Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“I know it’s probably not professional,” I say, rising and shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “But this is our last time together, in person at least. Would it be okay if I—”
I don’t even get the words out before her arms circle me, and she gives me a tight squeeze.
“You got this,” she whispers. “And I’m always just a phone call away. You have your psychiatrist, your support group. Use your DBT strategies.”
There’s no way I could manage this without meds, but the strategies I’ve learned through Dialectical Behavior Therapy are nearly as essential for mood regulation and my emotional well-being.
“You have family and friends who love you,” Dr. Palmer continues, pulling back to look directly into my eyes. “Who know you and accept you exactly as you are. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
I’ve managed not to cry today, even recounting the last night I saw my parents alive; their horrific deaths, but that simple reassurance—that I have nothing to be ashamed of—brings tears to my eyes. I lean deeper into her arms and leak tears onto her expensive silk blouse. She doesn’t seem to care, but tightens her hold and rubs my back.
Because I do carry shame. So much shame about the things I’ve done when I was manic, especially at Finley.
Especially to Monk.
“Okay,” Dr. Palmer says, pulling back and smiling. “Talk to you soon.”
“Thank you for everything, Doc,” I say, my voice wavering with tears. “Goodbye.”
The subway ride to the small apartment I share with two other people in Queens affords me time to think. The Brooklyn-based production company where I work has been exactly what I needed. Not too much pressure. Just enough pay to survive and benefits for my meds and therapy costs. Now I’m leaving the city I wasn’t sure I could make it in. Needing a fresh start, I knew going back to Finley wasn’t an option. I changed my number and even ignored the emails Petra sent checking on me. Dr. Garrison was the only person who knew what really happened, and the only one I’ve kept in touch with.
I’ve since discovered that ghosting is pretty common for people who have bipolar. You often do some out-of-pocket shit when you’re manic. Once you stabilize, it’s like someone took over your body and while they were in charge they made these awful decisions in proxy that wrecked your finances, ruined your reputation, and decimated your relationships. It’s so hard to face that many times people just start over.
That’s what I did after Finley. I had to. My literal survival was at stake, and that part of my life was a painful memory I didn’t need to add to all the other things I was trying to figure out about my brain and body. Besides, it was such a short chapter of my life. Not even a full year. Finley wasn’t that hard to put in the rearview mirror.
But Monk…
I didn’t just leave him behind. When we broke up, in many ways I deconstructed, leaving parts of myself back there with him, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get those back. We weren’t together that long, but for a few glorious months before my life ran into a ditch, I was happier with Monk than I’ve ever been. Leaving him was like ripping off a limb that won’t ever regenerate, but you must learn to live with the phantom ache where it used to be.
Some of the tears I shed on Dr. Palmer’s shoulder were for him, for what I walked away from. For how I hurt him and never fully explained myself. If I ever see him again, I’m still not sure I would. Because what if he does understand? Forgives me? Gives us another chance? Another manic episode is more likely to happen than not at some point, and I wouldn’t do that to him. I’m not saying we’d both end up dead like my parents, but I firmly believe we’d both end up hurt. Walking away from Monk that night was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but knowing what I do now, maybe it was one of the wisest.
I’ve set aside dreams of marriage and a family, even though sometimes when I see parents with their kids in the park, it aches and I can’t help wondering what might have been possible in a different life.
This shit is hard, though. It’s a life of constant vigilance, a pharmaceutical balancing act, a circus of psychiatrists and therapists and support groups. I can throw a kitchen sink of solutions at my bipolar disorder, and there is still no guarantee of stability forever. Always.
But I try.
Trying is half the battle because giving up is the greatest temptation.
As soon as I get home, my roommate Tessa is all over me.
“Oh, my God!” squeaks Tessa, an aspiring Broadway actress who dresses up like a pastrami sandwich to pay the bills. “You ready to play?”