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“You know, it only took one hour in your office, a family history, and Jason’s testimony to give me a life sentence of bipolar disorder.” Dr. Carter frowned. “Your brain is sick, Elizabeth. You understand that, don’t you? Someone who was healthy, wouldn’t do the things you do.” She was wrong. “No. I’ve read up on this. The message boards said it’s normal to-”
I tossed my hands up. “And what if I don’t have bipolar disorder? What if I was simply a depressed woman whose husband had an affair? What if the “hypomanic” phases you and Jason so readily identified in my past where just my normal and not hypomania at all? What if this is all a result of the drugs and not my brain?”
It’s a sad, sad world when adult life feels more like college with responsibilities. Get drunk, hang-out with friends, and pay the mortgage.
Funny how the people who look the happiest often have the most to hide.
I wanted him to be my husband. My rock. The guy I trusted more than anyone else. Not just a support propping me up because I was a mess.
“You need me. You don’t realize it, but you do. Without me, you’d never see the boys. Not with your condition.” Jason’s warm breath fanned across the side of my face. “So be a good girl and get upstairs. I’ll get your medicine, and everything will be fine.”
I shuddered as I bit my lip. Jason was right, no judge would let me have custody of the boys. Not with my history. I’d realized that right after my diagnosis — around the same time Dr. Carter urged me to take my time before making any decisions regarding my marriage. She never said it, but she was clear: leaving Jason meant leaving my boys.
Karen. She was one of those women whose compliments were often backhanded insults that you didn’t get until hours later when you’d begin to doubt everything about your encounter with her.
I didn’t want to die in that moment. But I had a few days earlier. How do I explain that to someone who’s never been in my head?
“I have bipolar disorder brought on by a traumatic life event. That’s a life sentence.”
I said the words he wanted to hear because I needed him to believe me. Plus, I wanted him to see me as strong, confident, and able to fight this beast that haunted me. I needed him to believe in me because most days, I didn’t believe in myself.
Dr. Carter liked to tell me that I was resilient and strong, and for having been through so much, it was amazing I functioned at all. But that’s the thing: Was I functioning? No. Not really.
“Jason wouldn’t be jumping through Social Services hoops to protect you if he wanted out. Being married to a person with mental illness is a difficult decision — especially one who attempted suicide.” And there it was: because he was in my business, Jason was a good guy. It showed he was working on the marriage. But was he? My brain said he was checking off every box, but my gut told me something wasn’t right.
He, for the first time in ages, didn’t notice me. He spoke to me, but he didn’t really see me. Maybe it was the Scotch. Or maybe it was that for one night, he was done caring. Done asking. Done worrying about me. I was invisible.
In fact, all three of them keep posting, “Having the BEST time ever. Love these girls!” all over the place. My take? When you have to try that hard to convince others, surely, you’re trying to convince yourself, too.
“No. You’re going to stand here and do it yourself. You’re not going to surrender.” Surrender? All I did all day, every day was fight with everything I had to appear normal. There was no surrender in that.
But it never happened like that. It built, slowly, until you felt there is no other way out of your misery. The thing is, every suicide attempt is different. Different reasons, different methods, different outcomes. But Sarah, she just didn’t seem like the type.
Sometimes, the pain of staying is greater than the pain of letting go. There are those who say suicide is selfish. I disagree. Suicide is hard. No one wants to do it. No one wants to be pushed into that position, and by the time you find yourself there, it’s often too late to pull yourself out.
No, I’ve done everything I’m supposed to, and still, the threat of hypomania haunts me. Not depression like Jason and I worried about, but hypomania. My body buzzes. Not sleeping is just one of my symptoms. I’m also not eating and trying to do too much at once. Jason has hidden all my cash so I can’t go on a spending bender, and he’s indulged my insatiable sexual appetite.
Tonight, I didn’t drink. For the first time in ages, I didn’t want to — even though the hypomania craves it. I was able to beat back the beast and instead, I sipped water from a solo cup and pretended it was vodka. I didn’t numb or self-medicate. I want, no need, to allow myself to feel, and that means not hiding in a bottle of booze.
I nudge him a little with my shoulder. Once, this would have led to something more, but not now. Not anymore. I’m aware of what I’m capable of, and I’m not going to cross any lines.
Is it possible to fall for someone you never truly got over?
I need to stay away from Pete because Key West was just a warning. Who knows what will happen next time — especially if I’m hypomanic. The problem is, if I’m honest with myself, I want Pete to pick me. Really, I just want someone, anyone, to choose me. Because Jason certainly didn’t. And I deserve to be chosen.
“Facts are hardly gossip.” Meredith smiles tightly. “Nice try, but no. I’m not going there.”
“You know, your worry over those women says more about your place in the hierarchy than it does about them.”
He doesn’t understand that women dress for other women, not for men. We wake up each day knowing we’ll be judged by the other women around us.
don’t want a divorce. I want to keep my family together, because if I don’t have them, I have nothing. Plus, Jason would destroy me in a divorce. I’d have no money and more importantly, would probably lose custody of my kids.
When I started crying, Jason grew angry. “I’m talking to you now, aren’t I? I’m safe, aren’t I? Jesus, we need to up your meds or something. This forgetfulness is really becoming a problem.”
Plus, I have no money of my own. Jason, changed all the passwords and took my debit card. My credit cards have all been closed, too. I have literally no money or credit other than the allowance he gives me twice a month. I couldn’t go anywhere if I tried. Trapped. In my brain. In my marriage. In my life.
Is it possible that Jason has orchestrated everything to make me think I’m crazy? And why? To make me more dependent on him than I already am? Is he that insecure that he’s willing to drive me to madness so that I won’t leave?
It’s been two days. Two days of Jason not taking my calls and me not having any idea where he was.
and part of me wondered if he was ever going to come home.
My husband shakes his head. “Look, I needed a few days to think. My mind is clearer now, and I’m not pissed anymore.” It’s always all about him. Always.
people find out about you and Pete.” I shove him in the chest. “You’re an asshole. You’ve made me wholly dependent upon you. You control every aspect of my life. I have no money, no credit, no way to leave and you know it! Was that your plan? Keep me dependent on you so I can’t leave?”
“Don’t blame me for your faulty wiring.” His words strike
“We all have to do some damage control at some point whether it’s for our marriages, or kids, or our sanity. We all do it. Nothing you see in public is real anymore. And definitely not online. We’re all walking around wearing façades.”
There’s still a glint in his blue eyes. One that tells me that things will never really be finished between us, but one that I’ve also come to realize is dangerous.
