Page 81 of Maid in America

“Maybe you considered harming yourself?”

She thought back to the last time she felt down in the dumps. She’d been sleeping fourteen hours a day and considered the world might be a better place without her in it. She wondered if her friends and family might be relieved to no longer have her dragging them down with her.

A thought popped into her mind, flicking a switch in her that raised a brick wall of denial.

“I’m sorry. Dr. Brown, I know you think you know this kind of stuff, but I think you’ve misjudged me. I can hold down a job. I won awards in high school. For a while, I was acing my college classes. A sick person can’t bethatproductive.”

“There’s a cycle of this disorder calledoverachievingthat might sound familiar. You’re productive, getting so much done that you continue piling more and more things on your plate. Then, because of the load, you start to fail, dropping those thingsandthe plates. Then, that usually starts a cycle of depression because you can’t seem to do all the million things you were doing a month ago. Then, you stop being productive altogether, feeling hopeless or useless until you slowly build yourself up again, gathering steam until the manic cycle starts up again.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “Sound familiar?”

She winced as the pattern struck her like a blow to the temple, making her feel dazed as she reflected on her last few years in college and high school, both a blur of productivity followed by over-commitments to after-school clubs and advanced placement classes.

After a while, she would find herself skipping after-school meetings and struggling to turn assignments in on time.

“Maybe,” she finally said. “But I don’t flip out ateverything. I’m notviolent. I don’t just snap.”

“I don’t know where you got this notion that bipolar means you’re some kind of aggressive, raging beast. Bipolar people can be some of the nicest people you’ve ever met. Many of my favorite patients are bipolar. A mood disorder doesn’t make you a monster.”

She dug her nails into her palms in an attempt to distract her from the lump in her throat. Angry tears threatened to fall. She fought desperately to contain them, not wishing to seem any more the caricature of the disorder than she already felt she was.

“Now, if you want to treat this and get a handle on it, first, we need to set you up with regular appointments, either with myself or a counselor, so that we can assess your progress and help you monitor your moods. Cut out the alcohol and the weed. You don’t need that stuff. They’re masks for a problem, not fixes. Weneed to get you on a healthy diet… and sleep,” he darted his eyes over to her, “sleep isveryimportant.”

“As far as medications, I will write you a script for an anti-psychotic that works well for this sort of thing. We can also start you on an antidepressant to help bring up those lows. There are quite a few with minimal side effects. Then, we can also try a mood stabilizer. One I like to start with is Lamotra—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I never said I’d take medication. I’m not signing up to be some sort of emotionless zombie.”

Dr. Brown’s expression flickered with frustration and then returned to the unaffected demeanor he’d maintained before.

“Medication can help, Chastity. Let’s not forgetyou’rein control here. If you don’t like the way something makes you feel, then we stop it and lower the dosage or switch to something else. You tell me how you’re feeling and how you’dliketo feel, and then we can move toward that goal together. Nobody is forcing you to take medication… just like no one is gonna stop you from leaving. You are here voluntarily. My patients come here to make their lives better, not worse. That’s all I am interested in. Now that your diagnosis has been re-confirmed,youget to decide how your future looks.”

Chastity nodded and snatched her purse from the floor beside her. “I need some time to think about all of this.”

“Absolutely. I completely understand.” He pressed a button on his keyboard and spun to face her. “I’ve sent all three prescriptions to the pharmacy you put on file. They’re all low doses. If you decide to give them a try, we can go up or down as you see fit once you decide to give them a whirl.”

She nodded and slung her suede purse over her shoulder. “Okay.”

“Oh, and one more thing. If a depressive bout hits and you need help, please call me here at the office. Reach out. My door never closes for patients. Even the stubborn ones.” He smiled.“If I’m not immediately available, leave a message with my staff, and I’ll return your call.”

Despite his clinical disposition, Chastity saw the glint of humanity in his eyes, a disarming warmth that made her realize he wasn’t out to beat her down about her impulsive past. It had been him, andonlyhim, who offered her the option for a wildly different future.

31

Barrett sat in thedepartment store parking lot as his Jeep idled and his fuel light blazed. The gas station would be the next stop. He flipped through his contacts, spotted Will’s name, and fired off a text message.

BARRETT: Get a sitter. You and Ava are coming out with us tonight. And no wedding talk.

He called Chastity, eager to hear her voice. His body was excited at the idea of soon feeling her skin, tasting her tongue. His stomach leaped as he waited for her to answer.

One ring.

Two.

Then, suddenly, the phone clicked to life with a stuffy-nosed Chastity answering on the other end.

“Barrett?” her voice dripped with pain, tone wavering on the fine edge of a sob.

“Chastity, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” he asked, heart crashing into the hard floor of his gut.

“They know.”

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