Evidently I'm Writing a Novel: Chapter One of a Fiction on Mental Illness

As of late I have been working on a novel... a piece of fiction based on some personal experience. As you may or may not know, I was diagnosed years ago with bipolar disorder type II, as well as mild OCD. While I finally have a handle on my disorder(s) I have come down a long, dark road to get here and I am writing about that journey. Not all of this is specific to my story, but most of it is. I would like, if I may, to submit the first chapter here for your consideration. Any feedback would be tremendously appreciated. I would be willing to submit subsequent chapters if I get enough feedback to indicate it would be welcome. So, here goes... chapter one:

I roll over and pull the covers over my head for the third time this morning. It is almost 11:00 and I have been awake since 4:00 a.m. but with the exception of a quick trip to the bathroom I haven’t been up yet. I am naked largely for lack of desire to expend the effort involved in putting on pajamas after work yesterday. After about a minute with my head covered I am once again too hot, just like the last two times, and I yank the blanket down in frustration. Too bright, too hot, and without the blanket its too cold. I flop over onto my other side, away from the wall now, and curl up as tightly as I can. It is a small defiant gesture against my body which seems to beg for a stretch. I take these opportunities as often as possible, these chances to demonstrate how much I hate myself. Nobody else ever notices or if they do they don’t say so. They don’t see the scars on my arms, or know the way I make myself cry sometimes because I know I don’t deserve to smile.

I frown as I consider my day. Its Friday and for once I don’t have to work. Several hours worth of chores have piled up in my small apartment and I know none of it will get done today. I have an appointment at 1:00 this afternoon with a new therapist. I will go to that, because a small part of me thinks maybe he can help and even though most of me knows I shouldn’t really ever get better, that I can’t and its wrong for me to want to, that small little voice of hope and reason thinks maybe its just because I’m sick that I think this way and maybe if this new doctor can help I would feel worthy of being better. Of course, without being better its hard to believe any of that, but the small side of hope there is clinging to the knowledge that I’m just desperate enough to not walk away from a chance.

Finally at noon I throw back the covers with an annoyed flourish, having spent the last hour arguing with myself with the full knowledge of which side would win. I shuffle across the cool hard wood floor into my walk in closet and without really seeing anything I grab a dark purple t-shirt and jeans. On my way to the bathroom I stop at my dresser for underwear and a bra, and set a pair of white socks on the small table next to the shoe rack by the door. I go through the motions of starting my day when everyone else has been up for hours, not really thinking and not really feeling mostly because I don’t want to. I stand in the kitchen and eat a bowl of corn flakes, not looking around, eyes unfocused, and when I’m done I rinse my bowl and leave it in the sink. When I do finally get in the shower the water is so hot a kind of weird groan sound escapes me partly because it feels good and partly because its so hot it is almost uncomfortable and takes my breath away.

I wash my hair but I don’t condition it. It’s been three days since I washed it last, and I think to myself that this is better than nothing and whoever sees me should count themselves lucky I did that much. I wash my body quickly, not being particularly careful but doing a good enough job. I rinse my face under the water, but I don’t bother to soap it at all. Then I just stand there letting the hot water run over my head, my face, my hair, over my shoulders and down my back. My eyes are closed and I lean forward with my hand on the wall just feeling the water and wishing I could stay here forever. Never move, never talk to anybody, and always under the cascade of the punishing too-hot yet pleasurable water. It isn’t long, though, before the water begins to cool of its own volition and I am forced to turn it off. I open the curtain and eye my towel on the floor but don’t move to pick it up. It seems like everything I do is like this, so slow and seemingly deliberate. In fact I am not deliberate in my movements but instead tend to glaze over quite often, as if I’m staring intently but really I see nothing at all. With a slight smirk, the first thing resembling a smile that has graced me today, I consider that I could probably do nearly everything faster and better if I could make myself do it right away instead of staring into space like I am now… if I could pick up the towel instead of becoming lost in it. The smirk has interrupted my temporary pause and I finally do bend down to pick up the towel.

I dry slowly, in a deliberate pattern. I do it the same way each time I shower and am tremendously disturbed by any deviation from this method. There are no errors in the process today, though, so I am able to move on relatively quickly and start getting dressed. I put on the panties and bra, then deodorant, and I brush my hair but don’t bother to brush my teeth. I am now running late and don’t care that much about my teeth anyway. I leave the bathroom and pick up my socks along with a pair of tennis shoes from the shoe rack. Sitting on the edge of the unmade bed, I stuff my feet into the socks and shoes and then sit there, glazed over again. This time, for no reason at all I begin to cry.

It is a silent cry, no drama and if you looked at me you might not even notice it except for the fat tears rolling down my face. I feel like curling up, wrapping my arms around myself and rocking back and forth but even as the pain in my chest gets worse I just sit there, arms at my sides with my palms pressed against the bed making no sound and not moving. My mind is swimming now with thoughts that twist the knife deeper inside me: I am worthless, everyone in my life would be happier without me, and the very fact that I sit here crying is proof that I am nothing but an emotional train wreck and a burden on everyone I love. I cry harder and silently consider my plan, picture it, make small adjustments and finally relax and take a deep breath when I know it is perfect. I stand and wipe the tears from my face, and as I begin to walk toward the door I resolve to kill myself later tonight.

The plan plays over and over in my head as I drive to my appointment. I deliberately look forward and avoid seeing the people in the cars around me, and try to find music on the radio which will cement me further in my resolve to do what I know I must; songs which remind me of hurtful things and all my shortcomings which I know are too numerous to count. When I find a song that suits my purpose I turn it up so loud I know the people around me must hear it but I don’t care. These songs seem to have been written for me and as I start to sing along, off key and as if no one could see me, I feel as if a blanket has been wrapped around my soul; one of those thin and scratchy blankets they keep in ambulances because that’s certainly all I deserve, but a blanket no less.

I arrive at the doctors office late but he receptionist doesn’t seem to notice. I tell her who I am and she says to have a seat, that the doctor will be out shortly. There is a woman with a small boy, maybe 7 or 8, in the waiting area and he is loud and running around. She keeps telling him to sit down and be quiet but she doesn’t move or in fact even look up from the magazine which must have captivated her with the latest gossip about some celebrity having an affair with whoever. I look around the room and take a seat as far away from these two as I can. I think about picking up a magazine myself but don’t because I don’t really care what they have to say anyway, and even if I did I’m so sleepy now I’d be afraid of dozing off. So I sit there looking at my feet, trying to tune out the brat running circles around the coffee table.

A tall man with thinning gray hair walks into the waiting room and I glance up at him, expecting he will speak to the model parent to my left but instead he comes to me.

“Megan?” he asks me and I lift my head to face him completely. I don’t say anything but nod and use my best fake “pleased to meet you” smile on him. “I’m Tim.” He extends his hand to me and I shake it, still giving that dumb grin. Immediately I hate this man.

He turns and begins to walk back the way he came, and I get up and follow him. Out of the corner of my eye I see mom of the year looking annoyed for the first time since my arrival, and I know it isn’t directed at the child she is once again threatening to beat, but at me and Tim because she has been there longer than me. I’ve certainly been around places like this enough to know there is likely more than one doctor practicing here and her appointment must simply be with a different one, but she doesn’t seem to get that. As soon as she is out of the range of my peripheral vision she is forgotten.

Tim leads me past the receptionist area and up some stairs. The building is actually an old house which has been renovated to be used as a psychiatric practice and Tim’s office is in one of the upstairs bedrooms. The stairs creak under our feet and at the top we step onto more plush carpeting and our feet become silent. We turn right and go down a hallway past a bathroom and Tim shows me into a very brightly lit room with two recliners and a couch and several book cases, hanging plants and any number of annoying pictures of kittens and various motivational things.

I ask where to sit and he says anywhere, though I’m sure that isn’t entirely true. Tim probably has a spot he likes and would not want me to sit there. I consider trying to pick the one he likes just to get him to tell me to move but instead I sit on the very far end of the couch facing the recliners. I try my best to fit my body into as little of that corner as possible, like I can actually disappear into it, but finding this effort unsuccessful I simply cross my legs and wait. Tim goes to the desk by the door, picks up a notepad and a pen, and sits in the recliner closest to me, on the other side of a brightly colored rug. He looks at me for a moment and I give him the fake smile again.

“So, Megan, its nice to meet you. I know you have been through these initial appointments before, just based on what notes I have from my receptionist when she made your appointment, so I will try to keep this pretty to the point, with as little monotony as possible, ok?” Tim says all this in kind of a cheerful way and I can tell he expects me to make some comment about how nice that would be and how I’ve certainly been through it all a time or two. I’m feeling generous and give him what he wants.

“Great,” he says. “First of all, I’d like to get a little more background on you. I see here you were diagnosed 8 years ago with bipolar disorder.” This is not a question but he pauses as if it was.

“Yeah, when I was 21. I guess I don’t know if I buy it though. I mean, they called it bipolar because I’ve had maybe three manic episodes. They weren’t even that bad. But what do I know? I’m the one living in my shoes but I’m not a medical professional and I guess you guys have this all figured out.” I laugh a little to make my comments seem lighter, like a joke. In fact I am not kidding and resent the hell out of all these attempts to label me. These people need to get a handle on their small worlds and to do that they have to assign values and context to everything around them, including me. The problem is, I know something is not right and in order to keep it under control I have to play their game. Plus, I guess I have some ungodly desire to please everybody somehow, so its next to impossible for me to show how I feel most of the time since being around somebody like me, I mean really like me, would certainly not make anybody happy. I always smile and laugh with other people and as I smile at Tim I am again reaffirming my plans for this evening.

Tim tilts his head to the left and watches me for a moment and I have the sudden sensation that he knows I’m faking for his benefit. I hate him even more now. “What happened when you were 21?” he asks.

“I was just feeling bummed, you know? I mean I was having a rough time in school and I was kind of sad. I don’t really remember all the details. I had it under control but everybody assumed it was worse than it was. I guess I took too many sleeping pills, that’s what they told me. It was an accident, those pills make lots of people sleep walk and I guess I couldn’t remember if I’d taken one already and somehow I ended up downing the whole bottle.” Again I laugh for his benefit. In truth, I deliberately took all the pills in that bottle and woke up in the hospital. As soon as I was physically stable I ended up in the psych unit for the very first time.

“Hm. And that was the first time you were hospitalized?” he asks as if he read my thoughts. If he knows how those pills really ended up in my system he doesn’t show it.

“Yes."

“And is that the only time?”

“No.”

Silence. He is waiting for me to fill in the blanks and finally this time I do tell him the truth.

“Nine.”

“Where?”

“Valley View. I’m on a first name basis with the girls in the ER,” I laugh again but am still not joking.

“All for basically the same thing?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. What else?”

I am quiet, not sure how to answer this or what he wants to know. Finally, slowly, I ask “um, what do you mean? What else?”

“Yeah, what else do you think I need to know? What do you want to tell me?”

“Absolutely nothing. I don’t want to tell you anything at all,” I say before I think to put up the mask again.

“Oh? Why is that?” he asks, and I get the impression that he already knew what I would say. I hate being so predictable to him. I hate that he thinks he knows me and I’m just like every other patient he has, just the same way every other doctor thinks. I tell myself this time I won’t let him get away with it, and screw the mask.

“Because I don’t like you, and because I think you are just like every other idiot doctor that thought they could just peer into my brain and see a big magic button. Because I know you can’t really help me and I’m only here because I am so desperate for help that I’m willing to put up with almost anything, even you and your bright and cheerful office. Because you don’t really care what I say anyway and as soon as you’re done talking to me there will be another patient and another and you won’t think about any of it again until next time I have to sit here in front of you and pretend you actually give a damn. Because I’m just another in a long line of crazy people to you, and because I don’t know you enough to tell you about myself and even if I did I still wouldn’t want to because if I don’t talk about myself I can’t feel anything real and that’s what’s best because I know it would all hurt way worse than it already does. And because aside from all that I know that I’m not worth hearing about anyway. So why don’t you just write a prescription for something that will make me horribly sick for a couple of weeks until I can come back in here and tell you its crap and it isn’t working and let you write one for something else. Because that’s the game, isn’t it? You want to know what you can stuff down my throat, how much you can give me just until the side effects are almost intolerable but not quite, and then you will give me something else to deal with those too.” I laugh again and this time I mean it. “Take your pick doc.”

To my surprise Tim doesn’t move or really even show any response of any kind. “Tell me how you really feel,” he says, and stunned, I realize he is mocking me.

“What?”

“You heard me. And you have every right to feel the way you do. You have been around people like me way too much over the past decade and that sucks. For what its worth, I really do want to help you feel ok.” I am certain he isn’t lying. I start to cry again.

Tim watches me but says nothing, and after a moment hands me a box of tissues. I don’t know where he got them and briefly consider throwing them back at him but don’t. I take one and set the box on the couch beside me. This isn’t like when I cried at home. This is a shaking sniffly kind of sob and I don’t like it. I try to stop, to get a grip on myself but my bottom lip shakes and I can’t help it. I feel stupid, like a small child. Tim lets me cry for a while and when I finally start to calm down he asks how I’m feeling. I find this a particularly redundant question and don’t say anything but give him a look which is half glare and half puzzled query.

“What I want to know, Megan, is if you are going to hurt yourself.”

I don’t actually want to lie this time but I know if I tell the truth I won’t be allowed to go home, and I won’t be allowed to carry out my plan for tonight, and I can’t have that. I need my plan, need to hold onto it so I can keep moving until then. I decide to go half way with him in my answer.

“Not right now,” I say.

“Fair enough. What about later today? Tonight? Tomorrow? Can I have some assurance you will be here next week?”

“Yes,” but this time I know… or at least I hope, I am lying.