by Terri Cheney
A week, two weeks, a month went by, and Jeff and I grew closer every day. In all this time, I never once mentioned his name to Linda. She, however, kept bringing him up. She couldn’t understand why he had suddenly pulled away. “He just stopped calling me out of the blue,” she’d tell me, over and over again. “I can’t understand it. I really thought that he might be the one.” I’d murmur sympathetically, then talk of other things. But every day the guilt grew worse. I began to dread the telephone, knowing that more likely than not the caller would be Linda, asking her eternal why. So I started answering less and less, until eventually our conversations dwindled down to once a week, then once a fortnight, then once a month, then not at all. I pleaded every excuse I could possibly think of to justify my silence: out-of-town visitors, a heavy workload, a recurrence of depression, the flu. But never once did I mention the actual truth: that I was falling in love.
Because it had to be love, I told myself. I wasn’t the kind of girl who would betray her best friend for anything less. So I overlooked Jeff’s many flaws: his clumsy little lies, his soggy kisses, his penchant for talking out loud in movies and wearing woolen socks to bed. And when, four months into our relationship, he had a quickie with a cocktail waitress, I ignored that, too. I figured it was just as much my fault as his. My mania had reached the irritable stage by then, and I’d been quarrelsome and bitchy to everyone, but especially to Jeff.
I couldn’t help it. Just beneath the surface prickliness lay a deep and tender wound, a constant, aching loneliness. I’d try to talk to Jeff about my day at work, about opposing counsel’s tacky shoes, for example, or an awkward elevator moment with a senior partner, but the most I would get was a cursory nod. Or worse yet, he would offer me earnest advice on how to fix the problem.
“I don’t want advice,” I tried explaining one night over dinner.
“Then why are you complaining?” he asked me, spearing an asparagus shoot with his fork.
“I’m not complaining,” I replied. “I’m…well, I’m…” But it was hopeless. I gave up and stuffed my mouth with an enormous bite of mu-shu pork. The truth was, damn it, I was complaining. But somehow it hadn’t seemed like that when I used to talk to Linda.
That night I lay awake long after Jeff had fallen asleep. I stared at the doors, the skylights, the windows: so many possible means of escape. I pulled back the sheet, gently so as not to awaken him, and examined Jeff’s body. It was a beautiful body, hard and lean, and it had given me many hours of pleasure. But the illicit thrill we had both felt at first, when we were so acutely aware of cheating on Linda, had disappeared. It was replaced by a low, steady heat, still intensely enjoyable, but lacking the wicked lure of hellfire.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling. After all the hours I had spent in Catholic school studying sin, you’d think that I would understand it better. But I hadn’t realized that after that first delicious plunge into temptation, you just keep falling, and falling, and falling forever. Gravity not only exists, it seems. It is a moral imperative. And it was going to keep me bound to this man, locked in an endless free-fall together, for as long as he would have me, for as long as I could convince him to stay.
Which is exactly what ended up happening. Jeff and I remained friends, and are friends to this day. We’ll always be friends, or lovers, or something else inextricably entwined. It’s not about love, it’s about retribution. When God wants to punish us, he grants us our sins.
14
I’d never hit a man before. I was surprised how good I was at it. The anger had been building up all week, and I couldn’t quite make sense of it. Nothing was wrong, really, nothing that I could point to. In fact, everything looked pretty damned good on the surface: after years of being on-again, off-again lovers, Rick and I were back together. He was treating me to a vacation at my favorite spot on earth, Big Sur. Our top-floor suite had a wraparound view of the sea. All week long, I had slow, sensual massages. I was stroked and sloughed, wrapped in seaweed, drenched in oils. It was all too much: the perfect coastline, the generous boyfriend, the ideal vacation. I squirmed beneath the masseuse’s gentle fingers. “Too hard?” she asked. “Too much,” I mumbled unintelligibly into the face pad.
There was no use trying to explain it to her, to Rick, or to anyone else—not until I had figured it out for myself. Less than a month before, I had been in a desperate depression, so bleak, so utterly hopeless that killing myself seemed the only solution that made any sense. Night after night I dreamed about suicide. But much as I wanted to take those pills or tie that noose, I couldn’t. My body simply refused to obey my mind’s commands. I just lay there—unwashed, uncombed, and drowning in inertia, struggling with the need to breathe in and out. But irony apparently thrives in depression, because the paralysis is no doubt what kept me alive. Had I been able to move the least little bit, I would surely have seized the first chance to die.
Like most of my chemical depressions, this one came all of a sudden, out of the blue, like a freak electrical storm in the middle of a sunny summer afternoon. My recovery was just as unpredictable. Early one otherwise unremarkable morning, I woke up to find the sun shining straight into my eyes. I lay there in discomfort a few moments, and then rolled over to the other side of the bed, not realizing the significance of this simple gesture. For the first time in weeks, my body had actually executed a direct command from my brain. “Get out of the sun, you fool.” And I did.
Little by little, breathing became autonomous again, an invisible companion I quickly came to accept and ignore. I even found myself answering the telephone now and then. At first, of course, I merely picked up the ringing receiver and stared at it, awed at my newfound capacity to move. But eventually, I held the phone all the way up to my ear and even spoke a few words in reply. It seems an absurdly simple thing, perhaps, hardly cause for fanfare. But anyone who knows severe depression, or me, knows that talking on the phone means the worst is surely past. The paramedics won’t have to be called tonight. Suicide watch is over, for now.
Everyone in my life rejoiced, and none more so than Rick, who had called so often without the hope of my ever returning the call. It made sense when Rick called me up late one night a few weeks later, his voice a little thick with wine, to propose a recovery celebration. “We’ve earned it,” he said, and I smiled at the “we.” “Ten days in Big Sur, on me. You don’t have to do anything but lie back and commune with the trees. It’ll do you more good than all those goddamned drugs put together.”
My medication was always a thorny subject between us: Rick reluctantly acknowledged the need for me to be on some kind of mood stabilizer, but he never fully approved of the number and variety of drugs I had to take on a daily basis. “It’s polypharmacology,” I used to try to explain. “It’s pill-popping” was his reply. We had learned to leave it at that. I ignored it and moved on to the trip: where would we stay, when would we go, how would we get there.
Not that I really cared about any of this. I was perfectly happy to let Rick handle all the details. That was what Rick did best in our relationship: he handled the details. He took care of things—meaning, mostly, he took care of me. Did I have enough food in the house? Were my utilities paid this month? When would my dry cleaning be ready? Whatever it was, Rick saw to it: all the bills, all the bother.
It hadn’t always been like this. When we first met, in college, I was adamantly self-sufficient. I was a Vassar girl, I was no man’s obligation. But my disease was only intermittently disabling then. Bad as the depressions were, they didn’t last as long, or recur as often, and the periods in between were flush with promise. Over the next ten years, as the illness grew progressively worse and harder to hide, independence became more than a rallying cry, it became an obsession. I lived in terror of being found out, and fortunately, independence was a handy façade for a young career woman.
At least, I called it independence. The men in my life had other names for it, few of them complimentary. I kept them all at bay, as far
in the dark and as far from my heart as possible, even Rick, who knew me best and probably loved me most. We continued to date off and on for almost ten years after college, at which point he left in frustration, and I retreated further behind my stony wall of self-reliance.
Self-reliance failed me soon after my father’s death. I was sick. I was broke. I needed to eat. I needed help. It was useless to try to pretend otherwise. I picked up the phone and dialed those seven digits I thought I had long since put to rest. I cried, and begged for help, and Rick came to me.
For months afterward, the slightest demand on my nerves sent me spiraling into hysteria and deeper depression. Rick saw it all, and to my surprise was not repulsed. He was moved to help. The first time he offered me money, I outright refused. The next time, I protested for a couple of days, then reluctantly accepted. Eventually my protests became shorter and fewer, until one day I forgot to say anything at all except “Thank you.” And so Rick gradually took over the minutiae of my life, all those desperate little details that were simply beyond my ability to handle.
Rick and his details. I was suddenly filled with affection for him, listening to the sound of his voice on the phone, eagerly reciting the itinerary of our proposed trip. God, I was lucky to have a man like him in my life. And how wonderful to go to Big Sur together. It would be just what I needed, the perfect vacation, except…
Except.
I knew I should have been chiming in with enthusiasm, asking questions, offering suggestions. But depression, like any virulent poison, doesn’t just exit your system all at once. It lingers in pockets and traces, long after you think you’ve recovered. Even at that moment, I could feel myself stiffening at the mere thought of packing. So many decisions to make: Which pair of evening shoes, or any at all? Black jeans or blue jeans, and how many sweaters? SPF 15 or 30? Or 45, just in case?
The mere fact that I was holding the telephone meant something, I reminded myself. It meant that I was getting better, and that the business of life was upon me again. It was time to take chances, to make up for lost momentum, to move forward.
“I’d love to,” I said, interrupting Rick’s spiel. “What time should I be ready?”
The drive up to Big Sur was sublime, the hills along Pacific Coast Highway a rolling carpet of color. I wanted to stop to pick wildflowers along the way, and I chose to ignore my irritation when Rick said he’d buy me some at the hotel instead. But by the time we arrived, it was long past sunset. Too late for store-bought flowers, too late for cocktails on the terrace, too late for anything but bed. I wasn’t sleepy, but I felt strange: restless and edgy. While I was unpacking, Rick crept up behind me and nuzzled my neck. I jerked away.
“It’s not you,” I tried to explain. “It’s just…I don’t know. I don’t want to be touched.”
I saw a flash of hurt and disappointment in his eyes. Then he smiled. “You need your flowers,” he said. “I’ll call the concierge first thing in the morning.”
“Rick, it’s not the flowers. It’s me. I feel funny. Prickly, irritable. Like I’m depressed, but I can still move.”
I saw him start at the word depressed. “You’re just tired,” he said. “I’ll draw you a bath.” And he turned away and headed into the bathroom.
It was a magnificent bath, I have to admit. I lay there with my eyes closed, willing my body to relax and my mind to empty. But the pressure of the warm, soapy water against my skin was unbearable. I sat up and flicked off the Jacuzzi switch, only to be assaulted by waves of bubbles. Bubbles, bubbles everywhere: in my face, up my nose, in my hair. I forced myself to slide back down into the water and lie there completely still until every last bubble had evaporated. Then I counted slowly up to one hundred, listening for any noises coming from the bedroom. Rick was a sound sleeper. If I could just endure waiting in the tub until after he’d gone to bed, I could slip in under the covers and he would never even know I was there until morning.
Morning. Would he still want to touch me then? Would I still feel untouchable? The morning would just have to wait, I decided. My fingers and toes were pruny from overexposure, and the water had long since turned chilly and flat. I stepped out of the tub as quietly as I could, wrapping several thick towels around me to catch any drips. Then I shut off the light and carefully eased open the bathroom door. No signs of life, just an inert form on Rick’s side of the bed. I dropped the towels to the floor and tiptoed across the bedroom, sliding noiselessly under the covers.
The satin sheets felt like sandpaper against my flesh, and the tick-tock of the bedside clock sounded ominously like a waiting bomb. Rick mumbled something and rolled over in my direction. I moved just before our bodies touched, and then nestled my pillow into the curve of his stomach. It worked. He grew quiet again. Resisting the guilty urge to kiss his sleeping cheek, I retreated to the other room—thankful that Rick always insisted on suites.
I woke up early the next morning full of energy, eager to go, and irritable as a drenched cat. Everything Rick did annoyed me, from the way he tapped each side of his soft-boiled egg six times precisely, to the way he said “love you,” without the “I.” He said “love you” a lot those next few days. In fact, the more annoyed I became, the more affectionate he became. I continued to sleep on the living room sofa, but Rick didn’t say a word about it. The issue of unfulfilled sex hung in the air between us. Rick insisted that I get a massage every afternoon, even though I told him I still didn’t want to be touched. After five days I finally put my foot down. I didn’t want a massage that afternoon, I wanted to go into town, alone. By myself. “Without you,” I added for emphasis.
Rick didn’t like the idea, but he let me go after making me promise that I’d be back in time for dinner. I wanted to go everywhere and see everything, but for the life of me I didn’t know what I actually wanted to do. There were too many options, plus the rental car smelled funny and I couldn’t get the damned air-conditioning right. Out of habit, I headed for a nearby bookstore, only to be bombarded with the eager smiles of salespeople, all wanting my attention. I couldn’t understand it. This used to be one of my favorite bookstores ever. I had spent dozens of happy hours in here, perusing the shelves, chatting with the knowledgeable, if quirky, clerks. When did it all become so hateful—or was the real question, when did I become so full of hate?
Reluctantly, I bypassed the superlative Sherlock Holmes collection and headed toward the mental health section. Kicking the resident cat off a big, overstuffed chair, I gathered up several armloads of books and settled in to read. Something was wrong with me, I suspected; I just didn’t have the name for it yet. I hated the world, I hated myself, and dying sounded just fine to me: all classic symptoms of depression. But—and it was a crucial but—I could still move. Not only could I move, I had to move. I was full of restless, undissipated energy that had no place to go, making me want to strike out and break something, preferably something that would crash and tinkle into a thousand satisfying tiny pieces. I thought of our hotel room with the wraparound picture window view, and it suddenly made sense: no wonder I couldn’t enjoy the massages. The entire time, I’d been fantasizing about how it would feel to take my fist and smash all that glass, smash it over and over again until nothing remained but a heap of shards.
It took me a few more hours, and several more books, but I finally found it: the solution to the mystery, the clinical term for what was wrong with me. Apparently there’s a strange place on the bipolar spectrum called a “mixed state,” in which mania and depression meet and collide. In a mixed state, you have all the relentless, agitated drive of mania, but none of the euphoria. Instead, you feel depression’s misery and self-loathing. It’s the most dangerous condition possible, the one in which the most suicides occur. No longer protected by depression’s inertia, you now have the ability to act upon your despair.
There it was, in black and white: my absolution. I wasn’t crazy. It wasn’t depression, it wasn’t even mania. It was a mixed state. I was entitled to feel horrible,
it was a mixed state. I kept saying the term over and over to myself on the way back to the hotel, to make it real. For the first time since our trip began, I couldn’t wait to see Rick, to tell him all about it.
My research had taken much longer than I expected, and I arrived at the hotel half an hour later than I had promised. Rick was cross, and trying hard not to show it. But I knew his smile far too well to be fooled by indulgent imitations. I kissed his cheek and ruffled his hair, the first spontaneous gestures of affection I had exhibited in weeks. “You can stop trying not to scowl now,” I said. “It’s going to be okay. I know what’s wrong. It’s called a mixed state.” I explained it to him as best I could. “So you see, that’s why I’ve been acting so funny. It’s like I’m depressed, except I’m manic, too. So you can understand why…”
He interrupted me. “You’re not depressed. You’re better. You’re just exhausted from everything you’ve been through lately. Why don’t we stay in tonight and relax? Here, let me fix you a drink.”
“I don’t want a drink,” I replied. “I want to talk about this.”
“Not now,” Rick said. “You’re too tired. You should have kept the appointment with the masseuse instead of spending all afternoon grubbing around in a bookstore.”
I could feel my hands beginning to clench, the fingernails pressing into the flesh of my palms. The bite felt good. I pressed harder, trying to distract myself from the anger that was steadily building inside me.
Rick mistook my silence for acquiescence. He picked up the telephone and dialed room service. “I know just what you need,” he said. “A good, thick steak with mashed potatoes on the side—or maybe some creamed spinach instead, for the iron. Which would you prefer?”
