The amazing thing about personality disorders is that there are so many of them. Starting at the beginning of the alphabet, it works in the following order: antisocial, avoidant, borderline, dependent, histrionic, narcissistic, paranoid, schizoid, and schizotypal. What the doctors are telling me is that I’m antisocial with a schizoid personality disorder.

My response is, “WHO ISN’T!?”

Looking at their psychological lists and definitions, even someone like Mother Theresa could be implied to have a narcissistic or histrionic disorder because it’s defined as “excessive admiration; has a grandiose sense of self-importance.” Hell, that’s half the people in Hollywood.

As I sit restrained to this padded chair, I see the crying figure of Lily standing in the back of the room next to Mike as Dr. Hawthorne sits across from me in his swank leather chair.

“Who is Marcus?” asks the Doctor, Lily wiping her eyes behind him.

“I don’t know.” I say, when suddenly I see another figure in the corner of the room watching me.

It’s Hillary, arms folded, face tormented as she waits patiently.

“Who is Marcus?” Asks Dr. Hawthorne again.

“When you were a child, remember the afterschool playground you played on Steve?” quipps Hillary from the shadows.

And suddenly all I can see are acres of cement with painted lines in front of the old elementary school, a barking dog leashed to a jungle gym, and my MOTHER standing nearby--- leaning against a tetherball pole--- drunk.

The dog continues to bark at me as I climb higher and higher into the jungle gym, attempting to reach the very top.

“Marcus, stop it!” Yells my mother and I can remember her stepping forward, or rather, waddling forward, growing more concerned for my safety as my dog continues to bark up at me.

“I was late.” Said Hillary, “On the other end of the playground.”

From my new perch on top of the metal bars, I can see my father, when Hillary used to be Hugo, walking towards my mother with car keys in his hand.

“MARCUS!” yells my mother, telling the dog to be quiet--- but clearly directing all of her fear for me into the barking dog.

My father joins my mother and they motion me to get down, their young faces staring me in the eyes--- filled with concern. They began to argue, accusing each other as their yelling increases, all the while my dog continues to bark.

I begin to cry.

And then I slip, falling to the ground as my little arms try grabbing at the passing metal bars, hearing my parents scream as I land head first onto the pavement--- but it’s soft--- not hard, and I realize something happened.

My dog lays limp, the leash constricted around his body, his head pulled violently around a metal bar. Though I’m not hurt, I begin to cry--- seeing a scrape across my wrist as my parents crawl through the narrow passageway of bars, comforting me as a small flow of blood moves out of Marcus’ mouth.

“How do you feel Marcus?”

Suddenly I’m back in the room, the wall of faces of staring me down, Hillary’s head lowered.

I feel enraged--- angry at a world that would let something like this happen--- the beginning of the end of my innocence and a contempt for a father who would later become someone much worse: Hillary, my second mother.