Free Madness by Marya Hornbacher Page B

a person like everyone else.
    I think how impossible it seems that I have never connected the term
manic depression
—I guess they're calling it
bipolar
—to myself. For that matter, it seems impossible that
they
would never have applied it to me.
    What if this Beedle fellow is right? What if my good moods are the same thing as mania? And what if, God forbid, the lows are the same as depression? And what if manic depression means crazy? Well, obviously, it does.
    So. I'm crazy as a coot. Mad as a hatter. End of story. That's all, folks, now you can all go home. I'm sure, sitting here in the doctor's office, that there's no final
cure
for the truly insane. I am no longer young, wild, crazy, a little nuts. I'm a crazy lady.
    I knew it all along.

    "Went to the doctor today," I say, yanking the cork from a bottle of wine. Julian is sitting in the breakfast nook, reading the paper.
    "Are you sick?" he asks, taking the glass I hand him and glancing up at me before looking back at the front page.
    "In a manner of speaking," I say. "He says I have bipolar disorder. It's the same thing as manic depression."
    "Is it serious?"
    "I don't think so. But it sort of explains the last few months."
    "How so?" He sets the paper down and takes a swallow of wine.
    "The rages," I say, stirring something on the stove.
    "This was a psychiatrist you went to?"
    I nod. "Named Beedle."
    "Beedle," he muses.
    "Right," I say. "Anyway, he gave me a prescription."
    "For rages? What do they prescribe for that?"
    "Mood stabilizers." I look at the prescription slip in my back pocket. "Depakote. I think it's supposed to help, you know, sort of all around. With the moods. And things."
    "Ah yes," he says. "The moods. And things."
    "So I should be a little less crazy."
    "All right," he says, and bites into an apple. "When's dinner?"
    By the end of the evening a miracle has occurred, and I'm feeling fine. All those years of
changing my thoughts! improving my attitude!
have suddenly become very useful. By my second glass of wine, I have
chosen a new perspective!
as follows:
    Bipolar? Kind of an overstatement, but whatever. Just another name from yet another shrink. Interesting, but not really relevant to my day-to-day—after all, it's not like I'm
sick.
I'll take the meds, though—they'll get rid of the rages, and the afternoon lows. Back to normal in a jiffy, back to my usual
good mood.
And surely no one needs to know; why focus more on what a fuckup I am? They'll take it wrong and make a fuss. This is really no big deal. I'll be good as new.
    I'm immensely pleased with myself for
changing my thoughts
in this so-healthy way.
    ***
    My insurance doesn't cover Dr. Beedle, so he refers me to someone it does, a Dr. Lentz. I like him—he's mild, cheerful, seems awfully concerned. He asks how things are going; I've got to get rid of the rages and lows, so I tell him about those and he fiddles with my dose. He asks me, for some reason, how much I drink, and tells me if I drink a lot, the meds won't work, but since I'm not an alcoholic or anything, his question has no relevance.
    I'm delighted with these meds, and I usually take them. When I feel bad, anyway—that's what they're for, right? To cheer me up? It's those depressions I hate, and the rages, and the spinning thoughts—what I want is to hit that perfect high. That's my normal self.
    And I'm getting happier and happier all the time, working constantly, keeping the house spotless, throwing parties that feature gales of laughter and me at the very top of my game. These meds are a miracle! I tell him how much they're helping. Perhaps I'm a little too happy? Why, no! He raises an eyebrow as I babble on about how inspired I am, so I tone it down—obviously not
too
happy, I say, dismissing the thought with a wave of my hand. I'm just back to normal! It's summer, after all. This is the way I'm
supposed
to be! I'm always high as a kite in summer!

    I wonder what difference it might have made in my life if I'd taken