A Tragic Kind of Wonderful(20)
“I’m not the one doped up all the time! You put more drugs in your system than Grandma did when she was fighting cancer!”
Okay, it’s that conversation. I try to look on the bright side, that she can bring up Grandma Cece easily now. It used to be a big deal. When Grandma died, we lost HJ for a couple months.
“They suck all the life out of you, like there’s a wet blanket on you all the time.”
Usually I can get out of these talks all kinds of ways, but not trapped in a sleeping bag on a dark beach in the middle of the night.
I sigh. “I don’t like who I am without the meds—” Oops, that was a mistake. I should have stuck with one of my vague responses.
“But that’s who you are!” HJ rolls on her side to face me directly. “Those pills turn you into someone who wants to hang out with old people or stay at home all the time. You’re almost seventeen! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you try a beer! Have you?”
“Yeah. They’re gross.”
She laughs. “You get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it.” Or lots of other things I’ve seen Aunt Joan get used to.
“I’m not telling you to drink. I just hate seeing you miss out on your teenage years because of those pills.”
We’ve had this conversation countless times, when Mom’s not around to stop her. Except I know the drugs are a scapegoat. Like how Dad thinks I’m unambitious and unmotivated and blames it on being surrounded by underachievers. Aunt Joan thinks I’m antisocial because of the meds. They’re both wrong. I’m naturally an antisocial underachiever.
HJ tried meds and didn’t like them. Her mood swings aren’t nearly as fast or extreme as mine, and she doesn’t get mixed states like I do. On the severity scale, HJ’s about a six, and the happy sex-crazed kind of bipolar disorder, not the angry delusional kind. With my medication cocktail, I’m a four and mostly on the depressed side. Without my meds, I’m seven or eight and prone to manic episodes. And Nolan, he—whoa! Stop right there …
Point is, some remember the ups and downs, and others forget. I’m lucky I remember. The forgetters, like HJ, they get right and then believe they don’t need meds anymore, completely forgetting how they came unhinged every other time they stopped. Or they miss the joys of being supercharged and forget the crushing lows. Or how the supercharging sometimes overloads and makes them do things they regret: go broke, land in jail, hurt people—themselves, or much worse.
“You’re not sick, Mel. None of us are.”
She’s not going to let it go. Maybe it’s time to try this again.
“Fine, but when I come out of an episode, all I can think is, who was that person? Why did she lie in bed all weekend thinking everything was too pointless to bother getting up? And then why’d she jump out of bed and stay up all night believing she could learn Portuguese by morning, thinking it’s just Spanish with a few different words? Even if it was true—and it’s not—I hardly know any Spanish! The meds keep me from turning into those other people.”
“Those people are you. They’re just moods.”
“Trying to learn Portuguese overnight isn’t a mood. It’s someone else jumping into my head and grabbing the controls. I still have moods on my meds; I just don’t get possessed, thinking and feeling and doing all this random shit.”
She doesn’t answer. I can’t see her face in the dark.
I say, “Maybe you just don’t think about things like I do.”
“I don’t think about things? All I want is a good time?”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“I know moods can feel like different people,” HJ says. “But you’ve picked one and decided it’s the only real you. How do you know it’s the right one? I think you just picked the safest choice.”
“It’s who I am when I’m level.”
“It’s not the only real you! The drugs chop off the highs and lows so all you’re left with is the one who doesn’t have highs or lows! That’s why you don’t go out, take chances, put yourself out there, be a teenager.”
“I’m surrounded by teenagers at school,” I say. “Only a few of them are party monsters or serial daters or sluts—” Fuck!
“Is that what you think I am?”
“No! I’m saying those are stereotypes, not what all teenagers actually do. A lot of people I know don’t party or have boyfriends or girlfriends or even go out much.”
HJ is quiet.
Goddamn it, this is why I can’t talk about this. I really need to keep my mouth shut. I don’t even know what the word slut means here. It’s a judgment and I don’t judge her. I don’t care if she sleeps with every guy in town if it makes her happy. I just know it doesn’t.
“I’m saying I’m different, that’s all. It’s got nothing to do with meds. Nobody else thinks it’s wrong that I work at a retirement home and don’t go to parties or out on dates every weekend or have a boyfriend. Nobody but you.”
After a moment, HJ says, “I don’t think you’re wrong, Mel. I just think you’re missing out. It’s a shame. Soon you won’t be a teenager anymore, and you’ll never be one again.”