University of Pittsburgh law student, Maggie Hovis, battles an enemy she cannot escape--her own brain. Her family calls her a drama queen. Her fiancé, Sam, moves out after she throws a shoe at his head. Maggie knows there is only one way to get him back--control her moods. So she takes the step most of her family is against: therapy.
After a diagnosis of Bipolar II Disorder, Maggie begins to investigate her family tree--which is plagued by mental illness and hidden relatives--and develops empathy for her deceased Great Aunt Ella, who lived her life in a mental institution. But Maggie's journey leads her into fear and insecurity, afraid she'll end up like Ella and never get Sam back. But what about Nick, her super-sexy old flame, who wants to reignite their passion? And does it even matter, anyway? Won't mental illness stop any man from loving her?
KUDOS FOR DEFECTIVE
In Defective by Susan Sofayov, Maggie is a young woman with bi-polar disorder who gets a serious wake-up call when her fiancé leaves her because, while he loves her, he can't live with the scary person she becomes when her condition acts up and she has what she calls "episodes."...I found the story extremely interesting as I knew nothing about bi-polar disorder. It is sobering to realize that sometimes people act crazy because they really can't control their behavior. You simply cannot help but feel for Maggie as she struggles to live a normal life, knowing that she isn't really normal, but not knowing why. And you rejoice with her when she finally finds a medicine that helps her control her symptoms and "quiet her noisy brain." It is a warm, inspiring, and moving story and I enjoyed every word. -- Taylor Jones, Reviewer
Defective by Susan Sofayov is the story of a young woman with Bi-Polar 2 Disorder. She knows that she has good days and bad days, but she doesn't know why, and she doesn't get help, or even realize how serious the problem is, until her boyfriend moves out after she has one of her scary bad days...The book is touching as well as thought-provoking, giving us a glimpse into the daily life of someone whose own brain is her worst enemy...it is definitely worth the time to read, and think about. It will at least make you realize how lucky you are to be normal, and perhaps make you a little more understanding of those who aren't. -- Regan Murphy, Reviewer
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First, I must thank Sharon Saul. Your special talent gave me a new life and this story. I will be forever grateful. A special thanks to Bob Bathgate for telling me the truth and introducing me to Ella.
Thank you to Black Opal Books and Lauri Wellington for taking a chance on me and DEFECTIVE. And to Faith, Reyna, and Jack, thank you for your time, hard work, and kind words.
Thank you to Kathy Barbati, Suzanne Mattaboni, Mary Alice Meli, and Cathy Vondreau for your editorial assistance, punctuation prowess, and friendship. And to my wonderful beta readers who suffered through countless revisions and incarnations of DEFECTIVE: Danielle Schlesinger, Emily Sofayov, Toby Tabachnick, Ruth Oshlag, Anne Oberle, Kerry Dobransky, Patricia Hoburg, and Nonna Neft. This story would be rotting in the trash bin without your help.
Special thanks to Daphne Schlesinger for translating the image in my head into the perfect book cover.
Thank you to the teachers of the writing classes at ed2go, I signed up for your online courses to beat the Pittsburgh winter blues and ended up publishing a book. Eva, you gave me the courage to write my real name on the top of the page and send it out. Thank you, Soupmomma.
To my wonderful children, Emily, Eli, and Ben, please forgive me for ignoring you as I typed away for hours that turned into weeks. Eli and Ben, maybe, someday there will be SparkNotes on it for you. And to my husband and best friend, Pinchas, as I promised to do, I am thanking you for your complete lack of support. I love you beyond words.
Finally, DEFECTIVE is a novel. The story and characters come purely from my imagination. However, as a writer I can only write what I know, and this meant borrowing bits and pieces from my own memories. I want to acknowledge that my memories are not mine alone, but are shared with the people who helped create them. So, if by chance, at some time our paths crossed, and you see a glimpse of a shared memory--smile, because this is the sincerest flattery I can offer.
Defective
Susan Sofayov
A Black Opal Books Publication
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2014 by Susan Sofayov
Cover Design by Daphne Schlesinger
All cover art copyright © 2014
All Rights Reserved
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-626941-24-3
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
EXCERPT
I knew I shouldn't go, but this party was important. I had to see Sam. Why couldn't I get a break, just once?
Saturday morning, after finishing a bagel and downing a cup of coffee, dread took up residence in my stomach and brain. Vacuuming the living room failed to help shake off the feeling, so I crawled back into bed, hoping to sleep it away. At about noon, I woke up with a pounding headache, an indefinable angry sensation, and no desire to leave the bed. Then for absolutely no reason, I started sobbing. Please, I begged the encroaching depression, go away, not now, not today. Please, let me make it to this party.
At six-thirty, I dragged myself out of bed and dressed in the costume. By seven o'clock, against my better judgment, I backed out of my parking spot and began the forty-minute drive to Julie's house. Common sense warned me to turn around and go home, but I needed this chance to talk to Sam.
While driving down the main street of Zelienople, the absurdity of the costume smacked me in the face. I turned up the radio volume to drown out the horrible litany of adjectives reverberating through my brain, Ugly, fat, worthless, stupid...
As I drove west on the Ellwood-Zelienople Road, self-abusive thoughts replaced the rational ones, and the angry, evil woman living inside my head, who silences me during every episode, commandeered my thoughts. She taunted: Julie only invited you because she pities you. She knows Sam will never come back. You're ugly and useless, Sam marry you? Ha, such a joke. Stop deluding yourself. No man would waste his life with you.
So absorbed in my masochistic thoughts, I failed to realize my car had drifted into the lane of an oncoming van. Frantic horn honking wrenched my attention away from the costume and back to the road. For a brief second, time slowed and every muscle in my chest constricted around my rib cage. My arms cut the wheel hard to get back onto my own side of the road. Once the van safely passed, I eased onto the shoulder, threw the gear into park, and collapsed forward onto the steering wheel. My hands flew to my head and squeezed. "Shut up," I roared to the part of my brain telling me I should have let the van kill me.
Ten minutes later, I turned the key and put the car into drive. My heartbeat had returned to normal and air moved in and out of my lungs. I gripped the steering wheel with both hands and focused on the road, knowing full well I was driving in the wrong direction. Home was the other way.
DEDICATION
Dedicated to the memory of my beloved father, Donald E. Dobransky and brother, Donald S. Dobransky.
And to Ella Bathgate and the countless others who
suffered the misfortune of being born at the wrong time.
CHAPTER 1
Wine and Luggage Don't Mix
Grocery bags slapped against my legs, as I shuffled through the ancient lobby of our apartment building. The bags contained the ingredients for an apology, one to be delivered gift-wrapped in wine, foo
d, and candlelight.
Last night, I pleaded for forgiveness and promised never to throw anything ever again. And finally, right before falling asleep, Sam kissed me and said, "I love you," but this morning his hug felt cold, not icy, but slushy.
I approached the elevator, recalling other times I had made that promise, and the memories of flying shoes and hot coffee sent chills down my spine. He'd earned the right to be cold.
I elbowed the "Up" button, and the diamond sparkling on my left hand caught my eye. Soon, I would be Mrs. Sam Hutchinson. Mood swings were not going to destroy my happily ever after.
The old-fashioned brass doors opened, and standing inside was his old roommate, Eric, pulling a suitcase.
"Hi, Eric."
He bolted out of the elevator. "Sam's in the apartment."
Odd, I thought as the elevator clanked up to the seventh floor. Why would Eric be pulling a suitcase? The doors parted, and I shuffled down the hotel-style hallway. Our door was the last one on the left. I set down the bags and groped around in my purse for the keys.
"Sam?" I called, hoisting the bags from the floor.
After dropping them on the kitchen table, I followed the sound of slamming drawers. The scene in the bedroom, clothes strewn about the floor and Sam dumping T-shirts into an open suitcase, soured my stomach. He froze when he spotted me standing in the doorway.
"What's going on?"
Only his chest moved, expanding and contracting with each breath.
"What are you doing?" I asked, stepping across the threshold.
"You're supposed to be at Amy's house," he said.
So many things rushed through my mind, yet I couldn't grab onto one. My feet were locked to the floor, unable or unwilling to move, not one part of my body wanted to comprehend the scene playing out in front of me. "I'm home, Sam. What are you doing?"
He dropped his eyes and stepped back. "I'm leaving. I'm moving back in with Dave and Eric. Eric's helping me."
My heart pounded against my chest and nausea climbed from my stomach to my throat. His beautiful face blurred.
"I can't do this anymore, Maggie."
I rubbed the water from my eyes and walked over to the bed. He continued grabbing handfuls of clothing from drawers. On the floor, next to the bed, sat an Army surplus duffle bag, and the beige Samsonite suitcase spread open on the bed was the one we bought his mother last summer to take on her cruise.
Lifting my gaze from the floor, I asked, "Why, Sam? Why?"
As he dumped an armful of socks and underwear into the suitcase, his body was so close, I saw his neck muscles straining inside the collar of his white shirt--the one I ironed before going to bed last night.
"You know I love you. I've loved you from the minute I laid eyes on you in sixth grade, but I can't stay here anymore."
My ability to process information returned as he spoke, and it sickened me to realize he rehearsed these words. Hot tears burned my skin. "I'm sorry, please. I can't help it. I don't know why I lose it.
His head hung low as he sat down beside me, on the bed. Before speaking, he leaned over his knees, and his hands wrung out an invisible rag. "I love when you smile, when you laugh, and when you get my jokes. Watching you fly around the house, cleaning and singing to the radio, makes my day. I love your cruddy old Ocean City sweatshirt, and the way you dance while you mop. Those are Beautiful Maggie days. But I can't live with the other days, the Scary Maggie days. You scream. You sob uncontrollably, and you make no fucking sense when you talk. I've tried for three years, Maggie. I can't take it anymore." He let go of the imaginary rag, placed his hands flat on his knees, and straightened his back. "If I stay, I'll lose my mind."
I popped off the bed. "It won't happen again. Put the clothes back in the drawer. Just calm down, we can work this out. I love you. Please, I'll do anything."
I paced toward the closet and then turned toward the dresser, hoping my movement would block out his words.
"I've heard that story over and over. You know you'll spaz out on me again, and it's all because you have no self-confidence. This crazed 'I should be dead,' or 'I'm worthless' shit is something that I don't understand. How many times do you have to hear me say you're beautiful? How many degrees do you need before you believe you're intelligent? Maggie, look at me. Until you learn to love yourself, I can't live with you. As long as you hate yourself, Scary Maggie will come back."
"I just need to up my Zoloft dosage. I'll call the doctor right now and tell her to phone in a prescription upping my dosage."
His cold, flat voice sounded resigned, and mine screeched in desperation.
He reached out, and I sat down, wiping my nose on my sleeve. Inhaling, I imagined my yoga instructor's voice. "Inhale, relax, exhale." I closed my eyes during the exhale, hoping to gain some control over the tears.
Reaching over, he picked up my hand and locked his fingers around mine. "I will always love you, but I'm leaving. Please don't call me, because if I hear your voice, I'll cave. More than anything, I want to hold you in my arms and make you stop crying. But I can't anymore. There are two of you living inside your head, the one I love and the one that scares the shit out of me."
"Sam, I don't want to live like this, with hell breaking out in my brain. Please, give me a chance, let me try the therapy. Maybe it will work and then you'll be able to love all of me. Please stay. Don't go."
The intensity of his gaze zapped a chill through me.
"On the good days, your eyes are alive and your face radiates energy, but panic sets in on the days your face looks gray and your eyes empty. On the bad days, I feel frustrated and helpless. My heart tells me to hug you and try to make everything better, but the truth is I just want to run, to be somewhere else, anywhere that I don't have to see your eyes."
For a brief moment, he sat quietly staring at the floor. "Remember the day that I came home from class and found you sitting at the kitchen table staring blankly at a bottle of pills and a cup of coffee? All I did was walk over to you to see what was going on. Next thing I knew, you were screaming crazy shit about being ugly, worthless, and wanting to die. You were so hysterical that half of the words coming out of your mouth made no sense. It was like you were speaking half in English and half in a language that I didn't understand. You threw a cup of scalding hot coffee at my head and then locked yourself in the bedroom for days. I slept on the couch. My fear is that one day I'll come home too late and find you on the floor and the pill bottle empty."
"The Zoloft stops that. I don't think about killing myself anymore. That urge is gone. I'll never do anything stupid, I promise. You can stop worrying about that," I said, pulling my fingers from his grip and reaching out to hug him. He leaned away. "You are helping. I don't know where I'd be without you, definitely not in law school," I said, voice and hands quivering.
"I don't know what tortures you, but I do know it's powerful enough to take away my Maggie and leave me with a stranger."
I couldn't find words. My head became too heavy to hold up, so I let it drop and stopped trying to fight the tears. Before I could begin to beg, the doorbell rang. As he walked out of the bedroom, I sat on the bed with a feeling of seasickness rocking my stomach.
He walked back into the bedroom with Eric, trailing behind. Avoiding eye contact, Eric lifted his right hand and mumbled, "Hi, Maggie."
Sam closed the lid of the suitcase and walked to the closet, dragging the duffle bag. "Eric came to help me with my stuff. I'm only taking my clothes, books, and the things from my desk. Everything else is yours." And with those last words he was gone.
I somnambulated down the hallway to the living room and inhaled the scent of early spring wafting through the open balcony doors. I stepped out. The air felt warm, but the clouds covered the sun. The sky was steel gray, and below me ambulances, buses and cars navigated down Fifth Ave. As I leaned over the railing, my tears dripped down onto the sidewalk. Below, Sam and Eric loaded the bags into the car.
CHAPTER 2
Naked
The sound of someone banging on my door woke me. I whipped the blankets over my head, hoping to muffle the obnoxious noise and block out the disgusting amount of sunlight streaming through the crack between my curtains.
The front door creaked as it opened. I sat up--Sam. He came home. Then I heard the intruder's voice. "Maggie, I know you're here--your car is in its spot."
I threw my body back down and smashed the pillow over my head.
"Are you in here?"
"Go away, Amy," I said, tossing the pillow toward the wall and scrunching the comforter tighter to my body.
The intensity of the sound produced by her footsteps on the carpet indicated she was getting closer to the bed. "I've been worried sick about you. You haven't returned my calls in four days. How long have you been in bed?"
I felt her hand gently try to remove the blanket from my head. I tightened my grip. "Leave."
"Please, take the blanket off your face," she said.
I squeezed my eyes together and clenched my jaw, but my gesture did not stop her from talking.
"You know, Maggie, for one brief second, as I turned the key in the lock, a vision of you sitting, slumped forward on the toilet, blood dripping from both wrists, flashed in front of my eyes."
"Dead and in the ground would be a better place," I replied.
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