Page 61 of Score
I tense, clenching my hands in my lap and sitting up straight. The cushions feel too soft behind me for how hard this conversation has become.
“Based on what you’ve shared,” Dr. Palmer continues, her voice careful, gentle, “he was never formally diagnosed or got any help or medication, which unfortunately is the case for a lot of people. Especially for Black people in this country. I think what happened was a tragedy for everyone involved, including him.”
My feelings about my father are a web of contradictions, of mangled emotions and distorted memories. Figuring out why it happened has never been as important as my response to it. Profound sorrow, deep trauma, and boundless rage with nowhere to go but a graveyard not far from our house that I can’t bring myself to visit. Aunt Roz visits their graves often—pulls weeds and leaves flowers—but I haven’t gone since their funeral.
“You’ve been navigating your bipolar diagnosis for what?” Dr. Palmer asks. “Nearly two years?”
“Right.” I clip the word and hold my breath.
“I’m sure you realize this by now,” she says, “but when bipolar disorder goes untreated, the cycles become more extreme, yes, but the window of stabilitybetweenthe cycles of mania and depression become shorter, until there is essentially little to no stability at all. When completely untreated, it’s incredibly volatile and dangerous. You might hear some refer to this as ‘end stage,’ but clinically it’s described as ‘rapid cycling.’”
I want to close my eyes again, to shut out what she’s saying, but as soon as I do, the past reappears. The last images of my father banging his head and muttering nonsense and finally, running full speed into our burning house, chased by his own demons.
“My point,” Dr. Palmer says, “is if hewasdealing with bipolar, or any untreated mental illness, he never got the help or the support that’s now available to so many. That’s now available to you.”
“So you’re saying, ‘But for the grace of God,’” I quote dryly, ‘there go I’?”
Her lips quirk, a concession to humor in the room’s heavy atmosphere. “It’s grace and the drugs.”
“Good grief!” I tip my head back and blow out a short breath. “My medicine cabinet is like a pharmacy drive-through at this point.”
“I’m sure your psychiatrist is staying on top of your labs, checking your liver,” Dr. Palmer says with a kind smile. “It’s a shame so many of the meds take a heavy toll on the body, but that’s the trade-off. Do you plan to find a new psychiatrist in Los Angeles?”
“Maybe. I’ll have my telehealth sessions with you, but I might want someone…localto see in person if shit goes wrong with my meds, ya know?”
“Nothing has to gowrongfor you to see your psychiatrist. It’s just part of managing this diagnosis.”
“I know that,” I say more sharply than I intended. I slant her an apologetic glance. “Sorry. I’m just being pissy today.”
“Today was tough. There was a lot to deal with in your past.” She clasps her hands beneath her chin, as steady and unruffled as usual. “But now let’s discuss your future. How are you spending your last night in New York?”
“A few of my friends are taking me out. Not sure what we’re getting into, but I’m looking forward to it.”
“That sounds like fun. Are you ready for this new adventure?”
“I guess? After what happened at USC, me having to leave that way, I told myself I never wanted to step foot in California again.”
“And now?” Dr. Palmer asks.
“Now somehow it’s giving me my biggest opportunity yet.” I shrug. “I would have been content just working as a production assistant here. I would never have applied for this fellowship had it not been for my time here in New York.”
It’s an opportunity to not only get my writing aspirations back on track, but one that comes with a modest stipend. I won’t be living large, but I will beliving. In addition to workshops and mentoring from selected studio execs, over the course of a year I’ll also be writing a screenplay.
“Well, I’m really happy for you.” Dr. Palmer stands to signal our session’s end.
“I know it’s probably not professional,” I say, rising and shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “But this is our last time together, in person at least. Would it be okay if I—”
I don’t even get the words out before her arms circle me, and she gives me a tight squeeze.
“You got this,” she whispers. “And I’m always just a phone call away. You have your psychiatrist, your support group. Use your DBT strategies.”
There’s no way I could manage this without meds, but the strategies I’ve learned through Dialectical Behavior Therapy are nearly as essential for mood regulation and my emotional well-being.
“You have family and friends who love you,” Dr. Palmer continues, pulling back to look directly into my eyes. “Who know you and accept you exactly as you are. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
I’ve managed not to cry today, even recounting the last night I saw my parents alive; their horrific deaths, but that simple reassurance—that I have nothing to be ashamed of—brings tears to my eyes. I lean deeper into her arms and leak tears onto her expensive silk blouse. She doesn’t seem to care, but tightens her hold and rubs my back.
Because Idocarry shame. So much shame about the things I’ve done when I was manic, especially at Finley.
