Of all the things they could have said, that’s one Michael didn’t expect. He guesses that no one expects to hear a confession like that in their actual life, face-to-face. Schizophrenia is a term from television and hyperbole and insult and gossip about someone else’s cousin. Everyone is afraid of it, and Michael is ashamed because he’s afraid of it too, even if it’s not for the same reasons. Being insane is frightening. It scares him all the time.
Parts of Michael’s chest and throat start to get tight. His fingers curl into nervous fists. He licks his lips.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” It’s not what he wants his first reply to be, necessarily, but that’s what happens. “I mean—no, I mean don’t—but Jesus, everything’s been so fucked up.” He sighs hard and pushes his face into his right hand, the nails of his left biting into his palm. “Not with you. I mean me, my head, I can’t—and I just kept thinking, ‘Wolfgang says it’s okay but doesn’t really get it, and this isn’t gonna end well ‘cause no one likes to hear about this stuff.’”