MARK

“Do you think you need more?”

It’s a question no doctor should ask a patient, yet he reminds me of Frodo Baggins in size and disposition so it’s difficult to be angry with him.

“I just want to feel better,” I tell him as he hands me another tissue.

I’m sobbing in a office that resembles the inside of a hobbit’s dwelling. He may be my 5th or 6th, but I want him to feel special and keep out the # of psychiatrists I’ve seen in my life. Of those 5 or 6, he stands to be the least experienced. This is our 2nd appointment and I’ve forgotten more about anxiety than he may ever know.

“If it worked once, it should work again, no?”

Another question no doctor should ask a patient. Welcome to the crap-shoot of clinical psychiatry.

He hands me a script and I assure him that I’ll call to set up our next appointment. I won’t be calling him any time soon. I stuff the signed sheet of light blue paper in my pocket - the weight of a Flip Video camera holds it tightly against the inside of my shorts.

Marilyn Monroe brushes by me on my way out. In order to convince myself that I’m not hallucinating, I linger for a moment. My shrink greets her with “Come in, Julia,” and I wonder if she’s a look-alike or if she’s here for a Finkelstein special.

The wind streams through my hair as I skateboard down a famous road in Santa Monica headed towards the boardwalk. I cannot really feel the wind nor can I remember the name of this road because my focus is perpetually nonexistent.

“Do you have it?”

Rob has been waiting for me at the Pier; his skateboard pales in comparison. I rip out my refurbished video camera and hand it to him - the script for Zoloft is no longer held tightly against the inside of my shorts.

“Is it still on here?”

“I’ve taken some since,” I answer, “go back a few.”

When I began telling stories online, Rob was my first fan. According to Rob, he moved to Los Angeles to be part of Life Of My Story. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but it’s now clear that he speaks in riddles. We’re meeting up today to discuss a plan that has him salivating.

“Still can’t believe it,” he tells me as he stares into the small screen. Neither can I. It’s the viral video everyone waits for - pines for - yet usually choreographs when it doesn’t happen naturally. And it’s the inspiration behind a potential marketing campaign that is part genius, part evil-genius, and completely insensitive.

“Can we get in trouble for this?” Rob wants to know.

I bring Rob back to last month when I obtained the footage…

We were at Denny’s and I was finishing everyone’s meal.

“YOU AND ME, DUDE! BECAUSE I’M TAKING YOU WITH ME!”

Someone near the front counter is far too excited for 3:30 in the morning. We turn to see; all heads of our group are like deer in headlights.

“IT’S THE MOST VIP PARTY IN ALL OF HEAVEN, DUDE, AND IT’S ALL FOR ME - AND YOU!”

There’s a man whose skin is stained leather-red and he’s hashing out travel plans with an empty seat across from him.

“AND I’M GETTING MARRIED TO KAREN CARPENTER. I KNOW IT SOUNDS CRAZY, BUT IT’S NOT!”

A mention of Karen Carpenter said in the present tense as if she were living - check. In my ever-tightening jean pocket was my video camera…

... And the rest is history,” I tell Rob. Nowhere in my story was a mention of consent, but I was determined to exploit this situation for personal gain.

OUR PLAN - to seek out the raving lunatics of Los Angeles, film their rants and hand them goody bags full of blankets, t-shirts and apparel that would say, ‘Go to Lifeofmystory.com and hear my story’. If a small portion could give me half of what our guy from Dennys gave, I was sitting atop a marketing machine that runs under the guise of helping the homeless.

Santa Monica touches Venice Beach, and the stretch of boardwalk between the two showcases the strangest humanity has to offer.

* There’s a black man painted gold. He’s half statue, half Michael Jackson. Throw change and he comes alive.

* An old white man without teeth has a small whistle made of bone, which fits perfectly under his tongue and makes the most indescribable bird noises.

* Here’s Guillermo the Garbageman - a Mexican immigrant who wears an outfit of soaking wet Hefty bags while convulsing and kicking trash.

Rob and I are stealth like cat burglars. We’re filming, asking for consent and establishing where they haunt so we can return with goody bags. It’s been a few hours of intense filming and we’re sitting with a retired accountant who claims to be the reincarnation of Jesus Christ. My camera dies, but I have another Flip. We assure Jesus Christ, CPA that we’ll return - a promise I won’t keep. There’s something deeply unsettling about what we’re accomplishing. I finger the light blue sheet of paper in my pocket.

We’re headed back towards the Pier. The wind streams through my hair and I close my eyes, trying desperately to let go of my own struggles that have swallowed my life whole. If only I could just feel the wind and let it remind me that I’m alive.

“Ry…”

I open my eyes and look back. Rob, he’s not skating anymore - he’s staring at our guy from Dennys, who happens to be sitting alone on a bench. But he’s not the same. The man I filmed had all of his teeth, was a bit too tan and seemed happy. This man was bundled in out-of-season clothing. The skin of his face was black from sun exposure and he was missing his front teeth; last month’s enthusiasm was replaced with an eternal grimace. This is what was so unsettling - the reality of mental illness.

“Do you mind if I sit,” I ask him.

“Not at all, I was kind of lonely. Hi, I’m Mark,” he says, extending his limb for a shake.

His hands are soiled with life, death and everything in-between. I’m not squeamish as I willingly offer my paw. He squeezes hard and I focus on the possible blood, feces, urine, semen, and garbage that coat his skin.

“I filmed you last month at Dennys. And I’d like to film you again, and show people what you go through. Would it be OK?”

“As long as you agree with what I have to say. Because I’m not crazy, dude.”

Camera rolls and he lets me in as Rob watches carefully from a short distance.

Meet Mark, a middle-aged Caucasian who enjoys Coca Cola (see video below). Shortly after our encounter at Dennys, he was forcefully admitted to a hospital where Adolf Hitler was the attending physician. Luckily for Mark, there was a rift in the space/time continuum and after traveling 80 years back to the future, he made it here - to our present conversation.

“Who were you talking to at Dennys?” I inquired.

“Another traveler,” Mark explained, “but you couldn’t see him because you’re human.”

When asked how Mark was able to see the invisible traveler, he answered, “It’s because I’m a dinosaur.”

In the Cretaceous Period, Mark was your average reptile living in the moment when he first encountered Hitler-Saurus-Rex. As he recalls, Hitler the dinosaur desired Mark the Dinosaur’s love interest, Karen Carpenter the Dinosaur. In a jealous rage, dino-Hitler murdered dino-Karen but spared dino-Mark so he could suffer for all eternity.

But his original reptilian form, and the countless lives to follow, were unknown to ‘Mark the Traveler’ for many light-years.

“Not until World War II was everything clear.”

Mark was once an American solider captured by request of the Fuhrer during World War II. Once in captivity, Mark the solider was subjected to experiments at the hands of Hitler himself. It was on an operating table that Hitler revealed the truth about their eternal struggle, allowing Mark the Traveler to always know that no matter what form they occupy, Hitler would forever kill Karen Carpenter unless Mark makes it to heaven in time.

Our conversation ended but I made no promises to return with a goody bag. I thanked him for his time and confirmed the permission needed to speak about his pain.

“I’m not crazy, you know that?”

I assured him that I didn’t think he was crazy (because he’s sick) and gave him a hug, wishing him a successful trip to heaven one day soon.

As I made my way home, Rob and I said goodbye but it was the last time we spoke about using the mentally ill of Los Angeles in a ploy to draw attention to my website.

Once home, I undressed and in my usual nightly fashion, prepared for a night’s worth of reassurance. My iTunes is loaded with every possible relaxation/distraction technique to counter my own personal distortions, which range from not being real (a belief caused by the persistent depersonalization that comes with Panic Disorder) to having Early Onset Alzheimer’s (in my early 20’s, nonetheless).

There is a prescription in my shorts pocket that I’ll fill tomorrow in hopes that an increase in dose will one day alleviate my own struggles. And I’m thinking of Mark - and how little separates us aside from my ability to recognize my own mental illness more often than not.

See my first encounter with Mark @ Dennys below and visit Mental Health America if you or a loved is suffering. Other great resources are NAMI for support groups throughout the country and the Anxiety Guru for those with Anxiety Disorders.