Free Manic by Terri Cheney Page A

today.” I turned and walked away. And I kept on walking, across the kitchen, through the foyer, and out the front door. I hesitated briefly when I reached the front gate, remembering his laughter; remembering his eyes. But I shook my head and kept right on walking, through the gate, down the street, and all the way up to my own front door. And I didn’t really breathe freely again until I heard it lock safely behind me.
    Then, at last, came the quiet. Thick, womblike quiet, wrapped all around me. It was just what I’d wanted—or was it? The silence magnified every sound: my heartbeat throbbed in my ears; I could almost hear my blood squeezing in and out of my capillaries. But mostly, I could hear a whiny voice in my head, asking me over and over again: “How could you leave without saying good-bye?”
    I knew the answer to that question, but I didn’t want to hear it. The truth is that I had to leave, because in the state I was in I never would have settled for a mere good-bye. I would have insisted on exchanging numbers with Julian, or arranging to get together again sometime soon. And I simply had no business doing that—not now, not like this, not when I was so unstable. I thought back over the day. From the moment I awoke, and every minute thereafter, I had been a quivering mass of volatility: up, down, irate, flirtatious, contentious, giddy, seductive, paranoid. I’d assumed half a dozen different personalities between daybreak and dusk. No wonder I was so tired.
    I went into the bathroom, undressed, and methodically removed all my makeup. The face in the mirror was pale and quiet. You could never imagine it teasing a strawberry into submission, much less flirting with six different men at once. Freshly scrubbed and shiny, it looked like—well, like the girl next door. Which was just how I wanted Julian to think of me. It was all I’d ever really wanted, in fact: to be somebody’s girl next door.
    The girl next door isn’t crazy. She may have her quirks, but at heart she’s an innocent, simple and pure. Life touches her lightly; it doesn’t leave scars. But instability like mine needs considerable distance to pass for mere quirkiness. A next-door neighbor would be much too keen a witness. He was certain to see through all my best disguises by sheer proximity. So there was no way I could risk getting any closer to Julian. He was far too close already.
    I shut off the light and got into bed. It was quiet, so quiet I could hear the clock in the next room ticking, so quiet I could hear a faint whisper of hope. Nothing’s impossible in the dark and the quiet. If I’ve learned anything from life as a manic-depressive, it’s that things never stay the same for very long. The cruelest curse of the disease is also its most sacred promise: You will not feel this way forever.
    I closed my eyes and pictured myself walking up to Julian’s front gate in my prettiest peach cashmere sweater, hair tied back with a satin ribbon, a girl-next-door glow on my face. I knew it would never happen, of course, because dreams are one thing and manic depression is another. But I let myself slide off to sleep anyway, believing—just this once—in maybe.

6
     
    The room was a cheery one, as institutions go: daisies on the wallpaper, canary yellow sheets. It looked just like a first-class spa—which it ought to, at those prices. My insurance wasn’t going to cover it, but that was nothing new. This was back before any kind of mental health coverage had gone into effect. Care of the psyche was considered elective, on a par with plastic surgery.
    Even if insurance had covered my stay, it wouldn’t have mattered. I was so afraid that my employer would find out the truth about me, I never submitted any bills. It was early in my career, and I was still angling to land a big case. So no one at the law firm even knew I was in therapy. My cover? Ongoing dental problems that forced my absence from the office for a couple of hours each