Tuesday, July 28, 2009

My dog psychiatrist: Dr. Walter knows bi-polar



This dog knows more about bi-polar than most people in the medical profession: because he lives with one.

He has had a difficult puppyhood learning to live with me.

But within a matter of months I recognize his "bi-polar" sense has developed.

With little in the way of medical school or training, he has amazingly ascertained what it means to live with a bi-polar human and how to survive.

This clever chap has a way of knowing what states of mind he may be dealing with by waking me up in the morning and staring at and reading my face.

If I smile, it's all good. A can of food soon follows. Then a round of "good dog."

If I roll over and ignore him, it means that I need my own space and he goes to the living room and busies himself chewing up everything I own. (I didn't say he doesn't have his own feelings)

If I stare back for a long time and roll my eyes, he's likely to be waiting a while before he empties his full, night time bladder. That usually means the day will get started slowly.

If he detects a grimace it means I may be in physical or emotional pain leading us into a whiny, self-centered, complaining day. Which means his needs will not be met and his problems are secondary. He spends most of those days barking at the neighbors trying to tell his own tale of despair.

If I scowl at him and roll over and go back to sleep, he knows to just give it up. There's going to be no dealing with me. This dog knows a bitch when he sees one.

He uses other methods and other senses to detect and gain further information.

The sniff test. Just how many days since I have showered shows the level of depression.

A couple sniffs, means he can still detect the scent of the after shower lotion and I'm going to remain alive to feed him.

A sniff and a snort, means were getting close to having some serious inertia problems, not much activity going on.

But if he sneezes it means we may need immediate help. He then has trained himself to dial suicide hotline...

That's my dog, psychiatrist..."good boy."

"Unforgettable, that's what you are..." The first time

There has been much said about how the age of onset in bi-polars, as the old school claimed a range in the late teens for many years, and didn't consider really how young it can start.

I endured a lot of stress early in life, and began to exhibit symptoms of both mania and depression before ten years old. An overwhelming amount of stress can be the very thing that causes the onset.

Stress can be both internal and external. Illness, hormonal imbalances, and other physical problems can cause stress within the body and thus begins the chemical reaction called bi-polar.

Depression being one of the worst mindsets tends to last for long periods of time. And sometimes leads to suicidal thoughts or even suicide attempts.

I remember an incident when I was maybe six or seven which was another part of the variety of dark emotions: out of control rage. It tended to be associated with bouts of depression.

My parents, who were my adopted parents didn't carry the genetics I had, nor did they understand it. So, when I tried to tell them I couldn't stop wanting to rip, shred, throw, break, something, they had no real perspective of what to do.

They were as helpless as me. With no information out there, no internet, no talk of ADD, teenage depression, and, at the time it was called, "manic/depression," which is misleading.

That term or even bi-polar doesn't even begin to describe the varying moods and degrees of emotions, one experiences.

A lot of my earliest experiences were of very negative emotions, powerlessness, confusion, anger, and a lot of fear.

I was interestingly both shy and outgoing, two extremes of course.

But when I met with the chemical reaction that I'm sure drug addicts seek, which is a euphoric mania, it would be something I wouldn't understand for years to come.

You tend to like it and not notice that its bothering everyone else. What bothers them is the idea that someone could feel so free and happy without any concern for the feelings of others. It's strange how people react to it.

But when I was ten, I remember it so well, vividly, I had my first full fledged manic episode.

The stress at my house was overwhelming and I had no outlet to deal with the problems. My parents were getting a divorce and I would have to live with my mother, who was part of my stress.

That morning I woke up laughing at everything. Everything seemed bright, the colors, the sky, and all the noises which before seemed cacophonous, were separate and understandable, sublime.

I went to school that day, in that condition which wasn't at all bad at that point, and found myself under attack.

Speaking out in class was nothing unusual for me, but this I guess went too far. I had the giggles and really thought everything was funny.

The teacher thought I was drunk, he told me that at recess while I was eating an orange. I retorted back, well maybe someone spiked my orange. (I really said that, my sarcastic nature started early)

To the "principles" office and home.

I was far too happy for the world that day, I guess. I remember it well. It was unforgettable.

But there is a price to pay with this kind of feeling; it's depression that follows when mania is allowed to go on unchecked.

It took a long time to discover this unfortunate truth, but mania isn't all it's "cracked up" to be. It's definitely better than crack, but not that much different.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

Bi-Polar self affirmations

I'm creating a list of affirmations, positive statements to one's self, that can be used at any time when the need arises.

We have all seen the books laden with these gems of wisdom we can remember when doubt and depression mire our thoughts.

"I'm a good person." "Everything happens for a reason, even the pock marks on my thighs." "There is a light switch at the end of the tunnel," and so on.

But I think affirmations for the Bi-polar should be more specific for people with the condition.

Here's just a few I thought of off the top of my head:

"I am a fuck up, but so is everybody else." (works when you're feeling alienated)

"I screwed up, but next time I'll do it with much more luster." (keep trying)

"I'm good enough, smart enough, or at least when this depression passes I will be." (Hope for the future)

"Just another manic Monday." (acceptance)

"Shiny things...oooooh pretty." (when you just need to get away)

Thursday, July 23, 2009

The creative souls

"You have to learn to accept rejection and reject acceptance."

One of the ways to really allow yourself flights of fancy into creativity is not letting anything or anyone stop you. True Freedom comes from your ability to fail. So, many talented people stop themselves because they don't think that their vision or whatever you want to call it, is acceptable or lives up to the expectation of others.

If you're bi-polar you may find yourself feeling different and out of place, but there is a place for everyone. And all you have to do to find it, is look inside yourself. It's there.

I recognize the struggle we all go through on a day to day basis, but that's the only way to live is second to second, day to day, being aware of what you're doing and why.

There are those swept up into a chemical reality, I know I've seen it first hand in my own family.

And I've seen some of them come back. My cousin, who knew most of her life she was likely bi-polar, but now she is accepting the situation. She's made a lot of progress. she is now becoming more creative, thinking outside that suffocating box.

I've seen a lot of progress with my friends, their children, in spite of much struggle. It's amazing really.

You may get beaten up, but never allow yourself to be beaten down.

What is the "Chronicles of the Bi-Polar Reporter"

It was probably during one of the worst times of my life that I wrote the first book in what will be a series of books, called, "The Chronicles of the Bi-Polar Reporter."

But a week later, the book was done. And everyone liked it.

I was in so much deep emotional pain that I just had to let it out. And I was manic as hell, but physically wounded and unable to do much more than type.

Years ago, I was talking with another writer and he asked me why there was none of me in my stories. I said, well I hadn't really considered it. I mentioned there was probably some unconscious element to me included.

He laughed and told me I was afraid to write about myself. Well, apparently that fear is gone. I've included many things that relate directly to me and my experiences. For the first time in my life probably.

However, there are all kinds of composite materials included.

When I was 26 I went out on my first assignment to meet the 5th district county supervisor for Santa Barbara County.

He had a list of agenda items in front of him when I walked in. They were highlighted with a pen.

He told me this is what I would be interested in. And I told him I'd be interested in hearing about everything.

I remember we looked at each other and laughed. We became fast friends and worked on another major issue together, a toxic waste dump.

That would be the first time I was grabbed by the secret service or whatever security folks. I dusted myself off, and told them to never do that again, because I'm asking questions you don't seem to like.

I was never the average writer or reporter, hence the "Bi-Polar Reporter."

Here is one chapter which is from the original week long writing fest. I'll go into more stories of how all of this came about.


The Chronicles of the Bi-Polar Reporter


Chapter 1

Who wants to kill the reporter? Everybody


The last footsteps I heard coming up the pavement were to my left. As I turned in the direction of the sound; a gun appeared in front of my face.
My eyes crossed as the black steely gun was pushed closer to my nose.
This was no ordinary hold up; we don’t have them in our little city two blocks from our police station under street lights.
No, this was to be expected. Reporters like me who uncover and expose the people in power; are targets.
As we stood there I could feel my body temperature start rising; my adrenaline exploding within every cell of my body; I knew I couldn’t hold on much longer.
“You got the gun you tell the story,” I spoke into the barrel like a microphone introducing someone at a “Toastmasters” meeting.
With a mask, or some sort of bandana he hid his face, but not his eyes.
Two narrow dark eyes pierced out from behind the bandana talking to me with enmity and telling me in no uncertain terms those eyes want me dead.
I like eyes; and if I make it through this these will certainly be unforgettable.
“Crazy bitch thought you would be smarter than to let us snag you on the street,” he laughed with his partner I could only see slightly with my peripheral vision; as my eyes stayed steady on the gun.
“I’m pretty stupid,” I thought to myself. With all the articles I’ve been writing about the Mayor’s office, it was only a matter of time; I’d really been “pressing” them.
“Wow, I can make a pun with a gun to my head; that could be a real game show,” I thought to amuse myself.
“So, now it comes down to your life bitch,” he breathed deeply, squeezing the gun.
“My life so far has faired well in situations where it is has been threatened. And believe me as you get to know me; you’ll wonder how did she ever survive to the ripe old age of 40?
It’s been like something is there that happens to intervene or…well…my physiology takes over; and decisions are based on adrenaline and sexual arousal. And then the chain reaction…its bi-polar disorder at it’s most powerful.
Before I could even begin to think well should I grab for it; or roll on the ground and beg for mercy; it happened so fast (it always does); I had grabbed for the gun.
Then I looked up into the starry night; my hands and his wrapped around the pistol.
It really was a lovely night sky I noted; even appreciated.
I slipped to the ground; hard and fast being keenly aware there was a gun over my head. I fall a lot; I have no balance. But I do have knack for the circus act.
I rolled and he rolled right over the top of me headed the other way. I noticed I had the gun; so I pointed it at his shocked counterpart and began counting down from ten. He was gone by 7; he needed a few seconds to gather his thoughts.
My gun wielding friend had already departed by the time I got to my feet and reconnoitered the situation.
“Okay, so now I know I must be getting into the dirt if they send out the laundry people to talk to me.” I muttered to myself as I stood there holding the gun meant to kill me.
I walked down to the police station; we put a new sidewalk in town where the yellow lights highlight your stroll; along with gun toting individuals hired to murder you.
I push the gun into the front of my pants and pull out a small notebook.
My pen doesn’t start writing immediately, so I lick the tip and forcefully scribble all over the page.
Turning the ruined page, I write down all the details of my encounter; eyes, clothes, shoes, sounds, clues, voice.
Then I look down at the gun in my pants. “I’m not so sure this is such a good idea.” I picture an explosion in my pants; the kind I don’t go catting around at bars to get.
I slide the tiny notebook into the back pocket of my almost freshly peed in jeans; push the gun into my knee socks; then head down the sidewalk next to the huge parking garage our Mayor had built probably thinking that would keep his car from getting scratched.
As I cross the street the stairs to the police station coming into focus, I wonder what the cop shop folks will have to say about this story.
“Go home; take some medicine.” I chuckle to myself because I have worked with them for years.
As I jump up the four concrete stairs, two at a time, I look up at the sign atop the building. “Desparada Police Station,” lit up like a movie theatre Marquee. “Another contribution from our Mayor and his unlimited checkbook style spending,” I shake my head and purse my lips in disgust.
My arms extend out rigidly pushing open the glass doors which has some sort of fancy switch which makes pushing truly unnecessary. But I do it anyway and every time.
The doors open wide and welcoming me is a waft of fresh coffee and sugary confections smell.
“Ahhh, makes me calmer already.”
Then I yelled into the offices as I came through the doors “Hey mutherfuckers; paper chasing pussies.”
They find my humor just downright hilarious.
The tendency of the bi-polar personality is to blurt when stirred up and it usually contains foul language.
It was almost midnight and the skeleton shift was on
The long counter like a border to a country was all but empty except for a few brochures about your rights standing in some plastic dispenser like a buoy in the ocean.
There wasn’t much noise, spare the rustling of newspaper.
A half a football field down the counter sat the “officer of the night,” the woman we all respect for her compassion, Virginia Mackel.
“What, we gave your name to all the serial killers and rapists and you still show up,” Virginia said not even looking up from the newspaper she was reading.
“Not that I’m saying you guys don’t do a great job with, with, help me here; with some things, but I’ve got a goddam story to tell.”
Virginia looked up incredulously above her reading glasses. I imagine the look meant that I had better be serious because she has some important reading to do.
Virginia had been with the department for too many years; my best guestimate would be she’s in her 60’s; and she just can’t leave the fun and games of fighting crime behind a desk or large counter.
I think she even has a gun. But I don’t think it has ever been considered in their master plan.
Last one out is Virginia blasting away at the bad guys.
She really didn’t like me at first; after a short period of years she has come to even laugh at my jokes; or me, I’m never sure.
“I’m not exaggerating or kidding; I was held at gun point by two males; ages 30 to 50; the younger one had greasy black hair with some kind of, I don’t know, T-shirt wrapped on his face,” I hurriedly explained grabbing my notes out of my pocket. “Second one had the gun and also a bandana or some cover for his face. But I saw his eyes; I will know them from now on.”
“So, what did they take? They want money or what?” Virginia inquired half interested; her eyes cast down; squeezing her flaccid neck with her left hand, pumping up her brain maybe.
“You’re thinking just another robbery; purse snatching; I lost my ID…no, no, no, my bored with her job friend.”
I put the gun on the counter making my final point.
Virginia looked up, put down her glasses and gave me her official attention. Although now all I could focus on was that little ball of mascara hanging from her cheek.
It was getting late and I needed my medicine.
“They didn’t want anything; they threatened to kill me. We never got around to why they were; but my guts told me it’s my archeology project on the mayor and his cronies.”
“They said that?” Virginia asked.
“Not in so many words,” I eeked out.
“Then how many words?” Virginia grabbed for her glasses again.
“Listen I had a gun in my face; this gun,” I hold it up making her move back a little, so I set it down.
“I was told I was easy to catch; then when he said that we were talking about my life; well, I just exploded.”Gabe had come in the room for the last part of the story. He’s a young guy, deputy, with a good sense of humor and dedication to what he does.
“How many bodies you leave us Hannah,” Gabe asked with his slight southern drawl that made him sound both charming and slightly ignorant.
“Well, these bodies are still running around, so I’d like to make a report and look through some of your family pictures.”
I pick up the gun again from the counter and Gabe flinched a bit, taking it from me with two fingers and dropping it in a baggy he yanks from his baggy dispensing pocket of his pants.
I wonder what else he dispenses out of those pants?
Virginia seemed relieved I was no longer playing with guns and went back to reading as if the world just went away.
However, as Virginia unconsciously buzzes us in with a sleight of her hand, Gabe and I slip in through the slot in the counter, and head to his desk.
Gabe drops down into his chair extending his hand for me to take the seat in front of his desk.
He still has the look from his days in the military. He’s muscular but not tough looking; however very regal as if to say he takes his job, country, uniform, very seriously.
But with the face of a babe, round and hairless; his dark hair snipped tight and around his ears; he amiably prepared the report.
We drank coffee and talked about the fact that the mayor was reelected but not without some resistance.
“Hannah, we know there is something going on but what are we going to do about it? He’s popular, handsome; I don’t know he’s got credentials.” Then he sang, “He’s got the power.” Funny.
“Gabe, Gabe, Gabe, we’ve known each other for how long; at least a month,” we both laughed. “Listen you’ve watched me dog this city for 5 years now; and how many times have I been held at gun point?”
“None, but you have had your share of fights,” he added.
“Regardless,” I said, “this is big,” I trailed off thinking of what exactly am I on to that got me into this.
“Meggler is a mayor without a conscience; the chief of the city with ambition to become another Carmel or even Santa Cruz; a California city with the rich and famous flocking to take part.” I explained to Gabe.
“Well, that is your bag, Hannah, you do your job and I will try to make sure we find out who is after you. We just have to pick the right one,” he said, then winked. “There are many, you know,” he teased. “You’re about as popular as a rattlesnake at a dinner party.”
I stood up, “I’m going home thanks for the talk and the coffee and a decent country style ribbing.”
“Any time,” he smirked.
I turned to leave then added as I was being buzzed by through the magic door, “pencil pushing idiots.”
I walked home, not feeling peril, but on the alert none the less.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Threatdown: bi-polar reactions to threats

She didn't remember doing it, but in the middle of a fight with her husband, she pulled off the leg of the table and hit him with it.
He had hit her, and maybe it was her face, but what he hit was the trigger of the bi-polar rush.

Not a good thing to threaten or attack somebody bi-polar as they will increase in physical strength within nanoseconds.

It won't matter how small the person, once these chemicals hit the fast track, turning on all the lights in the house, you are hardput to shut everything down.

What can we do when an explosion takes place inside our brains and bodies? First, we need to master the idea that we can't control the chemicals, but we can recognize what they are doing to us.

In some cases it's great to have this reaction, it could save your life.

On the other hand, you may find yourself doing things you didn't really want to do, and didn't quite plan your day for it.

Recently, I recieved a threat, which was allowed to stay on our local newspaper, The Kern Valley Sun, website which immediately pushed my buttons.

I allowed myself to write it out. Realizing that this was a legitimate complaint about the threat, when the Sun refused to pull it, rather they made new rules for their site, I took to writing.

It felt good to let out the vitriol and wait for the calm, which did come later that night.

I'm glad I didn't go over to the Sun's building and pull them out one by one, like out of a Pez dispenser.

After years and years of this sort of reaction, I've been able to reel in the reactions, and make them more focused.

Finding an outlet for rage and ruin, is really a life long pursuit. Some may have it already, but others have to think and plan for times when this world will trigger the massive chemical explosion of the bi-polar mind.

When I was young, I would hold couches above my head until my arms and chest were weak. Then I drop it and lay down on it.

Now, its a little easier, it is a matter of destimulation. Don't try to create more out of it than what it is: just find a way to rechannel that energy.

Bi-polar is a creative force, so harness it, and ride it, don't let it take you for the ride though...

Monday, July 6, 2009

excerpts from KVHD under fire: July 4th post

But again, my strengths are not necessarily palatable to many, but if there were trouble I would be and am the person people come to for help.
If you're shooting squirrels you get a pellet gun, but if you're shooting big game you come to me.
It's nothing new and the people who know me, the ones who have known me for years, would not expect me to do anything else. And they would also not expect me to do it like anyone else, because I'm not.
And neither are you reader. You are unique and have strengths with which you have been given to serve.
My strength, is considered a weakness and a mental health problem, but only by people who know nothing about it.
I'm a bi-polar American.
I'm different, I don't need drugs, "my brain makes chemicals junkies would jump through my ears to get to."
It's like driving a race car, the steering is sensitive, just a touch on the gas pedal and your tires spin then you go squealing past or sometimes over everything.
It takes time and training and most certainly awareness to drive a vehicle like this.After years and years of accidents and fatalities, I've finally reached a point where I recognize the necessity for brakes. (Sometimes I like to do donuts though.)
This is now my issue: helping the bi-polar understand and change the image of the label thus changing their own self image which has likely been attacked repeatedly. And most certainly the healthcare system which on average has little or no clue how to medically handle us.
I've written a book, "The Chronicles of the Bi-Polar Reporter," and started the second book surrounding the oddity which is the Kern Valley, called, "The Valley of Fear." (I'm still waiting to see how it ends)
There are two more books in the series where our main character takes on drug dealers, the police, and then finally Sacramento. The books are fictional, but contain many pieces to the puzzle of the NASCAR mind.
Sometimes one must be a little crazy to get anything done.
I don't care anymore who thinks I'm crazy; but I do care about the 17 year-old who is cutting himself or herself, feeling suicidal, disenfranchised, and lacking enough self esteem to get past social judgments entrenched in our society.
This will be handled by our video production company as we have begun shooting the low budget film, "The order of the Bi-Polar Disorder." We will be using some of the KVHD hospital board meeting footage to highlight the difference between a reporter and a "bi-polar reporter."
The next goal is to make a film which can be a learning tool for hospitals and medical types who know nothing about this and have read far too much Freud.
The first book in the series should be available this fall, and that is a book about mania. If you don't feel manic from cover to cover then I didn't do my job. You may just feel the bursting brain cells as you read along.
That book was written at the end of 2007, when I took a week off in between an assault and a head injury.
As I have stressed the confusion between calling something a weakness when it maybe a strength given the right situation.
When I wrote the first book, I sent it to all the people I knew who were readers and read many different genres. I took in their feedback.
Then my friends with a twisted sense of humor had their hands on it.
Then I needed some critical eyes; someone who would not be nice, but would be nit picking every page of it. That was my cousin. Hard person to be around, but she started hammering at the first paragraph.
Next editing was important, but grammatical editing was what interested me. So, I got the most fastidious editor I could find. The type most writers would never dare go to if they were at all sensitive.
What I wanted was a good product, so I opened myself to criticism and scrutiny, and I think the goal has been accomplished to my satisfaction. I'm not interested in sycophants they have agendas and don't tell you everything
.(No crimes were committed and no harm came to animals in the making of these books and films.)
I wish that the Kern Valley Healthcare District thought more about welcoming the criticism so that changes can occur, situations rectified, progress made: I love that kind of stuff.
And I hope that will happen and the usefulness of that will bring about a "good product" we all can use with confidence.
So, it's July 4th weekend and I felt free to tell you readers who you are really dealing with: "The bi-polar reporter."
As our country is experiencing a mass social depression with an economy equally as depressed, don't feel victimized, but use this time to become empowered. Use your strengths whatever they are and wade in and change this country for the better. We fought, we protested, we marched, and those efforts made incremental progress.
So let's do it again. I'm with you.

Welcome to the new blog, it's going to be interesting, especially for those in health care

Hello, I'm Laura Hart, I'm bi-polar, with some concommitant OCD, and I've lived my life with the condition but in the last several years it has been a true learning experience.

Sometimes one's destiny is a license plate they pick up at the DMV. After a bad round of antibiotics which took out a cranial nerve, I was severely disabled, unable to walk or see.

My doctor wrote up a note to the DMV that I was permanently disabled, and some license plates were ordered for my car.

I opened them up and looked, kind of pissed really, that the numbers across were 5150.

A 5150 is a legal hold when someone is a danger to themselves or to others. I knew this because my mother, brother and sister, cousins, aunts, oh hell, the whole family had some form of it. And some of them were on a hold, or couldn't be held, or were mislabled and put in jail.

So, when I saw this I knew what it was and was planning on asking them to take them back and give me some other configuration.

I never did.

This blog is partly expression and communication but it is also an educational tool.

I have many stories to share, but I have other voices I want you to hear too.
And we, "The Order of the Bi-Polar Disorder," have plans on bringing to the healthcare providers and the government a whole new perspective on this type of condition.

There will be many types of writers, some may use offensive language, others may be eloquent. But we want the real stories, raw, from the soul, from the great life salvaging sarcastic sense of humor, to fill this blog.

Many are artists, musicians, the creative types so be prepared for quite a motley mixture to appear.

There will be video, pictures, artwork, to go with it.

So, here we go...

Saturday, July 4, 2009

The Valley of Fear: Chronicles of the Bi-Polar Reporter

“The Chronicles of the Bi-Polar Reporter”

The Valley of Fear

By Laura J. Hart

Chapter 1

Welcome to Temerosa

“You look like shit,” Larry the lump head was telling me as we made our way up the stairs of our new humble abode.


“I’m really grateful to know that, Larry, as my self esteem frequently requires a good toughening up.”


Larry looked around at the mobile home, or the rectangle as I call it. He peaked his head round every corner, of which there were two, and finally declares, “You, Hannah Bennet, reporter, are officially white trash.”


“No, that occurred when I picked you up years ago. Looks like I really have let myself go.”


Larry, a newspaper photographer, had left our former town to follow me on my quest for inner peace.


How we found this place is another story. We literally took out a map- a coin, and a highlighter. After rounds of coffee- a lot of yelling and arguing, we had two choices selected.


That was quite a feat considering how large the state California is and all the possibilities.


Taken into the equation was the fact that I began suffering from some unknown illness which requires that I have the least amount of stress possible.


However, I could not count out working because it was strongly ingrained in me. If I’m not writing, investigating or researching, I’m usually in trouble. But then again, I must admit, even then I’m in some sort of trouble.


Here in this mountain community nestled above the smog and business of city life, I came to heal myself.


The mobile home with a view of the massive lake and surrounding craggy mountain tops seems like a good place to start relaxing.
“Let’s go get the moving truck and the movers and get this thing settled,” Larry says, pacing around in the front yard under the expansive shade tree.


“It’s hot up in these mountains, not like the beach.” He grumbled.
Larry makes a call and moments later an orange and white truck backs into the drive.


I surveyed the contents as they came off the truck. Three sweaty guys were being dogged by Larry as they unload his precious computer and photo equipment.


The largest guy, probably a little old for the work, but muscular arms and legs went with the gray specks in his hair.


“Be careful with that one,” Larry points to the home made label indicating the contents were, I guess, precious.


“I got it, man, don’t worry,” the mover reassures an unreassurable Larry.


I watch the spectacle of all this from a chair with a glass of lemonade in my hand. I had nothing to say about the move, but I’m thinking pretty hard about what I’m going to do now that I’m here.


Larry nervously takes a break with me to have a few gulps of the powdered lemonade that came out of the trunk of the car.


As night fell, the truck was empty and the cartons stacked and organized in the various rooms.


A bed with no sheets or pillows was dumped on the floor of what would be considered a master bedroom, and we raced to get on it. We rolled over on our sides, looking at each other.


“Okay, so we are here,’ I was sighing.


“This is what you need, Hannah, rest, you’re sick.”


Since I flatly refuse to be sick, I say nothing more than, “I will get better you know, I always do.”


“Just to be clear here, I think you need some help getting better. I’ve watched your hands shake, your muscle disappear, your attitude- uh well- it’s gotten pretty bad.”


I am too tired to argue with him, but he knows the last time I saw a doctor I ended up with one less cranial nerve in my head.


There are only12, but this one controls visual and physical balance and equilibrium. Though I built my body to offset the loss and kept reading until my eyes couldn’t take it, I still have to be ever vigilant not to fall and stay out of the dark where I have no ability to walk.


“We will talk about it tomorrow,” I conclude our discussion then roll over and go to sleep.



The Sun comes beaming through the east facing windows early which wakes both Larry and I.


We roll off the mattress and take off in two different directions to the bathrooms. After a short time we head into town to look for a coffee shop, breakfast is overdue.


Since we only brought Larry’s little car, and left mine back at the shop in Desparada, we take a spin in his piece of tin onto the main highway surrounding Lake Presbyteria.


As we head to town we pass a sign for the local hospital. Neither of us says anything, but there’s a strong feeling that comes over me as I see the green sign with the arrow.


We make the turn off the highway, now into the edge of what is considered a city, but more like a little town.


We pass a fast food restaurant, making a mental note of where to get a quick meal.


As we continue down the main drag we see a few grocery stores, a pizza place, and finally a small coffee shop, called, “Bertha’s Place.”
“I guess we should try it,” Larry says as he turns into the pot hole ridden parking lot.


The place is bustling as we go in- it’s Saturday morning, and it seems every retired person in this valley is drinking coffee and reading newspapers.
We grab the only available booth situated next to the front door which has a lovely bell attached to it which hits the glass each time someone arrives- which is every two minutes.


A heavy set waitress with black hair tied back, sets some menus on the table with one hand, and fills our coffee cups with the other.
She quickly heads off without saying a word to pour more coffee at some other table.


Larry looking famished closes his menu then slides it to the front of the table.


He’s staring at me while I peruse Bertha’s menu with not much luster. Lot’s of things to do with eggs- which I hate.


I scan the al a carte section and put together my own desired plate. Then I throw my menu on top of Larry’s to wait for our most pleasant server to return for our order.


“What’s our plan for today anyway,” Larry finally says after watching me closely for more than five minutes.


“I’ll tell you we should do some sight seeing. Check out the river, walk by the lake- maybe even take a ride deep into those mountains out there.”


“Okay, sounds good.”


“Could you get me that newspaper that the gentleman left at that table behind us?” I say to Larry who can just reach an arm over the seat and fetch it.


“What do you want with it?” he was questioning.


“To paper train a dog or to use when I sleep on the park bench. What the hell are you asking me for?”


“You know why I’m asking,” he says almost solemnly. “We came here for you to rest. I’ll do the working, you do the relaxing.”


“How the hell do I relax without working?”


“Well, you stick to writing fiction or something else that won’t involve you in any sort of investigations or conflicts.”


Conflicts? What is life without them?


“Listen partner, I’m just thinking about writing some country crap, nothing serious.”


Larry was pondering the idea when our waitress finally returned with pen and paper. We gave the no nonsense waitress our order and went back to our discussion.


“All right, here’s the paper.” He pulls the small publication back as I try to grab it. “There’s more to this deal then you think.”


I sit back against the large crack in the vinyl seat and sigh waiting to hear what my orders are. And I was thinking if I were alone without this other being, there would be no question as to what I would be doing.
“Hannah, we are making an appointment with a local doctor who can look you over and tell us what to do to make you well again. That is why we came here,” he emphasizes looking me straight in the eyes.


“Yeah, yeah, yeah, just give me the paper.”


Irritated with me he chucked the damn thing at me, catching me on the chin leaving a slight paper cut.


I open the paper, stretching it out in front of me so I can no longer see Larry or the rest of the crowd.


The waitress came by and pushed our food in front of us while I was laughing at the little backwards newspaper.


“Listen to this Larry, there’s a fishing contest and a story about some high school students on the front page,” I find it amusing.


As Larry chews on his steak and eggs, I go through the paper with a fine tooth comb. I look at the ads which were almost comical. Apparently, there’s a store which sells everything from fishing licenses to household appliances.


I ran through the short list of classified ads which were mostly handyman type ads with a few job listings.


“Hey Larry they need help at the bait and tackle shop, you could do that.” I was saying with my most notorious sarcastic tone.


Larry, like organized people do, already took a job before we even got here. He’s going to freelance his photography- I think some wild life types of pictures. I’m sure his fear of animal life will make that a short term assignment. But at least he has a job.


We finished up our first breakfast in the town of Temerosa, leaving a decent tip, and grabbing the little newspaper on the way out.


The tour began around the dam of the lake and ended an hour later back at the house. Larry was ready to unpack.


We spent the next two days arranging our trailer, but most importantly setting up all the computer equipment. We were both junkies when it came to those things. We could no longer live without checking our email.


When Monday rolled around, Larry was ready with his plans for me.
“Okay, today we go to the local clinic and you will be seen by a doctor.”


I was looking blankly at him. Actually, I was hoping if I did this long enough he would forget about what he just said to me.


“Hello, are you having a 60’s flashback? Can you hear me?”


“I take umbrage to the mention of the sixties when I was only a mere child- not tied dyed in a love fest.”


We leave an hour later on the way to the clinic. We again pass the sign for the hospital and again I have a weird feeling about it. Nothing I can pinpoint, just a feeling.


The clinic looks like an old strip mall with some antique wood siding that looks more rotted than restored.


“I’m already unimpressed here Larry, where did you find this?”


“It doesn’t really matter there’s not much to choose from in these parts of the woods,” he was saying as he pulled the car close to the building.


“I’ll bet the doctor is as old as the building,” I was saying in a minor protest.


We went in to find a waiting room full of people waiting.


“I guess this must be the only game in town,” Larry was observing all the elderly folks lining the chairs. A few small children played at the table full of torn magazines.


We checked in and only a short time later, at least three hours, we were taken into a small examining room where we waited for another hour.


I was sleeping on the exam table and Larry was sitting in a chair his head bent back, when the doctor knocked at the door.

He introduced himself in a friendly way, apologizing for the extended wait. “I’m Dr. Fingle.”


I would say he’s about my age, the middle type- a little overweight and by the bags under his eyes, overworked too.


My attitude was one of distrust- not only because I had been previously damaged with the help of a doctor, but because I knew I was really sick this time and it was getting worse no matter how much I tried to ignore it. That means to me I have to rely on a doctor. Quite a distasteful idea I would say.


I started the conversation complaining about hair loss.


“Do you see this bald spot in the front?” I begin moving my hair to the side so he could see the patch that was missing.


“I’m clogging drains doctor. I have to use a roller on my clothes I’m shedding so much.”


While he was jotting down my complaint I noticed his bald spot on the back of his head.


I’m sure he understands how emotional it is to lose your hair. However, I’m sure his is male pattern balding and not part of some disease process. For a moment I felt sympathy for him that his molting would continue, while mine may just have a chance to be restored.


He continued asking me what my symptoms were and Larry, another male pattern baldness victim, veered the conversation away from the hair into other areas.


“Dr. Fingle, Hannah has lost weight and muscle- she shakes in the mornings hardly able to grasp anything- and quite frankly she’s difficult to deal with, if you know what I mean.”


Fingle pulled out a form and began checking off numerous squares then handed it to us.


“We need some tests run to see what is going on.”


He then told us to come back in a week, which we did.


This time we had an early appointment and we were escorted right in to the examining room. Dr. Fingle came in right behind us.


“Well, it looks like you have an autoimmune disorder called “Grave’s Disease. It is currently escalating your thyroid which accounts for your symptoms. We will put you on some medicine which will retard the overstimulation of the hormone and then just watch you”


I suddenly remembered that my mother had the same thing when she was young. She had told me the story of her lengthy bout with the disorder. She said it made her crazy. Well, she never had far to go and frankly neither do I.


“What about her irritability doctor- is there anything we can do about that?” Larry tosses his personally important question in the pot.


I was glaring at Larry who never even looked at me, but rather was receiving a sympathetic glance from Dr. Fingle.


“Larry, it might make sense to put her on an antidepressant while we get these symptoms in check.”


“I don’t think I need an antidepressant, thank you. I don’t react well to medications, so I take the least amount possible.”
Fingle cajoled me with some story about how antidepressants have some magical qualities that could help a bitch like me become a little tamer. Okay, he didn’t say it like that, but I was reading between the lines.


“Okay, fine, give me the crap and I’ll try it.” I was just trying to get along at that point. They were two and I was only one.


Back at the trailer, we were preparing a big dinner, as we finally found the box I had mislabeled with all the kitchen ware.


Larry, standing over a grossly large piece of beef, sprinkled garlic and salt then wrapped it tight, and slammed it into the oven.


“You got the salad going, or am I going to have to do that too?”
I think Larry is the one that needs the antidepressant, not me. Maybe I’ll sprinkle it over the salad.


“Salad, chop chop,” I tell Larry as I wield a knife over the unsuspecting vegetables, unable to move or escape.


I scrape the colorful mixture into the ceramic salad bowl and end with a “ta-da.”


We curl up on the futon and begin a wrestling match for the TV remote.


“I’m not watching another fucking documentary, I want something either dramatic or really funny,” he complains.


I can’t remove the remote from his grip so I bite his hand and the thing falls loose.


I then program the history channel to learn more about what Hitler did. We all need to know more about what Hitler did.


“Fuck it, you find something I’ll endure it.” He looked quizzically at me that I gave up on our regular family feud for the remote so quickly.


“Don’t be disappointed, I’ll dominate the television some other time.”


He reached over and put his arms around me, giving me a kiss on my chin putting his saliva right into my paper cut.


“Hannah, I want you back,’ he whispers in my ear.


“I’ll be back,” I reassure him while trying not to sound like the “Terminator.”


We fall asleep together with the TV murmuring in the background.



“Larry I need my car,” I was complaining as he was driving us to the local grocery store.


“I’ll take you wherever you need to go, no problem.”


“Big problem for me though, it means I have to rely on you for transportation. What if I need to storm off or something? You going to throw me the keys and say go drive recklessly in my car.’


There was a momentary pause- I believe he is assessing the potential consequences of lending me his car.
“Well, you’ve got a point there.”


I knew it- you can play with his dick, but don’t fuck with his car.
“Let’s go buy a car, that’s the answer. I’ll sell the Mustang and get some sort of vehicle. Maybe a funny squared off one- or some retro car.”


“Or you could be practical like me and just go for the gas mileage.”
Practical in my mind sounds like something less than fun.


“Yeah, I’ll let you be practical, and you let me, well, do what I do.”


As Larry turns the car into the parking lot of “Groceries- R’- Us” I order him to find a car lot where I can get a vehicle.


“Driver, take me to the “Car Corral” in town, I want to see what they have.”

We pass the front of the store with shoppers exiting with carts of groceries. We stop short as an older woman, dressed up for country living in flannel and cut off’s,  pushes her cart right in front of us as we try to leave.


“Apparently, rudeness is not reserved for the anonymity of big city life.” I was observing as nobody seemed to care that we were trying our best to exit past the bustling store without mowing down the somnambulistic shoppers.
A few miles down the highway we could see the big cowboy hat sign for the car dealership. It looks like a happy place- it even beckons memories of “Cal Worthington” and his used car dealership.  Worthington's TV ads would have him ride elephants- try to hold an aptly clawed tiger cub- or some other animal that would seem to always try to attack him. People bought cars from that jackass just for that reason.


There wasn’t much action in the lot as we pulled in. We walk around looking at the array of used cars and trucks. No salesperson set upon us, which is what I expected. But it became an annoyance after about a half hour that nobody noticed us perusing.


“Hey Hannah, look at this.”


Larry was pointing to a small, red, economy car with tinted windows and some sort of sprockets for hubcaps.


“Yeah, that looks good for you Larry. I’ll find something which will suit me.”


“Suit yourself.”


“Exactly.”


I walk across the hot pavement, being drawn to a purple Volkswagen, bug. I press my face up against the window and look in to find a dynamic looking stereo installed with the controls on the steering wheel.


Larry, with sweat beading up on his forehead and neck, comes over to see what I’m so interested in.
“Oh, a bug. That would be nice for you.”


I don’t why but I was instantly turned off by that comment. I made my way next to a large, older, convertible.


It’s in need of a paint job, as the barely colored paint had probably been rubbed out until they got to the metal.


The seats were a little weather worn, but still comfortable, as I leap over the door and put my ass snugly into the driver’s seat.


“Oh, god, you like this don’t you,” Larry was commenting before I could say anything.


He continued, as men will do around cars and tools falling into the male domain, “this will break down I will tell you that. And by the looks of it, it wasn’t well maintained.”


“I will maintain it with gas and prayer, that’s all it needs.”


Finally, out of some corner of the lot comes a man with western garb, including a huge belt buckle shaped like a fish.


Larry goes to the middle of the lot to greet him and they shake hands like they know each other.


The barrel shaped man, fit to only walk part of the way across the stretch of vehicles, points to me in this convertible.


I can see him shaking his head- or bobbing like a pigeon- I’m not sure. Then Larry laughs and they amble over to see what I’m doing.
“Hannah, this is Brad, the co-owner of this place.”


I look up at him from the car, both my hands poised on the steering wheel, and I make race car sounds. “Rrrrrrrrrrr, rrrrrrrr, here we go.”
Brad, with round rosy cheeks and specks of food in the corner of his mouth, says that he will make me a deal on this thing.


“All right, Brad, I’ll give you some food stamps and an orange from the trunk of Larry’s car for this thing. What do you say?”


Larry gives me the look of he doesn’t get you, he’s simple.


“Get me the keys Brad, I have places to go. What do you want for this?”


“Well, ma’am, I can say that you look better than the car, but if you want it, I’ll put some numbers together.”


“You do that Brad.”


Larry and I raced back home, me in my outdated convertible, my dirty blonde hair blowing and almost strangling me in the wind.


I arrive first parking my fancy, new, gas guzzler in the prime spot, while Larry maneuvers around fitting his tiny toy car between the tree and the shed.


“I hope you’re happy,” he says exiting his car.


“I’m revved, buddy.”


“At least he gave you a good price is all I can say. That thing will be at the mechanic more than on the road,” he says to me looking at the muffler hanging low and the cracked tail lights.


We hadn’t quite settled in yet, because my cats were not here. And we had the problem of never having lived together before too.


Larry insisted we live together in the same home so he could take care of me. I think he would make a good neighbor. I would always borrow his sugar.


There was some obvious tension between us the first few weeks, spats here and there. But we had settled into some comfortable, ugly arguing which always lead to good sex.


“Wow, Larry, you were really angry and sexy, which is what I like about you.”


Larry got down off the counter, an apple slice from breakfast stuck to his sweaty buttocks, drops to the kitchen floor.


“Hey don’t waste food, eat that.”


He turns to see the apple slice on the floor, then chucks it into the trash. “I’m taking a shower.”


Moments later he is calling me from the bathroom. “Hannah, what is this?”


I open the door to find him holding a bottle of pills.


“My best guess is that is a bottle of prescription medication- I don’t know what do you think?”


Now he knows I didn’t take the antidepressants he so desperately wants me to take. I’m feeling another fight coming on.


“You haven’t taken any of these which I already knew because you’re restless, bored and confrontational.”


“Is that your diagnosis doctor or do you forget that those unwanted traits are ingrained into my personality?”


He pops a pill from the bottle, puts it in his open palm and offers it to me.


“I think you’ll have to stuff that in my mouth then rub my throat to get it down, because that’s the only way I’m taking the damn thing. I’m not eating it out of your hand.”


Well the world is full of surprises, as my less dominant partner grabs me and stuffs the pill down my throat. I had no time to close my mouth, which always stays so prominently open.


“There you go fido,” he says slipping into the steaming shower.


“Payback’s a bitch Larry- you have to sleep sometime.”


I get a glass of water as the capsule was lodged in the back of my throat and I imagine that I had hit the nadir of my existence. I went in and laid down on the futon, forlorn and most likely depressed.


Larry came out of the bathroom- towel wrapped around his waist- water dripping from his hair- and looks at me.


“I’m sorry I had to do that, but it’s for your own good.”


My only answer was keeping my mouth shut and maybe never opening it again. I turned on the TV- hiked the volume up so the dead would wake- and just sat there. 


Much too Happy Hannah

The following morning, after an evening replete with bitterness, I could feel something had changed.


“Hey handsome, let me take you for a spin in my car to get those jelly doughnuts you live for.”


Larry was looking at me like I was another woman he might actually like, but didn’t know.


“Get yourself dressed and we will go adventuring today, my charming companion.”


As I was bustling through the house, picking out clothes, straightening up the clutter, he knew there was something very right, but oh so wrong about this new attitude.
“Where are my keys- would you tell me please- you manly man- with a tight can,” I sang out in the singing voice I was born with that shatters the ears of all living creatures.


“You are pretty happy this morning Hannah. I take it you’re not mad at me anymore then?”


“About what?”


I was living in a moment of true bliss, appreciating everything around me, forgetting anything bad or irritating ever happened in my life.
After a few rounds of “Singing in the Rain” and “I’m so happy I could piss” (I made that one up on the way to the bathroom), we were hopping in my convertible on our way to town.


With the top down we speed down the highway listening to music blaring, but crackling as the speakers couldn’t keep up with the required volume.


“Oh, remember this song, Larry, from the 80’s.”


I keep changing stations as I normally do, but each time a song came on I had to sing along. Larry had never seen this before.


“Aren’t you going to sing Larry? Or are you going to be a sour puss?” I was asking as he seemed to be shocked by something.


“Hannah, honey, baby, I’m beginning to think something strange is happening to you. Don’t take it wrong, but you seem a little 'too' happy, if you know what I mean.”


I hardly heard him as I was hanging my head to the side of the car so the wind would whip up my nose.


“Yahoo! It’s a beautiful day here, God is great.”


I look over at Larry, my face beaming like I had won the lottery. His expression is now one of serious concern.

We screech to a halt on the side of the curvy mountain highway as I slam the brakes like I’m packing the ground with my foot.


“What is the problem Larry? I have none- there are no problems- only ones you create in your mind.” I smile at him wanting him to recognize the great wisdom in what I had just shared with him.
Instead Larry says, “We should go home and talk.”


“No, we should talk here on the side of the road with the majesty of nature surrounding us.” I declare now feeling like I need to be one with everything.


A large truck hauling freshly cut trees rumbles by us, shaking the car, and then spewing us with diesel smoke.


“Doesn’t that make you angry Hannah,” Larry was asking as I didn’t even react to the situation.


“Everyone has a job to do, a place in this world. And I don’t particularly care about anything right now but those two ravens circling overhead. It’s all a matter of perspective I realize.” I say as I crane my neck to watch the birds sailing around in the wind.


“Okay, the Hannah I know would have balled up her hand and extended a middle finger at the driver of the truck. What you are doing is, well, different,” Larry trails off seeming to be confused about what to do with such a happy Hannah.


As Larry is privately pondering his situation, staring intently at the glove box, I get out of the car and climb over the guard rail next to the highway.


Several large boulders jut out over the scenic mountainside. I stand there breathing in deep gulps of fresh air, while my mind races through stores of memories, future plans, while trying to fathom the universe.



Suddenly, I’m down on the ground with Larry on top of me.
“What the hell are you doing Hannah? This is dangerous- you could fall and kill yourself. You don’t have balance anymore, have you forgotten?”


I start laughing at the situation.


“Larry this is pretty funny, you know you are the one who is afraid of heights. This is no place for you to be.”


Larry realizes I am making a good point.


“I just won’t look down” he says gulping back fear.” Now come back to the car with me.”


He adjusts his arms around me ready to haul me to safety. “It’s all right, calm down funny face, before I laugh so hard I roll into the ravine, die, and then you’ll look pretty silly.”


Feeling light of heart I help Larry back to the car as he is now paralyzed with fear that he will fall.


“Thanks for the help,” I tell him as we drive away from the scary cliff.
“Can we please go home now and talk,” he pleads.


“How about we go have sex in the woods? Or maybe on a sandy stretch of beach by the river? Or possibly in a public pool.”
I turn the radio up and tune in the only rock n’ roll station available singing as we drive back home.


Larry doesn’t say a word the whole drive back, but I, ooh and ahh, the scenery- the birds- the sky- even a few nicely painted road signs.
But as I’m pulling the car and our wind whipped selves up to the house, I know Larry is correct, I’m off somehow.


The engine shakes and rattles and finally stops. A gasoline odor surrounds us as we sit not speaking.


As much as I don’t want to give up this very happy place in my mind I have found, or has found me, I know it’s not exactly my natural state of being.


“You may be right, I may be crazy,” I sing to Larry with a huge grin on my face, “but it just may be a lunatic you’re looking for.”


Since I couldn’t remember anymore of the lyrics I let my message go at that.
Larry seemed relieved to hear that I wasn’t completely gone- yet he was still alarmed I could only speak in song now.


As we came through the door of our prefab home, I tossed my keys like a horse shoe onto the hooks of the key holder Larry installed to prevent him from constantly searching for my keys.


“Bull’s-eye!” I yell as the keys, from a distance of at least ten feet, hit the mark and stay.


“How about a cookie and then we will talk- sound good?”


Larry sat on the overstuffed futon- back straight- arms stretched out with both hands holding his knees- his expression one of deep contemplation.


“Let’s use logic Hannah and figure this out. Sit here with me.”


I know I should just sit down next to him, but all I can see in my mind right now is me jumping up and down on that futon, possibly grabbing him and having him take me on a horsy back ride.


The thought amuses me, but I pull together as much impulse control as I can muster and sit down.


“Thank you. Now the change I see occurred literally overnight, Hannah. What is different from yesterday?”


“The name; Yesterday was Tuesday and today is Wednesday.”
I put my hand over my mouth now trying to stop the onslaught of responses which won’t help the situation.
“Sorry,” I mumble from behind my hand- then I double over with laughter.


I fall into paroxysms of laughter- rolling around- tears streaming down my face.


Larry, who initially looks irritated, can’t help but join me in this funny state. Now he’s laughing too. Whatever I have has become infectious. It can’t be that bad.


We get it together momentarily as I can’t seem to control the emotions rising within me.


“Hannah stop! We have to talk about this. It’s like you’re on drugs or something.”


“I don’t need drugs Larry, my brain can create its own chemicals that junkies would jump in through my ears to get.’


“Oh god,” Larry begins to say. “It’s the antidepressant.” His face was turning a crimson color as he was realizing he had fed me the thing.
I quickly understood too. Yes, it was the only thing that had changed. My euphoria suddenly turned to worry.


“What do we do?”


“I don’t know, we can call the doctor though and maybe they can help us.” Larry timidly suggests.


We both knew that once manic, the next stage would not be good or funny.


The order of the bi-polar disorder

“Don’t panic Larry- it’s not as if this is a myocardial infarction.” Larry was panicking at the same time guilt ridden. He can't stop doing things. All the plants were well watered already, now there were several flash floods at various sites around our home.


“Here’s the thing we can’t leave an emergency message with the doctor and then tell him it’s because I’m too happy. Even I’m reasonable enough to know that. He’s going to say, ‘well then its working wouldn’t you say.’ ”


Now wiping up the water and potting soil runoff from the tiered plant holder, Larry thinks we should make phone calls and involve other people in our problem- our plight.


“We have lifelines we should call Hannah.”


“Again, what are we going to say that I’ve had a very euphoric side effect to a medication for depression? Send us flowers, so we don’t have to water our plants.” My mood is disagreeable I know, but I just need to work this out on my own.


“We could call family.” Larry sneaks in sheepishly.


“Oh, yeah, let’s bring in the order of the bi-polar disorder. They’ll know what to do. They can save us.”


This was like a lightening bolt to my whole nervous system. I love my family- the bi-polar side- but it’s a risky situation to call on them in an emergency such as this.
Being the unlikely counselor for my mother, siblings, and cousins, has made me play my own troubles close to the vest.


Upsetting the natural imbalance would be strange to say the least. As well as being uncertain if they would help or hinder my fragile state of mind.


There were always risks that they may be more depressed or manic than I am which makes for some very unusual exchanges. Or the worst is when one is manic and one is depressed.


Neither can fathom that the others perspective even exists, it gets pretty resentful sometimes.


“I’m for, let’s see what happens if I don’t take anymore of the pills.”


“Well, I’m for involving the doctor- the family- and if necessary a priest.” Larry walks to the kitchen, slamming things around, in a display of fear and frustration.


“How about some food, since you’re already in there?” I figure that will give him something to do and keep him out of my hair for a while.
Larry resigned to prepare food and maybe provisions for what could be an interesting ride.


I stay on the couch, realizing I will probably not sleep tonight, though I will fake it to avoid talking to Larry during the whole damn night.


My mind was still zooming past the posted speed limit, although now I was able to observe its activity like an outsider.


The smell from the kitchen indicates Larry is cooking up a storm. It reminds me of my grandmother who would cook so she didn’t have to hear Grandpa complaining all the time. We had some of the best food when the grumpy old fart would inflate a small issue into a major problem.


How they stayed married for more than 60 years amazes me to this day. I’m thinking it was because Grandma was half deaf and only really heard what was necessary. She said, “yes, dear” and smiled a lot.


I wish I could be more like her. However, I can hear an ant crawling across the carpet and I rarely avoid an argument.


Instantly, I roll over and grab the phone and start dialing.


Larry peers over the counter. “Who are you calling?”


Part of me wants to play it straight, but I can’t quite do it.


“Nobody, just making some crank calls.”


He looks at me, mouth tight, and shakes his head.
“I told you, we need a doctor.”


“Just keep cooking, honey, it’s going to be all right.”


I hear a bowl drop to the counter, then some chopping. It’s Larry therapy.


After about five rings, a voice answers, “hello.”


“Hi, mom, it’s me.”


I take the phone with me to the other room to keep Larry from eavesdropping.


“Hi honey, nice to finally hear from you.”


“Well, it’s been busy, and I’ve got some sort of disorder- illness or something-you had it too- Grave’s Disease.”


“Oh no, you have it? That is not good Hannah. It took me years to recover from it.”


“I appreciate the negative scenario, I wouldn’t want you to hold back or anything. However, it seems my more acute situation is regarding an anti-depressant the doctor gave me.”


“You’re manic again, eh?”


“You could say that.”


“Well, it’s better to be manic than it is to be depressed. I enjoy mania, I get so much done. I wish I could be manic.” She sure sounds manic to me and I guess right now I’d be the expert.


So, the conversation turned right into the parking lot of denial and stalled.

Part of me wants to tell her how deluded it is to be manic aside from the fact that it leads directly to depression. But I’ve told her this continuously for years but to no avail.


While she went on about her mania stories, I couldn’t help but remember the three year long episode of mania which cost her and her boyfriend almost a million dollars in property and eventually included illegal drugs.


“You know stop right there, Mom, your obvious predilection for mania is scaring me. Don’t forget what it did to you and the family.”


“What, what did I do? I was having a good time and you, Arthur, and your brother and sister, ruined everything. Do you remember that? I was fine, it was you.”


Of course, I recognize that she never really recovered reality after that and has some very creative delusions that she has carried around for years.


When she went bonkers, which is a good enough word to describe her behavior, the family intervened trying to get her hospitalized. She agreed to go to a hospital but only by way of limousine.


Wow, that was one long night. We waited outside the mental hospital as she apparently convinced them there was nothing wrong except her family.


“You’re right Mom- we just didn’t understand how happy you were.”
I just lie so I don’t fight about something that isn’t even real rather solely concocted in her mind. It’s just easier for me.


“If you had just left me alone everything would have been all right. But instead you kidnapped me- drugged me- then took my money.”


Thanks Larry this is just what I needed.


“Yeah, we were confused.”


Nobody took her money- kidnapped her- or plied her with drugs. However, we wanted to.


“Well, that’s the past, Hannah, and now I’m happy at my new house. I’m not saying I don’t have any problems, I have to take pain killers for my neck- sleeping medication- antidepressants- hormones- anticholesterol drugs- muscle relaxers- migraine medication…”


“You’re taking all those medications?”

“I have to if I even want to get out of bed.”


The woman had not been out of bed in five years. She is only in her late 50’s, but she looks like she’s in her forties. Still trim, hair bleach blonde, dark and sharp lines on her face made her the epitome of past mid-life beauty. Unfortunately it is being wasted on drugs, prescription drugs.


“Yeah, I see. Now you could get a second opinion and find out if you need all those drugs.”


“I just told you I need them.” She says sharply.


I feel now is the right time to end this call which is doing nothing for my mood.


“You do what you think is right Mom, and I’ll call you again soon.”


“Okay, honey, I’ll be here. Oh, and I’m sending you some expensive revitalizing lotion for your skin. I don’t want you to look old before your time.”


“Great, thanks.”


The woman is fanatical about the way she looks, but then she’s equally obsessed with the way her children look. I suppose if we look average or wrinkly, it somehow carries over to her own self worth.


“Love you, talk to you soon.”


Click.


I walk back out to the living room hoping to put that conversation out of my mind.


Larry walks in with a large plate- a salad bowl- a soup terrine- and an arrangement of fresh fruits like we are at a swanky buffet.
“Wow, Larry, it looks good. Let’s eat.”


Lot’s of food to consume means less conversation. I’ll eat all night.
The coffee table in front of the futon was loaded with food, we even had toothpicks for some vegetable medley.
I began consuming everything. Maybe it is my nerves, but I couldn’t stop. After an hour of chewing, swallowing, followed by the “you’re eating too fast” belch, I rolled over and went to sleep.


“You’re going to sleep, that’s a good sign Hannah. You will feel better tomorrow.”


“Asshole, I feel good today, tomorrow is a toss up.”


I woke up on the futon, momentarily unable to remember how I ended up here. Oh, yeah.


My bladder was waiting to be emptied, but I didn’t really feel like getting up. In fact, it crossed my mind to just pea in my pants.


I rolled onto my back looking at the ceiling which is nothing more than white tiles with a few soiled patterns which look like Buddha, Christ, and the Virgin Mary, depending on how I turn my head. I feel like fog rolled into my mind and I can’t see two feet in front of me.


I finally get up and realize it is barely six in the morning. I don’t even want to face this day.


A thought shoots across my mind that I have been the world’s biggest fuck up there ever was or ever will be.


Back to the futon.


I put my face in the pillow hiding from myself and my thoughts.
My mind flashes to a time where I sunk to the depth of suicidal depression. “Should have done it then, but I couldn’t even get that right.”


Tears swirl out of my eyes in all directions. I feel like I can’t go on. I can’t do anything. I’m not going to get better only worse.


I feel a hand on my back. Larry is standing there in his boxer shorts rubbing my shoulders. I immediately stop crying. No sense letting him in on day two of the brain chemical crisis.


“How you doin’ Hannah, any better?”


Depression has its verbiage containing all the negative matters that really don’t have anything to do with anything.


“I’m great Larry, how are you?” That is the best I can do right now.


“Can I see your face?”


Why does he pry? Leave well enough alone. I’m an ostrich, don’t pull my tail feathers or I might just pull my head out of the hole and grab you with my beak.


“No.”


A simple and direct answer, I thought.


Larry said nothing and left the room. I kept my face in the pillows which are now wet and warm from my tears.
I could hear a voice in the background.


“I would like to leave a message for Dr. Fingle regarding Hannah Bennet.”


There was a pause.


“Well, the problem is that she may be having side effects from the antidepressant she was prescribed.”


I’m all ears now with my head raised.


“Yesterday she took the first dose and Hannah was very happy.”
“What is the problem?”


I told him they wouldn’t understand. They can write the prescriptions but can they actually manage the results? I say no.


Larry went on to describe the euphoria, and then hushed his voice to tell the details.


“She is sliding downhill right now. Depression I’m sure, I’ve seen it before.”


I could hear tension rise in his voice, “maybe they are not supposed to have that effect so quickly, but she did. What is your name?”
“Listen, Nancy, the whole thing started with the antidepressants, there isn’t anything else to blame it on.”


It looks like Nancy wants to argue her point, maybe even give a diagnosis.


I get up and grab the phone from Larry’s hand.


“Nancy, Hannah Bennet here, I just want to thank you for not knowing your ass from a hole in the ground. It would be really refreshing if you stopped talking out of your ass and get somebody qualified to deal with this. Can we do that, Nancy?


She didn’t care for my tone and obviously didn’t believe the complaint was legitimate- but she took our number and told me she would have the doctor call when he arrived.


I clicked the phone off and returned to the futon of the doomed.


“You see Larry, this is what happens. They don’t believe you. They treat you like you’re a mental case.”


Larry was looking as depressed as I was feeling.


“What should we do?” he meekly inquires.


“I have no idea,” I say to him half heartedly.


Its depression all right, the nasty stuff that permeates your thinking like toxic groundwater soaking in and poisoning your very core.
And it’s dramatic too.


I know it from childhood and on. Its chemical falsehoods I have believed and even maintained belief up to this moment where I face it again.


The contrast from yesterday’s ecstasy falling out of the sky like a comet, filled with light, and then smashing directly in the ground where you leave your crater, smoldering.


“Larry you remember I told the doctor about the other antidepressant I took that, well, caused some serious problems for me- and some drug dealers- and a police station. So, why did he go ahead and prescribe this one?”


Larry made eyes and faces like he was thinking about this, “He gave you the lowest dose, I do remember that.”


“My intention is not to blame here, but to understand the obvious fucking error that has taken place.” I’m up under the covers now in my futon home, hiding and trying to use a fucked up brain to reason with.


“You never really told me all about what happened or even why you were prescribed it.”


Feigning ignorance, he knows about that year.


Larry looks like he wants to talk about this situation which may help me from being sucked into the depression vortex.


“I don’t know exactly what it is you go through with these pretty wild and crazy, ups and downs. Me, I’m sad or angry…”


I interrupt his important announcement, “and you stay very busy.”


At first I thought he wouldn’t understand that remark, but he heard.


“I do have to do that to feel my life is able to be controlled, by me.”


“So, when it’s off the register you can’t understand it, what do you do? Try to understand it or stay busy?”


No need for an answer.


“I get down and out too,” he starts rather whiny, “but it’s generally for a reason. I admit I don’t always know what the reason is, but I do try and figure it out.”


“Isn’t that what we’re doing right here?”


I can hear these thoughts saying that I’m dealing with stupidity, more than mine, which is significant. I’m getting restless with the bullshit.
If I wanted to listen to crap I would be listening to the downtrodden broadcast being played in my head right now.


“It’s different for me Larry, I’m not sure how to explain it or if you would get it. You have your own coping skills. Great food last night, by the way- healthy- but a bit over watered plants and herbs. You escape in Tinkering with your computer gizmos and gadgets. And lastly you enjoy a few hours of TV, even network television. Now if suddenly you had no warning and you couldn’t do these things because of agonizing something or another, what would happen to you?”

He ponders the question carefully before answering.


“I would probably go crazy.”


“Bingo, reality boy.”


Sliding down the mountain



Several weeks have passed since the antidepressant created a new reality for me- one that causes me to think I cannot do anything-, be anything-or even talk to another human being.


My mind reels with thoughts about death or injury or some other dire scenario.


Today, I have a meeting with a part time psychiatrist who my regular doctor seems to think I should see. They literally threw their arms in the air refusing to believe that a simple,
"innocuous," pill could be causing my problems.


I am now a problem for them in that I don’t fit into their categories. I probably fit more into tornado categories- like F5.


Huddling in bed, I finally make it off the couch. I feel frightened to go to this doctor. More so, I am cognitively defenseless. My ability to reason frazzled by sad and domineering negative memories.


“I’m ready when you are,” Larry says sliding his sandals on his bare feet like we’re going to the beach and not a mental health clinic.

“Should I wear this blanket and the pillow for a hat?”

He stands in front of me wondering how he’s going to get me out of the house to this most likely futile appointment.


Finally he breaks the silence and says, “We will give them one chance and one chance only- how’s that?”


I don’t know, but it seemed to make sense and I like his attitude.
No shower, but I did brush my teeth and tidy my greasy- unkempt hair- and we are on our way.


We drive up to the bland looking building situated off the street behind a tiny food establishment.


“Oh, this is where they hide their shameful mental health cases,” I comment as we wind past the “Food Shack” into a private driveway.
Larry says nothing knowing for a fact there is nothing to say that would make any difference at this juncture.


We walk in the tinted doors into a waiting room with about four people sitting around, not reading or talking- looking down mostly.


The receptionist, a middle aged woman with dark hair and light colored eyes magnified by her reading glasses, announces my name and tells me I will be seen in just a few minutes.


“Fucking great, thanks,” I say after I realize she has just told the whole waiting room my name.


Larry and I sit next to a younger woman with red, curly hair, and a pair of glasses that are crooked on her face. Her clothes consist of a tank top and a pair of ratty shorts, set off by some slippers she must have thrown on in a hurry.


She gets up and asks the receptionist when her appointment will be.
“You know you are late and we are trying to squeeze you in.”


“I have my kids at home and I need to get my meds so I can take care of them. And I only have a babysitter for another hour.”


Seemingly unfazed by the woman’s problem, the receptionist, shrugs in answer.


She sits back down next to us, “this place is worthless. I wouldn’t even come here if it weren’t for the fact that there is nothing else. This is the only game in town.”


I perk up, “I can tell they are compassionate folks already.”


“Yeah, they have done nothing but prescribe medications and make me beg to get them filled before I run out. I’ve run out at least six times in a year.”


“How can they do that to you?” I ask wondering what sort of situation I am walking into.


“First, they hold back the refills which would make things easier. Or they don’t get you in for your appointment in time before you run out of medicine. And there is no calling in medications like a real doctor would do. They suck.”


I know a lot of these psychiatric concoctions cannot be taken intermittently without some side effects or withdrawal symptoms.
I ask the woman how she survives these shortages of medications. “What does it do to you when you have to suddenly stop taking the meds?”


She has become animated now. Her lipstick, improperly aligned on her lips, makes her sarcastic smile look quite maniacal.


“Let me tell you I’ve been through hell and back each time I go off and get back on the medicines. My kids have seen it, which is what kills me. How do I explain to them ‘Mommy is freaking out’ for no freaking good reason. Pardon, my language.”


“Oh no, pardon me, for thinking this is a pretty fucked up place I arrived at.”



She laughed, her curly locks bobbing with each guffaw.


I hear a buzzing sound- then a bolt receding- and a plain woman- hair tied back- called my name from the doorway.


Our new friend gave me a sarcastic, “Good luck,” as Larry and I followed the woman who looked like a farmer’s wife down the hallway.


The heavy door closed behind us which gave me a start.
“I’m Terry and I have some paperwork for you to fill out before you see the doctor.”


We were directed to a tiny room with a table and three chairs.
Terry hands us a mountain of paperwork like something out of a real estate transaction, which Larry immediately grabs and goes to work on.


“Are you her husband,” Terry asks because he had the pen and the drive to complete this mission.


“No, I’m her keeper,” he says quietly, still filling out the pertinent data.
Terry, the mirth maker, says, “oh, okay,” and leaves the room.


After more than a half an hour Larry and I have managed to unscramble the voluminous questionnaire.



Terry picked up the paperwork and left the room. Moments later she comes back and leads us to another office where a tiny doctor probably born during the Mesozoic age sits behind a large cherry wood desk- head down- reading the paperwork.


We sit down in two ornate, stuffed chairs, in front of the desk, waiting for the doctor to acknowledge our presence.


Although I can only see a small portion of him above the desk, I notice he’s wearing a rust colored, polyester suit, the fashion of choice during the 1950’s.


He has an ethnic look, possibly Mediterranean- nicely pigmented skin- and all his hair. I’ve always envied pigment and I’m almost sure white people are the result of a recessive gene, I sit there thinking waiting on this man to actually talk.


Then I just make a throat sound as if to remove some phlegm, but the signal is to simply imply I’m unhappily waiting for something to happen.


A deep baritone voice answers my signal. “I will be right with you.”
I look at Larry and scrunch my eyebrows as if I just heard a Chihuahua bark like a German shepherd.


Finally, the doctor lifts his head up showing a serious expression on his face, as if to say my questionnaire indicates some mental cancer or something.


“Did we fill that out properly,” I ask, darting my eyes over suspiciously at Larry who did most of the work on my mental health masterpiece.


“Yes, its fine,” he says deliberately looking me over.


Feeling uncomfortable with the man whose voice doesn’t fit his size- and I myself looking half baked in appearance- I become self conscious.


“Miss Bennet,” he begins, “I see that you indicate you are suffering from depression, sleeplessness, hopelessness, confusion, and you have had some hallucinations. Is this correct?”


“I guess.”


“Is that a yes or no?”


“Yes and no.”


He sighs. “I have patients to see all day, Miss Bennet, could you please answer the questions so I can prescribe the proper medications.”


Great, he’s going to do the psychiatric round up. Bring in the cattle- brand them with an iron- and fill their bellies full of colorful pills.


“Something like that doctor. But let me explain that I was given a dose of antidepressants which set off this round of, oh, let’s call it, shakiness.”


“I have no idea what you mean by that, shakiness. Are you capable of being more precise?”


My head turns to Larry, he reads that rage is emerging now, and I’m moments away from leaping out of the chair.


“Doctor, Hannah is correct this began as a result of an antidepressant,” Larry intervened.


“Who are you, may I ask?”


“He’s my massage therapist. What does it matter old man who he is? Let’s get down to business you have something on your mind, why don’t you tell me what you ciphered from the records and we can go from there.”


The tension in the room was thick. Larry palpitated with fear and the cereal box size, psychiatrist was angry about being put on the spot. He held his gaze on me then broke off to write something in my records. I’m sure it wasn’t flattering.


“First, I will tell you that you are likely bi-polar.”


Larry and I spontaneously laugh- it was a big “duh.”


“And I would recommend that you be treated with a mood stabilizer of some sort along with a different antidepressant. I will give you an antipsychotic which will help you sleep and lessen the confusing thoughts. We also have some new medications you could try along with the mood stabilizer.”


What the fuck? We could have just done this on-line or over the phone.


“Gosh doctor, that sounds great. Why don’t you pull that nice pen out of the clock and write out as many prescriptions as you can and I will take them all. I feel better already.”


Again, tension and fear in the room.


“Oh, but before you go through all this trouble, could you tell me what causes bi-polar disorder? I’ve always wondered that.”


The doctor fell silent- leaning back in his red leather office chair- hands clasped- eyes surveying the desk.


“We don’t know what causes the disorder. We do know that it is treatable and most people respond well to the medications.”


“If you don’t know what causes it, how do you actually treat it?”


It was a loaded question and I already knew the answer.


“Miss Bennet, we often have to try many medications before we find the one that works for you. It can be a matter of time.”


“Just for the record, what are the side effects and risks from these medications?”


“Let me put it this way to you,” he says slowly and deliberately, “would you rather be depressed or manic, out of control, or would you like to feel better?”


“I’m thinking I’d like to feel better, but I’m definitely unsure whether your medicines will be the answer. Have a nice day and pop a pill for me.”


I grab Larry’s hand and pull him not so gently to his feet and we exit the room leaving doctor prescription pad behind.


“What are you doing, Hannah?”


“Getting the hell out of here before this fast food clinic starts feeding me to the pharmaceutical industry.”


As we head down the hall, Terry jumps in front of us and hands me some papers which look oddly like prescriptions.


“Here the doctor would like you to try these and then schedule another appointment in a month to follow up.”
“Aww, how sweet, a to-go bag.”

“Thank you, Terry,” Larry politely tells her while I tug on him to leave quicker.


We arrive home where I immediately take up my defensive position of hiding under the covers in bed.


I pull the scripts out of my pocket and read each one.


“Let’s see, we have some Lithium, some Risperdal, Effexor, and ativan. The breakfast of champions. Larry, get in here!”


“What?”


“Look at what they gave me,” I hand him the papers.


“Geez, Hannah, you’re sicker than I thought,’ Larry attempts to humor me.