The meal consisted of a delicious chicken stir fry, which didn't irritate the remaining booze molecules floating around in my stomach. I glanced around the table, wallowing in the joy of being with my two best friends and my brother. We all directed our smiles at my niece, who was banging her tiny hands on her highchair tray. The relaxed atmosphere continued until the middle of dinner, when Mark interjected a new topic into the conversation. "So, Maggie, did you ever talk to Justin about our family being loony?"
I glared at him. "Yes, I talked to him. In fact, he asked about you. I believe his exact words were, 'How is the asshole?'"
Mark started laughing. "He hasn't changed a bit. Where is he?"
"Self-medicating in California, medical marijuana," Steph interjected,
"Figures," Mark said. "So, Maggie, are we all nuts?"
I stared at the gold ring circling the outer edges of my plate. Mark really wanted to kill my buzz. "Yeah, I learned a few things," I said, hoping he wouldn't push it any further.
"Well, are we crazy or what?" Mark pushed.
My irritation level swelled. I put my fork down and riveted my eyes on his face. "Not all of us, Mark. You're not, and neither is Steph. Justin and I are nuts. Dad and Uncle Roy are loony. Aunt Mildred, believe it or not, is sane. Grandma and Aunt Ella--crazy."
"You mean Aunt Rose," Mark interjected.
"No, actually, Aunt Rose is totally normal. I meant Aunt Ella."
I watched his smirk vanish, and confusion clouded his eyes. I glanced at all three of them. Their questioning expressions borderlined on being laughable. Mark's head tilted and his eyes scrunched before he asked the question. "Who is Aunt Ella?"
Resisting the desire to be smug, I dredged up a calm voice. "I asked the same thing when Uncle Roy started talking about her. For the last twenty-plus years, no one in our family bothered to tell any of us about our great aunt Ella, who spent her entire life in a mental institution."
"How is this woman related to us?" Mark asked.
"Grandma had another sister--Ella was the youngest of the four. She entered the hospital after their mom died and never came out. According to Uncle Roy, she passed away when Steph and I were babies. The only people with any information regarding her life are Aunt Mildred and Aunt Rose. I haven't been able to reach Aunt Rose, and you all know what talking to Mildred is like," I said. Soft groans of understanding floated through the air. "Believe it or not, when I called Mildred last week, she contended Ella wanted to live in the hospital." And to cure my cotton mouth, I swallowed the remaining water from my glass. "According to Justin, our bad blood originates on the Scottish side of Grandma's family."
"What is this bad blood? Does our family mental condition have a name?" Mark asked, in a more deferential tone.
I shifted my gaze toward Kelsey, smiling and smearing her dinner across the highchair tray. My arms longed to hold her. Behind Kelsey, family pictures lined Amy's buffet--a photographic history of two genetic lines, one perfect and one flawed. Exhaling through my nose, I dreaded the continuation of this conversation, but Mark was not going to let it rest.
"Okay, Mark, here's the deal. We're all different. I think Justin is Bipolar 1 because he refuses to take Lithium. What Uncle Roy describes sounds like clinical depression. According to Uncle Roy, Daddy swung in both directions, depressed and hypomanic. I think Daddy's illness resembled mine, except his depression didn't plunge as low as mine, and his hypomania swung a bit higher than mine does. However, since he took the info to the grave, we'll never know. I can't figure out Grandma. I know she hallucinated, but the lies surrounding her are so thick it would be impossible to get to the truth without medical records. As for Ella, the fact, she never left the hospital says enough."
Steph fiddled with her napkin, and Amy stared at her plate. Finally, Kelsey broke the silence with a loud yelp. My eyes remained fixed on my brother.
His arrogance had faded, and his head hung low. "Maggie, I'm sorry. All these years, I tagged you as the family drama queen. I take back everything I ever thought about your episodes. But Amy told me you were seeing a psychiatrist now, right?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
Before I could answer his question, Stephanie interjected, "I've known about my dad and brother for years, but I didn't know about Ella. I realized a long time ago that Maggie wasn't a drama queen, because her behavior reminded me of my dad and occasionally Justin. I've always felt guilty because she got the bad genes, and I didn't."
"I am getting help," I said. "And this conversation is not about making you both feel guilty about being normal. You may not understand, but this information is the best thing that's ever happened to me. Mark, believe it or not, I've always wondered if I am just a drama queen. You cannot imagine how hard it is to face the world believing you are too weak to control your own emotions. It sucks.
"But," I continued. "Learning about our family made me realize I'm not a drama queen or weak. When I say I can't control these episodes, I really can't. For the first time in my life, I have hope, and maybe, if a treatment works, Sam will come home."
Amy cleared her throat. "Don't you mean Nick?"
My brother threw me a questioning look.
Snarling at Amy, I growled. "Be quiet."
CHAPTER 11
Mildred, George and Turkey Bones
Monday morning at five a.m., I heaved Stephanie, crabby and miserable, off of the air mattress and forced her to brush her teeth and dress. As I drove the Parkway to the passenger drop-off side of the Pittsburgh Airport, she snored. A little jealous of her sleeping, my hand slipped and accidentally cranked up the volume of the radio as I pulled the car to the curb. She jerked awake and looked around. "What the hell, Maggie?"
"Oops," I said, feigning cheerfulness. "I meant to turn the station."
"Okay, okay, you made your point. I'm awake. Now help me with my bags." She reached down to the floor and grabbed her shoes. After putting them on, she opened her purse, which must have been purchased in the luggage section of a discount department store, dug inside, and pulled out a make-up case. She applied eye shadow, followed by mascara, blush, and lipstick. "Promise me two things before I get on the plane," she said while stuffing the makeup back into the bag.
"What?" I asked.
She reached for my hand. "First, please keep seeing that doctor and, second, metaphorically, kiss Sam good-bye and move on."
Through the windshield, I watched a plane descend. Amazing, how something so powerful appeared peaceful from this perspective. "I plan to keep seeing Dr. Graham. But, Steph, I'll never let go of Sam. I know you don't want to hear this, but if I can't have him, I don't want anyone."
"Nick?" she asked.
"Stop it, Stephanie. You know damn well he forgot me and my name a long time ago. I was a fling with a seaside apartment." Before she could respond, I jumped out of the car, popped open the trunk, and heaved her luggage onto the sidewalk.
"Maggie, you are so wrong about him. What do I need to do to convince you?" She reached up and squeezed me. "See you at Thanksgiving, cuz."
As I pulled away from the curb, I watched her gesturing wildly at the man behind the outside baggage check-in counter. I made a mental note to keep her off the early-morning flights back to New York. Stephanie in the morning caused too much stress.
During the drive home, daydreams of Ella blocked all lingering thoughts of Nick. Images of Ella taunted me. She starred in all my mental movies. Sometimes, I saw her sitting silently in a chair, rocking her body back and forth. Then she would be lying on a metal gurney--with electrodes stuck to her partially shaven head--screaming. Other times, I saw her alone, locked in a small dark room, banging her fists on the door, terror on her face and pain in her eyes. Each mental picture alarmed me more than the one before.
***
I opened Dr. Graham's door and walked into the waiting room, which felt less intimidating today. Linda's head poked out of the hole in the wall. "Good Morning, Maggie, no papers to fill out today. Have a seat and g
rab a magazine. He's running about ten minutes behind schedule, so make yourself comfortable."
Wow, she didn't act that friendly last week. The prints hanging on the walls were nicer than I remembered, and the small water-color seascape near the door was actually pretty. I skimmed the magazine rack, skipping over the psychology journals and grabbed a copy of Time, instead. It took twenty-four pages to find something non-political and just when the article got interesting, I heard the words, "Come in, Maggie."
Together we walked into his office. Again, his arms jingled as the bracelets knocked together. Today he wore jeans and a polo shirt--casual. Thank goodness, a suit would have intimidated the hell out of me.
He started speaking before we even reached our chairs. "In our last session, you described to me what you refer to as an episode. I'd like to hear about episodes in greater detail today."
"Fine," I replied while setting my bag down next to me. The minute I put it down, I remembered to silence my phone, so I scooped it from my purse and turned it off.
He sat watching me. When I was all settled and composed, the questions started. "Maggie, you told me you must refer to these episodes in the third person. Do you do this because you hear 'voices?' For example, do you hear someone telling you to do things, such as hurt others or kill yourself?"
"No, I don't hear 'voices.' I don't hear anything. I lose my thinking and processing ability, and since I don't have power over the thoughts in my head, I refuse to own them."
"Are you saying you black out during these periods of time?"
"No, I don't black out. But the thoughts are not my thoughts. It's easier for me to explain using an example. Follow me for a minute," I said, noticing I used my hands a lot to talk. "At this moment in time, I'm Maggie Hovis, a twenty-four-year-old, third-year law student. I know that I am relatively intelligent. I have a BA, and in two months, I will have a JD. I've accepted a job offer with an extremely reputable law firm in the city.
"Now, pretend I'm Maggie during an episode. This is how I would describe myself. I'm a twenty-four-year-old failure. My fiancé dumped me because I'm so ugly he was embarrassed to be seen with me. He never really loved me. My mom probably paid him to date me because she knew that I couldn't get a date on my own. I recently accepted a job that I know I will be fired from during the first week. I'm too stupid to be a lawyer. I'll probably fail all of my classes this semester and not graduate. Even if I graduate, I know I'll fail the bar exam. My life is a big fraud, and the world would be a better place if I was dead."
I stopped talking for a moment because his attention switched from my words to his notes. When he stopped writing, he gave me a look that signaled me to continue.
"Sounds ridiculous, but that's my brain. Sam referred to the difference as Scary Maggie and Beautiful Maggie. Something snaps in my head, and Scary Maggie takes control. She hurls horrible thoughts, and I can't stop her. I don't sound sane once an episode begins. My command of my actions and words is lost."
"So you don't really hear the voice of another person when you are in this state?"
"No, I don't hear voices. It's more like mind control."
"Are you conscious of this happening?"
"Rarely. I believe every bad thought is absolutely true, and nothing can convince me otherwise. I always fought with Sam when he tried to convince me that I was not fat, ugly, stupid, or worthless.
"So only after an episode is over you recognize what occurred?" he asked.
I nodded.
"How long does an episode last?" he prodded, while flipping over the page of his note pad.
"Three to five days, sometimes a whole week," I replied, shrugging apologetically.
"Do you sense when an episode is beginning or does it hit you suddenly?" he asked.
"Both. But the majority of the time, I'm unaware. Occasionally, my head feels wrong and my body tenses before the onset. My behavior becomes a little obsessive. Then I become agitated and angry for no reason. But once it starts, I can feel the space in my brain shrinking. Sometimes, it shrinks really fast and other times, it takes hours."
He threw me a perplexed look. I thought for a second. "Dr. Graham, picture a giant square, now, imagine the four sides moving closer together, making the inside of the square smaller and smaller. Continue picturing the square shrinking until only a small dot remains. That square represents the place in my brain where thought occurs. The space gets smaller and smaller during an episode. When it becomes a dot, that is rock bottom, I'm gone. This me, sitting on your couch, no longer exists. Scary Maggie controls everything happening inside of my head. Sam told me he recognized the signs. He said I cried over nothing and slept more. He described my behavior as 'checked out of life.'"
"I'm not sure that I understand, Maggie. When this square reaches the point of being just a dot, you have no thoughts at all?"
"No, my brain still has thoughts--horrible thoughts actually, but I can't consciously control them."
He nodded, acknowledging my words before he asked me to describe a time that an episode started suddenly with no warning.
I lifted my spine straight, feeling the muscles in my back elongate. Exhaling through my nose, I relaxed into the sofa and let the memory absorbed me. "The day began perfectly. Neither of us had any homework, so we lazed in bed all morning. Suddenly, I got this overwhelming desire to drive to Seven Springs for the afternoon. I convinced Sam it would be fun to hike in the mountains for a few hours and then have dinner. He agreed to go. In the car, we laughed and joked. Sam accused me of being loud and silly. Everything was terrific.
"I started teasing him about the awful striped polo shirt he was wearing. After a few jokes, I asked him if he bought it or stole it from Eric, his old roommate. He replied 'it was a gift.' In an instant, like a champagne bottle, the cap popped off of my brain and orange rage gushed and spread through my body. The muscles in my chest contracted, and tension gripped my neck. I wanted to smack him across the face. Venomously, I snarled that he would only wear something that ugly if one of his old girlfriends gave it to him.
"Shock covered his face. Later, when it was over, he told me I'd demanded, in a hysterical tone, to be taken home. The only emotion I remember from that moment was pure hatred, directed at everything and yet at nothing.
"He pulled off the road at the next turnpike exit, turned around, and drove home. On the way back to the apartment, I accused him of wishing he was driving to Seven Springs with Andrea instead of me. Andrea was his old girlfriend. He stayed with Eric, for almost a week."
Dr. Graham wrote for a few minutes before proceeding. ''Would you consider your condition in the car to be rock bottom?"
"No, the exact opposite. I was high on adrenalin. My insides revved at five hundred miles an hour and my body wanted to jump out of the car and run home. Rock bottom was a long way off."
He put down his pen, uncrossed his legs and re-crossed them in the other direction. "I want to learn more about 'rock bottom.'"
Memories flooded my brain, rock bottom...
***
"Maggie, you've been in bed for three days. You haven't showered, and I know you don't eat the stuff I bring from the cafeteria. You have to go to class, or you're going to fail. If you're sick, I'll take you to the student health center. All you do is sob and shake. Please, Maggie, talk to me," Shari begged. "You're scaring me and I don't know what to do. Should I call your mom? Or 911? Maggie, can you even hear me?"
***
"Dr. Graham, rock bottom is the moment when my brain, my body and my soul are obliterated by crushing pain. It's dying long before the heart stops beating."
"How long do you stay at rock bottom?" he asked, eyes alert with genuine interest.
"Varies."
"Well then, how do you know when rock bottom passed?"
I thought about his question for a few moments. Words and explanations failed to communicate the experience of being at rock bottom. "It's tough to describe. Do you remember the shrinking square? When the dot
expands enough to let light through, I know I'm climbing out. I can actually feel the light in my brain. The space grows, and I begin taking back control of my thoughts. It usually takes two or three days to complete the climb," I explained.
Dr. Graham wrote for a few minutes. He didn't say much, but he sure wrote a lot. "Do you feel sadness when you're at rock bottom or just the rage?" he asked.
"I'm not sure what I feel, to be perfectly honest. Rock bottom is when I'm totally gone. But rage is a stage of the descent. During rage, every cell in my body is hyper-energized. My thoughts fixate on something and everything else around me fades into the background. At this point, I am explosive--screaming, sobbing, and throwing anything I can get my hands on. Avoid me when I am in this stage."
He smiled an indulgent smile. "I'll make a note of that."
"Self-hatred follows rage. During this phase, I pray to die. My mind becomes a movie, showing scene after scene of all the people I love and how much happier their lives would be if I died. Over and over, like a loop tape, the laundry list of everything I hate about myself. And believe me when I say everything--my neck, my face, my body, and especially my brain. Because I believe I bring nothing good to the planet and deserve to be dead," I said and bit my bottom lip, trying to avoid the release of the tears brewing in my eyes. The sun shined through the window, the rays highlighting the dust particles dancing in the warm air. "Dr. Graham, the self-hatred goes beyond the brain. It reaches the soul. And the last step before rock bottom is paralyzing despair. Despair over breathing and resentment over being alive. My body feels like rigor mortis set in as my heart continues to beat. During this period, I sleep. Sleeping is a good thing. It shuts off my brain. Being awake hurts."
He continued writing, and I kept talking because hearing this stuff out loud started to feel cathartic. "Also, when an episode is over, recalling the details is difficult. The specifics don't register in my long-term memory. I've heard women with children say you forget labor pain, maybe that's the closest comparison. Only, I remember the pain.
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