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 force myself to meet his eyes.
“It’s the crippling kind, where every part of your body aches and you can’t even drag yourself out of bed to shower or eat.”
I lick dry lips and shake my head. “There was one week Harry kept calling to see how the script was coming along, and I had put my phone in the refrigerator. I couldn’t bear the thought of even knowing someone wanted to talk to me, much less hold a lucid conversation. The fog over my brain was so thick. I eventually just told Harry I wouldn’t be able to finish the project.”
“So you have depression?” Canon asks, eyes alert like he’s trying to peer beneath my words.
I look at him and say what I’ve told so few in this industry for fear I’d lose my career when writing is the thing that anchors me in the sometimes-choppy waves of my existence.
“I’m bipolar.”
“Oh.” His brows lift and he nods. “Okay.”
“Well, more accurately, bipolar is my diagnosis, not my identity. I am a writer, a friend, a niece, an activist, but I have bipolar disorder.” I fist the hem of my shirt to ground me so I can get this out and not run like I have so many times before. “I tell very few people, not because I’m ashamed of it. I’m ashamed of some of the things I’ve done during an episode, but I make a distinction. I don’t tell people in the industry because I don’t trust them not to judge me or presume I can’t do my job.”
I shift in my chair while Canon remains silent, listening. So I go on.
“At the same time, I can’t tell you that would never happen. You don’t put a saddle on this condition. You ride bareback with no reins, holding on for dear life to anything you can grab,” I say. “What I can tell you is that my situation with Harry was years ago, when I was much earlier in my journey. I’ve figured out my meds and now have better ways to cope.”
“I’ve heard some people don’t like taking medication,” Canon says. “Especially creatives.”
“Imagine that in your brain there is a room full of treasure,” I say. “But it’s locked away. One day you see the door cracked open, so you just sneak in for a little while. It’s wealth beyond belief. It’s every good feeling. It’s your best day, all day. You’re invincible in that room. Then someone comes along and says you have to lock it up, throw away the key, and forget it exists. Bipolar is kind of like that because there is truth to the way your mind opens up when you’re manic, especially right before it goes really bad.”
“I’ve heard that, too.”
“It’s true, at least for me and a lot of creatives who were most prolific when they were manic. Vincent van Gogh, Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Schumann—all thought to be bipolar. Hell, Nina Simone, one of the greatest ever, was diagnosed bipolar. Frankly, my best work has come during a full-blown episode or right at the beginning of a cycle before my psychiatrist and I caught it.”
“That makes sense.”
“I will say I haven’t had an episode disrupt a deadline since Harry, which was years ago.” Hot tears well in my eyes as I realize this condition could cost me possibly the greatest opportunity of my career. “But I understand if you don’t feel comfortable trusting me with Dessi’s story. I know it’ll be a huge production, so you need someone reliable.”
“I can’t think of one story that ever moved me where my first thought was ‘this writer must have been so reliable when they wrote this,’” Canon says, his words and the wry twist to his lips loosening the muscles I’ve held so tightly since this conversation began.
I smile, but can’t stop a renegade tear from streaking down my cheek. I keep my head lowered and, without looking up, accept the tissue Canon offers. Everyone says he’s a hard-ass, and I can see that, but there is so much compassion in his eyes that I wipe my face, less self-conscious.
“You’re a dreamer, Verity. You’re a historian. You’re one of the most talented people I’ll ever work with.”
My head snaps up at his words.
“Work with?” I whisper, wanting to make sure I heard him right.
“If you still want the job, it’s still yours.”
I restrain myself from leaping across the desk and smothering him with grateful hugs, but I can’t hold back the tears that persist, wetting my face. As soon as I mop the tears away, a fresh storm of them comes. My mouth works for several seconds, but I can’t get any words out. I finally stem the flow long enough to speak.
“Thank you,” I croak. “You have no idea… just thank you for this chance.”