I won't put two and two back together

Today I questioned things again.
Everyday they tell me to accept the facts, accept what's true, accept what's real, what happens. This happened, they say. So it had to cause this. There's no other explanation. The truth is all here and it's no use disputing it or widening its boundaries; the laws of living were placed there for a reason, firmly ensconsed between exceptions and sheer imagination.

Today, again, I doubted it.
My father led me by the sleeve to his office at Western State Hospital, a mental institution. He pulled me along, a puppet on a string, through wired courtyards and tattered volleyball nets, through chipped picnic tables and yellow grass, through the Washington puddles and the monitored enclosures.

"This is what happens," he tells me, strengthening his grip on my flimsy sleeve as I worry not of my supposed deterioration, but of the tearing of my fabric.

"Dr. Ziskin, I have a job now. Thank you for your guidance."
The thin, meek man we pass to my left smiles kindly to my father, offering a bony-fingered wave.
"They're friendly, aren't they?" father asks, nonchalant.
"Yes."
"That one murdered five people when he was 19."
"Oh."
"Not so friendly, are they?"
"No."

I questioned the sterile silence of his dim office, the stacks of books, the lists of tasks. I questioned the DSM-IV placed on my lap, opened for me to 'Borderline Personality Disorder.'
I questioned it.

"You've been here before."
"Yes."
"What has changed?"
"Nothing."
"Do you think you're crazy?"
"Possibly."

It's not hard for me to formulate the words anymore. He knows, he knows of the malfunctions in my mind, of the neurons in my brain gone awry. Of my disordered personality. He knows all of it, and more, because he is doctor and he is God--and I am student and I am crazy.

It's not hard for me to wrap my tongue around these damning words I'm about to say; he's uncovered my flaws and unwound them like strands of DNA for scientific interpretation, letting me slide through his fingers with calculated observation. I'm here, Dr. Ziskin, I'm here and I am certainly crazy.

I read about 'Bipolar Personality Disorder', the text obscenely exposed in my lap, vulgar truth.

"Well... that's me."
"That's everybody."