dates,” I said.
“I have to process this.”
“I was planning on telling you. Just not right away,” I replied.
“Honesty, James. Honesty. I was honest with you about everything.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t done this. I didn’t know what to say.” I dropped my fork and it rattled as it came to a stop. Picking it up I placed it to the far side of the table.
“So if I said in my profile I was a peer counselor would you have stopped to look at my profile?” I asked
“I don’t know. Of course, I would’ve. Is there room for you to move up in your job?”
“Yes, there’s room to advance,” I said. “Since when did love come down to money?” I thought as I looked to the side.
“I wouldn’t have cared if you told me upfront you were a peer counselor,” she said. “I’ve dealt with dishonesty a lot with dating. Honesty and integrity are my core values. I’m an honest person.”
“You’re allowed to feel how you want to. Text me. Take some time to process everything, okay?”
“I’ll have to think about this,” she said.
For the first time in four weeks, we split the check.
***
A week later Ken and I were at the course again.
“I got your text man. So where you at?” he asked. We were driving down the fairway to locate our golf shots.
“I just don’t know. We’ve texted a little bit. I asked her out and she said she still has to process the ‘misrepresentation of myself’. It’s a little over the top with the whole integrity thing.” I swirled the water in my bottle making a tornado.
“Do you even wanna be with her?”
“I don’t know. Some of the dates I tried joking and laughing with her. I felt I had trouble connecting to her.”
“Don’t just try to make it work cause you haven’t dated for a while. You’ll find someone.”
My phone buzzed twice, rattling the center console. “We’re done,” Mariah texted.
“Is that her?” Ken asked. I nodded yeah to him. His clubs clanked together as he searched through his bag for the right one. “Do you even wanna be with her?”
“It’s over. She texted me it’s over. I know I screwed up. I lied to her. I just didn’t know how to go about this.” I poked around at the short fairway grass that shined green in the cool gray light of the cloudy September day.
“You’re a stud man. You’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, I guess the whole thing about her not understanding is weird. She says she didn’t care about the diagnosis, which I thought was a lie. Then I think she lied about caring that I was a peer counselor. Then she talked to me about integrity and honesty being her core values.”
“You’ll find someone who gets it. And also someone you like too.”
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This post is republished on Medium.
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