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)
“Verity, you have to make the most of this opportunity.” Sheila pauses, and her voice is gentle, careful when she speaks again. “Seems like every fall we have this conversation at least once, but you always push through.”
I go still beneath my comforter, glad for the artificial darkness hiding me from the truth. I don’t reply, but I close my eyes against the tears stinging the corners. Just when things stabilize, something changes. Changes in my brain chemistry, the universe, barometric pressure, the moon cycle… who the hell knows? But the perfectly balanced remedy we found for my bifurcated brain tips off the scale, and I’m in bed for twelve hours, convinced I’ll never write again. Why does it take all of this for me to exist? Is everyone this exhausted from simply living?
But Sheila’s right. Certain times of year are harder than others. It sneaks up on me sometimes. Especially with two projects going—developing the show for United and working on Dessi—my routines are more important than ever if I expect to remain stable. Exercise, regular sleep, eating balanced meals. I haven’t gone to a pottery class in a while. It’s one of the hobbies that grounds me when my mind would spin in a thousand different directions, or rouse me when I feel like… well, like this. I’m miserable in this bed, but DBT tells me what to do—opposite action.
Identify the emotion: sadness.
What is it telling me to do? Isolate. Stay here alone in the dark.
So I need to do the opposite: get my ass up, and get out. Do something and keep doing something until I start to feel better. Meds alone don’t win this battle. My decisions do, too, and I’m deciding to get up.
“Verity?” Sheila presses on speaker. “You still there?”
“Yup.” I push the comforter off and throw my legs over the side of the bed, letting my feet hit the floor. “I’ll be there.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” she says, and signs off.
My limbs feel like heavy logs, and my movements are wooden, but I force one foot in front of the other until I reach the bathroom and face myself in the mirror.
“Hey, girl,” I say, pushing one side of my mouth into as much of a grin as I can manage. “You know what to do.”
I run cold water and bend, splashing my face. A startled gasp bursts past my lips as the icy water hits my skin. I’ll let it do its work, hopefully triggering serotonin, dopamine—anything in my body that can start working to make me feel better. I splash a few more times and then stand to face the mirror again, blinking through the droplets at the girl with a familiar determined glint in her eye.
“I can’t depend on chance,” I tell the mirror, reciting one of the affirmations I learned in the group where Tessa and I met. “But I can make choices. I’m responsible for myself and must create the best life I can.”
Tessa and I have reminded each other of these so often, for a moment I could swear she’s right here with me, and it gives me the courage I need to get out the door. Stability is a blessing, and one that is not always promised to me. I won’t take it for granted but will make the most of every day I have where my mind is clear.
“You made it!” Desiree screeches at the small reception following the screening of her new movie. “Oh, my God. It’s good to see you.”
Desiree pulls me in for a tight hug, the same jasmine perfume she wore back in college familiar and comforting. She used to sport braids, but now her hair is shorn so closely I see her scalp. It throws her angular features into striking relief. The heavy listlessness from the last few days lingers, but I’m glad I pushed through it to come support my girl.
“Good to see you, too, sis,” I mumble into her shoulder. “Loved the movie.”
Six feet tall barefoot, Desiree pulls back and peers down at me, hope and pride shining in her brown eyes. “For real, Tee? You liked it?”
“I believe I said loved. Don’t take words out my mouth.” I reach for her hand and squeeze, willing her to believe me. “It’s your best, Ray. I’m so happy for you.”
“This calls for celebration!” Her grin widens. “Dinner after?”
“There’s food here,” I laugh, gesturing around the minimalist space and grabbing ginger ale and a fancy hors d’oeuvre from a passing tray.
“Now, Verity, you know we celebrate with grease and calories.”
We’re still laughing when the director Peter Shu makes his way across the crowded room to join us.
“We did it,” Peter says, beaming at Desiree. “And they love it.”
“You brought it to life,” Desiree replies, ever humble.
“It was a great script,” Peter says, turning his attention to me. “Verity Hill, right?”