Page 80 of Maid in America

He watched her pace. “You sent over your records from the college counselor. I reviewed them carefully. I’ve listened to you talk about your emotions, your mood swings, your impulsive behaviors. It’s not a guess. I didn’t get all those diplomas out of a Cracker Jack box. My DSM-V isn’t just a bulky paperweight. I’ve been doing this almost longer than you’ve been alive.”

She plopped back down on the chaise, collapsing into herself, the stubbornness of her denial the only thing keeping her upright.

“So.. now what?” A rush of emotion overtook her. Unable to hold them back, tears fell and spattered against the thighs of her torn jeans. “What do I do now?”

Dr. Brown leaned forward in his chair, his hazel eyes softening with some genuine compassion. “You have two options: you can continue to suffer manic highs and depressivelows, or… we can finally try something different. The choice is up to you.”

“I just don’t get it. I’m not some explosive person who has to be medicated to oblivion just so I can be more palatable to other people. I’m not that bad.”

“It’s not about making you socially palatable. It’s less about your propensity for angry or tearful outbursts, more about how youfeel.”

“I feel fine,” she lied.

“How have you been sleeping?”

“Fine,” she said so weakly he almost couldn’t hear her.

He tilted his head, giving her a discerning look. “I cannot help you if you aren’t honest with me. The only person you’re hurting here is yourself.”

She sniffled. “You want honesty? Fine. I haven’t slept more than three or four hours at a time in well over a month.”

“And how has your mood been?”

“It’s been good. I’m staying upbeat, considering the circumstances.”

“Spending a lot of money?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow.

She laughed. “I don’t have much to spend. I barely had enough to cover this visit.”

“You do any gambling, street-racing, sex with strangers, self-harm?”

She waited a while, then finally nodded. “Yeah. Sex.”

“All of them?”

“No, the sex. Some… one-night stands.”

His expression never changed, as if he was expecting that answer. “Anything else? Substance abuse?”

“Occasional alcohol. A little weed.”

“What about abrupt changes?”

“Like what?”

“Like, say, dying your hair all the colors of the rainbow?” He offered a small, knowing grin.

She twisted a strand of hair around her finger and laughed. He had her dead-to-rights. “Mayyyybe.”

His grin grew into a humored smile as he swiveled back to his computer, the screen illuminating his face with a cold, blueish hue.

“That would be the mania. Right now, you might even feel like you’re invincible. Bulletproof. Maybe you think that rules don’t apply to you or that you have your life perfectly under control. Depending on where you are at, in a month or two, maybe longer, a low will come.”

A pit opened in her stomach, and she suddenly felt drained of all color. It felt familiar, like something that routinely came and passed.

“Level with me, Ms. Erikson. How bad do the depressive episodes usually get? Do you swing in the opposite direction and sleep like it’s a full-time job? Do you have very little motivation or difficulty keeping up with hygiene and showers?”

She nodded.

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