A Tragic Kind of Wonderful. Eric Lindstrom

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      He salutes me with his mug.

      None of the other ears nearby work very well. I’m free to talk.

      “I think my meds need a little adjusting.”

      “Feeling mixed? For how long?”

      “Today. Right now, at least. I don’t know. I’m revving up but also losing energy.”

      “An off day isn’t a cocktail issue. Anything stressing you out at school, or with friends?”

      “No. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t want it to be about any of those things. That should count for something.”

      He sips his coffee.

      “I know,” I say. “I can’t choose how I feel, but I can choose how I think about how I feel.”

      “That’s not quite what I said, although I suppose it’s an adequate enough street version.”

      I sneer.

      “Seriously,” he says. “You need to talk to your doctor. About everything. Not just the meds. I’m not—”

      “Not my doctor, I know.”

      “I was going to say I’m not going to be around forever.”

      He watches me. Usually it’s other people who get uncomfortable with how much I hold eye contact. Now I get a glimpse of how they feel.

      “I’m glad you didn’t,” I say and stand up. “That would’ve been a shitty thing to say.”

      In the two years I’ve worked here, first as a volunteer and now as an employee, I’ve seen half a dozen residents leave the permanent way—through the roof, as Judith says—including Grandma Cece. I miss her, of course, and all the others who’ve left through the roof, but I really don’t know what I’d do without Dr. Jordan.

      I sit back down.

      “Sorry.”

      “You’ve come a long way, Mel. And in a very short time.”

      “Thanks to you.”

      “In spite of me. I promised Cece I’d help with life coaching, but we talk so much, it relieves the emotional pressure to engage with your therapist. More proof I was right to give up my practice. If I were doing this properly, I wouldn’t let sentiment and a promise to Cece stop me from cutting you off, to push you into a more productive relationship with your doctor. I shouldn’t be—”

      “Your ‘life coaching’ saved me, Dr. Jordan. I’m sorry if you regret that—”

      His look stops me. It’s a subtle expression but I know it.

      “I mean … my real doctor thought your life coaching was wrong! I wrote down his exact words …” I get my phone and thumb open the notebook app. “He said I was fetishizing the personification of my symptoms. He also said my bipolar disorder couldn’t be cycling as fast as I claimed, not at my age.”

      Dr. Jordan’s eyes narrow. “He thought it was wrong? Don’t you mean he thinks it’s wrong?”

      Oops.

      “I mean back when we talked about it,” I say.

      “You never told me.”

      “You just said I talk to you too much! And there’s plenty I don’t tell you! He said I should stop talking to you so I stopped talking to him!”

      Dr. Jordan sips his coffee. He once made the mistake of telling me Winston Churchill would relight his cigar to give him time to think or compose pithy, articulate statements. Now I know what Dr. Jordan’s coffee is really for.

      “I thought you said something last week about your doctor being a woman.”

      Shit. “Yeah. That other guy moved away. My new doctor, she just wants me to fill out questionnaires and talk about the meds. As long as I say I’m fine, I’m out the door.”

      “So you haven’t given her a chance.”

      “I answer all her questions.”

      “Mel, some doctors push you and divine meaning from what you say when pushed. Others wait to hear what you say on your own and divine meaning from what you offer up. Offer something up. Give her a chance.”

      I don’t say anything.

      Dr. Jordan sets his mug down. “Tell her what’s going on in your life. And if you feel strongly about something, say so. Stand your ground; defend your feelings. Be honest and hold nothing back. A good therapist will help you understand and process, not argue. Try her out this afternoon and see. It can only help.”

      Hold nothing back? How could I possibly tell that quiet woman in her sterile little office things I’m not willing to tell Dr. Jordan? Things I don’t even let cross my own mind? It’s inconceivable.

      

      HAMSTER IS RUNNING

      HUMMINGBIRD IS PERCHED

      HAMMERHEAD IS CRUISING

      HANNIGANIMAL IS LEVEL/MIXED

      Dr. Oswald doesn’t seem old enough to be a psychiatrist. She’s slim, with dark skin, nice bone structure in her face, and wearing a stylish off-white sweater, like an eggshell, with navy slacks. None of the young psychiatrists I’ve seen were any good. I mean to talk to. They’ve been okay about tuning my meds.

      She sits there with this nice, open expression, ready for me to … what? I don’t know. And the stress of not knowing, plus maybe telling her about the Hanniganimal today, has shifted my moods even faster than usual. This is our third session and the office is less empty this time. The shelves have more books. There are more framed diplomas on the wall, a Van Gogh print of birds over a field, a bonsai tree on her desk with a tiny origami crane in its branches—

      “It seems like something’s on your mind,” she says. “We have some time left.”

      We’d talked about the routine stuff after I filled out the long weekly questionnaire: Manic Episodes? (no), Depression? (the usual amount), Irritability? (no), Rage? (no), Sleeplessness? (nothing I can’t handle), Obsessive Thoughts? (they mostly mean about sex, and no), Suicidal Thoughts? (definitely not, and that should be the first question), and so on.

      Annie called right before my appointment—couldn’t be a mistake this time, not with my name and picture popping up on her screen—and my mind started racing as I declined it. She left no message and that made it even worse. I’m not going to mention tweaking my meds.

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