Out

Scott is out of the mental institution. He's been out for close to a week now. I let most of his calls go to voicemail, but the night he got out, curiosity got the better of me.

When he called, Scott's voice was chipper. "How was your weekend?" he asked, nonchalantly.

"Uh, my weekend was fine. How was your weekend?" I responded dramatically.

"Oh, I guess you heard then," he muttered.

He was actually going to pretend that nothing had happened. He didn't know that I knew and he was trying to keep it that way. And once the initial lie fell out of his mouth, the floodgates opened.

He tried telling me that he was drugged date-rape style at the bar he went to in a Kroger parking lot in Racist Hickville where his mother lives. I see now exactly how ridiculous all those whoppers of stories I've repeated on this blog were. He expected me to believe the first time he went to a bar in Losertown he was drugged by a perfect stranger.

"The doctor at the rehab did a toxicology on me and confirmed I was drugged with a hallucinogenic!" he cried.

"First of all, it wasn't rehab. It was a state mental hospital. A loony bin. And a toxicology report doesn't confirm whether the drugs you ingested were voluntarily taken or not, just that they are in you system," I retorted.

Then he tried to convince me his "family" at his workplace (that fired him and have had no contact with him) drove the hour and a half out of the city just to hang out with him in Racist Hickville. But he doesn't have any of their phone numbers. "And they like to pretend they are vampires on the weekend and that's why I was talking about vampires when I was in the hospital," he finished.

"You were talking about vampires because you took an entire box of benedryl and washed it down at a bar." I corrected.

Scott got more desperate in his attempt for me to pity him, the victim in all of this. "You don't understand how bad of a trip it was. A neighbor found me passed out in the driveway covered in blood!"

"No! Your step-father found you sitting on the floor in the living room in front of the love seat by the back window, and you were cutting your arms vertically with parts of the watch I gave you for Christmas! I know everything. Stop lying!" I snapped.

I don't even know why Scott would lie about how he was found; I don't know what purpose it serves. His sister thinks Scott tells whatever version he thinks makes him sound the best. I'm inclined to agree. But in Scott's case, usually neither his version, nor the truth, makes him sound good.

The problem with Scott is that he lies with such arrogance and he'll never admit the truth, even when you're holding the beer-can-turned-pot-pipe in your hand and asking if he smoked up again. He'll shrug his shoulders and say it was old and tell you you're crazy for hearing lighter sounds in the bathroom. And it's with such confidence that I begin to wane. When was the last time I cleaned under the sink in the bathroom? Could I have missed it? Is it possible he's telling the truth? It is.

Only now Scott's doing a me a favor by continuing to pathologically lie. It's making me less attached to him and more disgusted and sickened by him. It makes me see that even though my living situation is at times spirit crushing, at least I'm in a healthy and safe environment. I don't feel crazy trying to figure out the truth anymore. I'm in my own specialized "back to basics" routine in which I go to work, eat dinner with my parents, share the TV and go to bed.

And it's nice.