April 1997
I page through the phone book surreptitiously, looking out the window to make sure Julian hasn’t pulled up to the house yet. For some reason, I don’t want him to know I’m calling a psychiatrist. Maybe that would confirm the incredibly obvious. Or maybe he hasn’t noticed that I’ve gone completely nuts. I run my finger down the column and stop at one Richard Beedle, M.D. I like his name. A man named Beedle can’t be all bad.
I sit in the waiting room, paging through an old Time. It’s the same Time they keep in every waiting room. There is only one, and everyone has it, and it is sorely out of date. Bored, I slap it shut and study the painting of flowers on the opposite wall. It looks like every other painting of flowers on every other wall of every office of every psychiatrist, psychologist, nutritionist, behaviorist, et al. that I’ve ever seen.
He calls me into his office. I take my usual place in the usual chair on the usual empty afternoon. I study him the way I always study them. Some of them are mean, some very smart, some idiots, most a little hurried, but some just plain old nice—your usual cross-section of humanity. This Beedle looks to be okay. He has one wandering eye and wears a brown suit. I watch his eye while he settles into his chair. Does he get to see two whole scenes at once? Is one part of him having a conversation with me while another is looking out the window at the new green leaves on the trees?
He mispronounces my name and I correct him, as usual. This is how all psychiatric visits start. He looks friendly enough, so I decide to give him a chance.
“What brings you here today?” he asks.
“I’m going crazy.”
“Well, don’t beat around the bush,” he says. “Jump right in.”
“I’m going nuts. I mean, I am nuts. I’ve always been nuts. They’ve been telling me I have depression for years, but they’re wrong. I used to have an eating disorder. They’re always giving me Prozac. I know, I know, you’ll probably give me Prozac too, which, okay, I understand, you have to give me something, though I should mention that if you had something other than Prozac I would be open to trying it, just so you know. In fact, I’m open to pretty much anything, at this point. I’m kind of desperate.” Weirdly, I laugh. “I mean, kind of really desperate. Not to make a fuss or anything. I don’t want to overstate my case. I don’t want to be malingering. Do you think I’m malingering? Once a nurse told me I was malingering when I told her the Prozac was making me crazy.” I pause. “What exactly is malingering?” I ask.
“It’s when you’re making a big deal out of nothing. Making symptoms seem worse than they are.”
“See?” I say, and throw up my hands. “Exactly. I don’t want to be malingering. I definitely don’t want to make something out of nothing.”
“You’re not malingering.”
“Well, that’s good. But anyway, really, now that I think of it, this really is nothing. It’s not such a big deal. I mean, I’m not crazy crazy. I’m not wandering around with a grocery cart full of newspapers and cans talking to myself. I mean, I talk to myself a little, but not in a crazy way—doesn’t everybody talk to themselves?” He nods. He sits with his hands folded on his desk. He hasn’t written anything on his notepad and appears, oddly, to be listening. I appreciate his attention; it’s very courteous of him. “By the way, oh my gosh,” I say, suddenly flustered, “I’m going on and on. I know you’re busy. I know you must have a million patients. Have I already used up my time?” I ask, a little panicked.
“No.”
“How much time do I have?”
“As much as you want. This is a private practice. I’m not an HMO, so no rush.”
“Well,” I sigh, collapsing back in my chair—I notice I’ve been sitting bolt upright the whole time—“thank goodness.” I take a little breather.
“May I ask you something?”
“Sure,” I say, feeling magnanimous.
“Do you always talk this fast?”
“Yes.”
He nods. “Okay,” he says. “Go on.”
“What was I saying?”
“Feeling crazy, but not crazy crazy.”
“Right,” I say. “So I guess that’s it. Do you mind if I look around?”
“Not at all,” he says, so I get up and go over to his bookcase and read all the titles and look at the framed photos and laugh at the little framed cartoon—a man is lying on a couch, yammering on, and the doctor’s writing TOTALLY NUTS!!! on his little pad—and I go over to the window and hop up on the sill and swing my feet a little, then hop back down and come back and sit in my chair.
“All better?” he asks. I laugh. “Has anyone ever mentioned the word mania to you?”
“Nope,” I say, folding my hands across my middle.
“They haven’t,” he says. “I find that a little odd.”
“I mean, I’ve heard the word, obviously,” I say. “I’ve just never heard it applied to me. Is that what you’re saying?”
“It was, yes. Out of curiosity, what does mania mean?”
“Mania—well, going around like a maniac, I guess.” Now that I think about it, that doesn’t sound so far off.
“Sort of,” he says. “Anyway, you’re right, you don’t seem depressed right now. You seem like you’ve got lots of energy.”
“I do indeed,” I say. “Indeed I do.”
“An unusual amount of energy,” he replies.
I shrug. “Pretty typical for me,” I say. “I like to keep busy.”
“What do you do to keep yourself busy?”
“Oh, working, mostly. Or seeing friends. Cleaning, laundry, things like that. I like to have a clean house. Very clean. Unusually clean. Spotless, in fact. I’m an extremely good housekeeper. Most of the time.”
“Except?”
“When I’m not. I go through stages. Sometimes I don’t clean the house for months. But usually,” I say, not wanting to give the impression that I’m a lazy slob, “it’s pretty clean.”
“What else happens when you go through those stages?”
I furrow my brow. “I don’t know. Nothing. It happens in the afternoon, usually. I just want to crawl into bed and hide from the entire world and stop thinking. My brain empties out. It’s kind of an effort to breathe. It’s like time slows down. It feels like I’m flattened. I don’t want to do anything. I can’t concentrate. I feel like a failure. I sort of hate myself.” I shrug. “It goes away. Then I get energetic again.” I fiddle with my ears, not wanting to tell him about the rages. I feel like I’ve said too much already and come off as crazy. Can’t have that.
“Is there a pattern to the swings?”
“Swings?”
“What did you say? Stages. Do you have any idea when the stages come and go? I mean, you know when they happen during the day, right? Do you see any pattern over, say, a few months?”
“No. Sometimes they happen, sometimes not. I’m just kind of moody. Which,” I say, “is kind of the issue. I’m really insanely moody right now. I mean, I’m out-of-my-head moody. I can’t stand it. I’m going nuts. As I said.”
“What’s happening?”
“I’m having these rages,” I finally confess, embarrassed. “I kind