She gives me a look. “I’m not sharing my magical forest roots with you. So, you want some hibiscus flowers? You’ve heard of ’em, right?”
“Well, I’ve heard of barbecue, too, but I don’t want that.”
She sighs, disappointed. “Have you heard of toast?”
In the smoky clubs, I collapse. We work so late at night. So this is how tired feels . . . ow . . . I hate it. The other Muses scout out hiding places for me where the air is better, where I can lie down and have a clean place to throw up nearby. Then they surround me while I quietly pass out. They know I feel no pain when we’re playing, that the nausea will dissipate during the opening chords of the first song, but they also know I’m completely useless until then.
Talk about jumping in with abandon. I feel like I’ve asked a lot of my bandmates this year and here they are, willing to do this with me, too: wrangle this new sick and tired me. They treat it like a fun project, like this is our baby.
My pregnancy is a secret outside of the Muses’ tiny circle, so in the clubs, we tell people I’m tired or I have the flu. Both of these lies make people go away, which is good. For some reason, a crowd of people fills my eyes with humanity and makes me even sicker. I have no idea what that means. Too much? Somehow, the other Muses know this instinctively—smoothly, kindly, they keep people at bay.
When Leslie and Dave take off for the dressing room through the crowd, Tea stays behind, kneeling next to me on a red vinyl bench. I’m lying on my back, my feet resting on the snake bag, reading graffiti sideways. The club is noisy and full, so we’re hiding behind a table, facing the wall, in order to avoid eye contact with anyone. Facing this wall is worthwhile, though, ’cause some of the graffiti is great: notes passed to faceless friends. “Thoughts are empty, heads are full,” I read.
“Hurt bullies,” says Tea.
“I don’t know, but I do care.”
“One dog barks, the others bark at him.”
“That’s a Chinese proverb,” I say.
“What would make somebody write that?” she asks, disgusted.
“Write what?”
“Just fuck you. Can’t they think of anything else to say?”
“I guess not.”
She looks down at me and splays out her hands. “Then why say anything?”
“Does it hurt your feelings?” I ask her.
“Sorta.”
“You shouldn’t take it personally. Every wall says fuck you on it somewhere.”
We both stare at it. “I don’t take it personally,” she says. “I just don’t get it.”
“It’s kind of a tradition . . .”
“Yeah, but I’m tired of it. Aren’t they?”
“Maybe they didn’t write any of the other fuck you’s in the world, so they want one of their own.”
The crowd of people presses in toward the table. Tea tries to rub the fuck you off the wall with her thumb. The wall bends in ominously. “Careful,” I say. “That could be load-bearing graffiti.”
“I don’t understand,” she says. “Are they trying to make us feel bad? Why? That’s not nice.” She thinks. “Should we feel sorry for a person who writes fuck you on a wall?”
We both look at it. “Could it be an ironic fuck you?” I ask. We continue staring. It doesn’t look ironic. “Fuck just means sex, though, right?” I say. She nods. “So maybe they’re talking about expressing love.”
“Yeah, probably,” she says. “Like, love ya!”
“Love ya lots!”
She pulls a folded piece of paper out of her back pocket. “Here’s your set list,” she says. I unfold it and read the long list of song titles. “Okay, I’m getting nervous,” she says. “I’m gonna get a beer. You want something?”
“This is unpossible,” I moan, still reading the list of songs, trying to remember all those messed-up chords and lyrics and tempo shifts and odd counts. I look up at her. “We do this all the time, right?”
“That’s what I was thinking,” she says. “How do we remember it all?”
“We don’t always.”
Tea shudders. “I need a beer. You okay here?”
“Sure.”
“See you up there. Ten minutes, okay?” She disappears into the crowd. I can’t stop reading the set list. It looks so hard—so many songs. Just an unbearable amount of effort and concentration, two things I feel incapable of pregnant.
Flat on my back on the bench, hidden beneath the table, I stare at the first song title on the set list for a full minute, trying to rehearse it in my head, but I can’t remember the opening guitar line. It’s the snake song: “America.” We play it all the fucking time. What the hell is the opening guitar line? Pounding club music is making it hard to concentrate. The audience is getting noisier, too. If I can’t remember it now, I’m never gonna remember it up there. And we’re opening with it.
I panic, thinking I’m gonna screw it up and be unable to disappear—that’d suck—so I sit up and look around for Tea to ask her how the song opens. Or to get her to play one of her songs first. But she’s long gone and there’re people everywhere. I gotta make my way through the crowd to find her or I won’t see her until we’re on stage. Grabbing my snake bag, I know the snake isn’t inside it.
What?
I freeze, rip open the bag. It’s empty. The snake is gone. I mean, there isn’t a snake, was never a snake, was never gonna be a snake. The wolf didn’t “walk away,” she was a dream. The bees were a moment—an image caught in a thought. What was I thinking? What was I thinking?
And the snake . . . the snake was nothing. I just got used to carrying a goddamn bag around.
Is my brain finally dead?
I fall back onto the sticky red vinyl . . . holy shit . . . the soothers said I wouldn’t get better. The opening guitar line from “America” winds its way into my head and I exhale.
No therapeutic levels this time. No levels at all. I make a mental note to call Dr. Seven Syllables in the morning.
My parents take me to Woodstock. We drive and drive. Like any toddler in a car, I’m so tired and bored that I’m antsy, feeling trapped.
Suddenly, we’re there. Or almost there-—we see people pouring over a fence. Dude says we should pour over the fence with them because on the other side of the fence is a big party: music and happy people.
♋ red eyes
i’m okay
i’m okay
“The snake is gone?” asks Dr. Syllables on the phone. I picture his brown and gray person in the brown and gray room.
“It isn’t there. That’s different.”
“Hm. Yes.” He doesn’t sound brown and gray; he sounds animated, speaking quickly. “Very different. You don’t believe in it anymore? Was the snake a song image, as you thought?”
“Maybe.” I try to imagine that. The idea of turning a snake into sound seems like alchemy. I couldn’t do that. “I do have a song with the word ‘snake’ in it,” I answer lamely. “And I was thinking about it . . .”
“Okay.” He pauses. “And your pregnancy? Are you taking care of yourself ?”
“Yeah, I’m doing my best. Just the thought of food makes me sick, but I eat anyway. And I’m sleeping, for once.”
“Good. The clarity you’re experiencing could be a side effect of physical vitality. I see this sometimes when patients adopt a health regimen. Their predisposition to a disorder is more apparent in times of physical stress, and conversely, their symptoms are diminished when they feel more robust physically.” Robust? I don’t feel robust. I feel pukey. “Did you learn to say my name?” he asks.
What? Oh, right. What the hell is his name? “Uh . . . I’m American.”
He giggles. “Hee hee.” He actually says hee hee when he laughs.
“I call you Dr. Seven Syllables.” He stops giggling.
“I’ve never counted.” Silence. I guess he’s counting. “ Do you still hear music?” he asks.
“Yes, but it sounds better. And it isn’t . . . invasive. I mean,
it isn’t loud. The songs are just insistent. While I was taking medication, I could choose not to pay attention. The songs would sort of float away, but now they stick around.”
“One piece of music again and again?”
“Yeah. Until I pick up my guitar and learn it. Then it stops.”
“Interesting. And does another song begin?” he asks.
“Eventually.”
He is quiet for a moment. “Is this better or worse for you than songs floating away?”
“Well the songs are no longer dimished, so it seems more . . . real.”
“Well, I think that’s better, don’t you?” he sounds happy.
I laugh. “Yeah, real’s good, I guess.”
“Hee hee hee.” He becomes suddenly serious. “You know, my brother plays an instrument and thinks about music a great deal of the time. He seems to daydream as music plays in his head. In our family, we laugh about this. No one has ever called it psychosis.”
Hmmm. “You mean maybe I’m just a musician? ’Cause I agree. I don’t think I needed those pills to mess me up any more than music already did.” He says nothing. “Or am I getting better? ’Cause I feel like I’m getting better.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant.” He pauses, then says, “In my experience, claiming not to be manic-depressive is actually a symptom of manic depression.”
Oh, for god’s sake. “Claiming not to be manic-depressive is also a symptom of not being manic-depressive, isn’t it?”
“Hee hee hee hee hee hee!” He takes his time composing himself, then, abruptly, is quiet again. “There is maybe a stigma attached to mental illness that prevents you from seeking help. I see this often, even now that we’re all supposed to be so enlightened in this regard.”
“Maybe they have a point.”
“Who?” he asks.
“The stigma . . . people. If your brain doesn’t work right, it could be because you’re stupid or because you’re mentally ill. Either way, your brain’s unreliable. If you broke your arm, your arm’d be ‘stigmatized’ because it isn’t as reliable as a working arm.”
“Okay,” he sighs. “I wouldn’t get very far in my profession supporting the stigmatization of mental illness, but it may explain why you don’t accept your diagnosis. If you are bipolar, your mind is broken; if you are a musician, it’s not.”
“They didn’t just tell me my mind was broken,” I explain. “They told me my whole personality was broken.”
“I see,” he says quietly.
“I’m not being glib. Perception is deeply entrenched.”
“Yes,” he says. “This is why I told you about my brother, who has not been diagnosed anything other than ‘dreamer.’ The reason this is so is that he feels peaceful perceiving music the way he does. I believe you should ask yourself if you are peaceful. We should all do this. If the answer is no, you’re being called upon to help yourself.”
I’m stunned. What a great thing to say. “Peaceful is a good word to use.”
“Thank you,” he says. “I use it a lot. Let me know if this music you hear becomes distressing to you. Or if what you see or think is very different from what the people around you see and think. Or if you find yourself doing any activity to excess, even the most mundane. Like shopping, for example.”
Huh? “Shopping? Shopping is a symptom?” I knew shopping was bad. He giggles quietly, but says nothing. “No. I don’t shop excessively. Or at all.”
“Fine. We’ll try to keep your system clean for as long as possible throughout your pregnancy. But keep in mind that you are to evaluate your mental state continually. Do you have a friend, a work associate and a family member on call?”
I haven’t actually done this; I’ve always kept this stuff from the people I care about. “Uh . . . I’ll get right on that.”
“It’s important because you will not always be able to evaluate your own behavior. That’s true of anyone.”
I cringe. “Okay.” I’m not into the sharing/caring thing; it seems rude and embarrassing. I hide wretchedness—duh-uh—doesn’t everybody? Such a strange story. I don’t wanna tell it; it’d just make me seem strange.
“How’s the vomiting going?” he asks.
“Oh. It’s not as much fun as it sounds.”
“Hee hee. No, I’m sure it isn’t. Hee hee.” He stops laughing abruptly again. “Vomiting can weaken you; therefore, when you’re tired, you must sleep. If you have trouble sleeping because of excessive energy, it would be better to control this with medication than to have you staying up all night, right? So pay attention to that.
“And don’t be afraid to take on partners in this. Regardless of the stigma associated with it, mental illness is an illness like any other and you need caregivers. People will understand. If you have no one, there are networks which can provide support. They can be very helpful.”
Network sounds uncomfortable. “I’m not a group therapy guy,” I say. So I guess I gotta confide in a friend. But this stuff is ugly and my loved ones are beautiful. They’ve always been my world without this ugliness. I don’t wanna poison that world with this crap. “I think I can do this on my own.”
He is quiet for a few seconds. “You do a lot on your own, don’t you?”
In a bad way? “Do I? Maybe.”
“Just be aware that thinking you are unassailable is a symptom of mania.” God, is everything a symptom of mania? “Bipolar disorder and pregnancy are both valid reasons to seek support. You have a person other than yourself to consider now. Your unborn child may need the support of others more than you can know right now.”
I guess. “Well, thanks, Doctor . . . Syllables.”
“Hee hee. Call me Seven.”
When I hang up the phone, I walk to my room, take the snake bag off the foot of my bed, fold it up neatly, and throw it away.
This is what Dave says when I make him my friend, family member and work associate, by the way: “Keep walking.”
♋ colder
keep walking
WINTER 1986
I have to swing my guitar around to the side when I play now; otherwise I can’t reach it. The weird thing is, at shows, nobody can tell I’m pregnant. They’re shocked when I step off the stage and suddenly grow a huge belly. I don’t understand this. Maybe facing me head-on you can’t see it, or at the right angle the guitar blocks it? Maybe they just aren’t looking at my middle. I’m disappointed; I want points for taking up more space. I love being size Big.
Aside from wanting to show it off, though, my swollen middle’s making me even more introverted than usual, ’cause it’s so much cooler than anything I could be paying attention to on the outside of me. It’s such an active body part. My gut jumps around, of all things; it’s very entertaining. I’m guessing beer bellies don’t do this. Tiny heels push against my ribs, little fists pound away at my insides. My dancing gut wears my coat, sleeps, hiccups. It’s almost a person.
When the band plays, though, the baby stays very still. Maybe because when I’m working, the baby’s working—the physical form that is us is fully engaged. Or the music heat puts the baby to sleep? I can’t imagine the music would put anybody to sleep.
The stillness is awful. A baby in your belly should make its presence known. I hold my breath, waiting for the kicking to start up again. It always does, but . . . it’s terrifying every time.
For this reason, it seems, I no longer disappear when we play. I mean, I can’t. Mothers shouldn’t disappear, I guess; they need to be present, to keep watch. This is okay as long as we don’t play for too long.
We looked it up: babies in utero are often asleep—they are babies, after all. And all mothers freak out when their babies stop moving. But Tea still worries that rock bands aren’t good for them. “Maybe she’s passing out from the noise,” she says, turning her amp down during another rehearsal in our dank practice space.
“No, he’s listening,” says Dave. “Kris’s baby is different from normal babies. He likes music.”
Dave holds his sticks in the air. “Do you know what I play?”
“Yes, I know what you play, Uncle Dave,” says Tea, glaring at him. “Too loud! It’s unnecessary; we’re just practicing. You’re hurting the baby. She’s sad now.” She leans over and pats my stomach, cooing, “It’s okay, honey.”
“He’s fine!” Dave says. Then, to the baby, “Tell your aunt you’re fine, slugger.”
Leslie rolls her eyes. “Can we try that one again?”
“Yes,” I answer. “Go. Please.”
Tea looks at Dave and puts her finger to her lips.
I joined the Y, but not because I need a place to shower. And not because I need to swim songs away, either. I’m good with all of that these days (a miraculous fucking miracle). I joined the Y because my midwife says that pregnant women should exercise daily because we’re “athletes in training.” I don’t know if I was supposed to take that literally, but I’m scared not to.
The lady who gave me my Y membership card and schedule looked like an upside-down triangle. A real swimmer: big and meaty and clean. Right now, I look like a right-side-up triangle. Or a snow man with legs. Anyway, when she handed me the schedule, she told me that it was “super important.” I thought “super important” was a strange thing to say about a schedule, a thought that was probably reflected in my expression, ’cause she got very grave then and said, “No. Seriously.”
So I stuck the printed schedule in my coat pocket and promised to study it so that I wouldn’t try to swim laps during water polo or be given swimming lessons with a bunch of three-year-olds. I couldn’t really think of anything else that might go wrong at the Y because of a scheduling mishap.
Here’s what can go wrong at the Y: naked. They swim naked here. I did notice on the schedule that lap swims were gender segregated and thought that was unusual—a vestige of a more prudish time, maybe. Like they hadn’t altered their schedule since the Victorian era and that’s why it’s so “super important” to them.
Rat Girl: A Memoir Page 24
