how to approach jury duty: a primer for special people

wake up at 5:53 even though you don't have to be there until 8:30. this is because you know if you don't wake up at your normal time, your day will fall apart. you do not do well with change. if anyone asks, tell them the dogs want to pee at 5:53 and not a minute later. although you've been to this exact courthouse before, mapquest several routes to it from your house. include train routes, bus routes and walking routes. you will not need them but having them will reassure you. leave early. you do not normally travel with rush hour traffic and you don't often travel on the trains when they're underground. you only have five stops to your transfer and then another two stops, but who knows what can happen on a tuesday morning during rush hour. lose your metrocard. yes, you lost one last week, but lose this one, too. buy another one and go through the turnstile. walk down to the platform outside even though it is fourteen degrees. you need to make your way to the end so you can be in the first car. this car will be less crowded and although you feel confident you have some power over your moderate claustophobia, why push it? get in the car. read. do not make eye contact. the car is less crowded than you expected although several people are standing. ignore the man in front of you who is talking to himself. tell your own self he is on the phone. when you are three stops into your ride and fully underground, notice that the guy in front of you is still talking, arguing, really. note there is no cell phone service here underground. tell your brain to shut up. realize the one thing that completely trumps your claustrophobia is your mild paranoia. your paranoid brain makes you get off the train at stop number three. wait while three trains you don't need pass by. get on your train. listen to your stupid brain point out all the potential maniacs on the train. tell it to shut up. consider whether there are medications designed specifically to get a brain to shut up for five minutes. figure there probably aren't. get off the train at stop number four. decide you can't win over your stupid brain and take the steps to the outside.

look at your map. congratulate yourself on your cleverness for having printed it out. do not realize you have printed it out not for the actual street number but just for the general street name. follow the line on the map. be mad at your brain that it is now seventeen degrees and you are outside. be proud of yourself that you are wearing wool socks, boots, silk long underwear, a sweater, a wool coat, wool hat, big wool scarf and fleece lined wool gloves. say something to your brain along the lines of "take that!" your brain ignores you. walk along flabush avenue for what seems like a long time until you notice nobody else is walking where you are. look for landmarks. fail to see the brooklyn bridge directly ahead of you. turn left according to your map directions. stop where you think the courthouse should be. be completely surprised there is no such thing there. walk around in increasingly colder circles. remember you didn't eat yet and head for a bank. come to terms with the fact that your atm card, which has been growing fainter by the day, no longer has a working magnetic strip. dig through your pockets and find three dollars. look at your watch. 8:22. look at your map. swear at your stupid brain for getting you into this situation. you are cold, tired, hungry, possibly sick and lost. keep wandering. look up and see the courthouse directly in front of you. you passed it on all three off sides before running up aginst the front door. look at your map. see that you've walked more than a mile out of your way. resent the fact that your stupid brain is laughing at you.

be happy the sweetie tossed a moose munch bar into your bag. eat it and find that your body does not fare well on chocolate flecked with pretzel bits as its primary fuel source. wonder if your brain and your body have joined forces. hate them both, just in case. be selected to be seated for a jury. hear the brief about the case. realize that the person involved in the case carries around the same specialness you do, the same diagnosis. the same label. know you can't be objective. spend a great deal of time thinking about a dignified way to present this information. listen to others talk about their own views. be impressed by how many smart people are in your jury pool of 30. go to lunch. come back. listen some more. be part of the second wave of public interviews. hear the prosecutor ask if anyone in your group can't be objective. hate the fact that you can't be objective. raise your hand. say out loud to thirty strangers that you are special. you are like the man in the case. this does not embarrass you. in fact, you consider yourself to be a very good example of someone living successfully with a mental illness. you are not embarrassed by who you are or what label you bring with you. it is the awkwardness of the room that makes you feel a little sad. the prosecutor stammers thank you for serving and the defense lawyer smiles that smile that suggests she wants to feel your pain but can't. consider telling her you don't have pain, at least not the sort she worries you have, although you've had an ear infection more than a week. try not to look at the other jurors as you leave. you do not want them to be uncomfortable with the weight of your label and what they think it means. smile generously at the prosecutor as he hands you back your jury form and stammers thank you again. stand up straight. everyone is speaking softly and smiling the way they do when they deal with children at funerals. wish you could tell all the people in the room you just left how mind-numbingly normal your life is and how happy you are. realize how happy you are. wonder what makes some people with your special label turn into you while others turn into someone who dies. blame the people around you. the family. the wild children. the sweetie. it is their fault you are alive. it is their fault you are happy. be glad. be grateful. be a little smug. notice your stupid brain has shut up and your swirling stomach is still.

sit and wait another two hours for someone to tell you you can go home.