When We Collided(72)

“What about the hurt this has caused you, Vivi?”

After the first day back in therapy, Dr. Douglas sent me for an emergency contraceptive and an STD screening. And I was so depressed—so f*cking depressed—that I didn’t even feel relieved when the tests came back negative.

I got medical leave from school. If I want to finish high school on time, I’ll have to do summer classes next year.

When I don’t respond, the doctor inclines his head toward me. “Did you tell people? That you were experiencing hypomania? That your actions were affected by bipolar disorder?”

“No. I . . .” I didn’t really believe, at the time, that I had bipolar disorder? That saying I did would have felt like an excuse that even I didn’t believe? Amala was so humiliated, and I ruined Ruby’s birthday party, and I have this perfect mental image of Amala sobbing, screaming at me on the front lawn, while Ruby had one arm wrapped around her shoulder. I walked miles and miles away from Ruby’s house, all the way back to my house. “I didn’t.”

Dr. Brooks doesn’t push me for more. “And, after that time, you were put on a mood stabilizer in addition to the antidepressant. How did that work out?”

I gesture widely with both arms, like, Well, here I am! How do you think it worked out?

“You stopped taking the mood stabilizer?”

“Yes.”

“Why is that?”

I narrow my eyes. He knows why. “Because I felt . . . off.”

He nods, scribbling down a note. “But that was only one medication at one dosage. There are plenty of options that will regulate your body into a healthier—”

“Regulate?”

“Yes.” He pauses, as if reconsidering his choice of word. “Don’t you think it’s fair to say that’s necessary at this point? You’ve now had a depressive episode that ended in self-harm. And so did this episode.”

My temper snaps like a rubber band inside my aching chest. “Oh, Jesus Hullabaloo Christ. I wasn’t trying to kill myself either time—how many times do I have to tell you people this shit?”

He backtracks, palms raised to show me he’s unarmed. “I’m sorry I implied a suicide attempt. I meant that you were physically injured in both instances. But, Vivi, I really do think that medication at a good dosage for you will help more than you can imagine. I also think continued therapy will help you work through everything you’ve experienced and how bipolar disorder affects your identity.”

And, partially because I prefer to be the one lobbing the questions, I ask, “You’re a therapist, right? Can’t you help me with that now?”

“In this brief time today? No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d encourage you to communicate openly. But that takes practice. I’d want you to realize that bipolar disorder is just one facet of a multidimensional life. That takes a lot of thought about what you want that life to look like. And, beyond medication and therapy, I would counsel you to accept your diagnosis. That? Comes with time and experience.”

“Oh, just accept bipolar disorder?” I almost push off this chair and walk out the door. He’s sounding like Officer Hayashi. But that’s life. Gotta deal with what you got.

Dr. Brooks is unfazed by my scorn. “Yes. I hear you when you say you don’t want to have bipolar disorder. It’s very trying and can be frustrating to manage. But you’ve got a loving family and a home and access to health care.” His smile is tentative—warmer and less professionally clinical now. “And you’ve got a lot of fight in you. That much I can tell.”

Ha! Fight and art and entire swirling galaxies, doctor.

“Let’s say I do try another medication,” I say, “and it doesn’t feel right—”

“Different options will be discussed. You’ll be heard. I know Dr. Douglas. That is a promise I will make and she would, too.”

I sit back in my chair, settling in for negotiation. It feels like getting comfortable in the driver’s seat, as if I could reach for the gearshift to my right.

“I think the only way this will work,” I say, leveling my gaze at him, “is if I have some choice in this.”

Dr. Brooks leans forward, letting me in on a secret we’ll share. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“Lithium.” I still like the word. “A different dosage. What about that? Or do you think I need the antidepressant and lithium and something else?”

“Let’s talk about that.” He opens his desk drawer. “Would you like to see the literature for yourself?”

I’d like to see everything for myself, doctor. The whole world. “Yes, please.”

Later, in my room, I lift up my dress and twist to see the rainbow splotch of lotus on my side. And it occurs to me, what if I stopped hating it? What if the tattoo and the scar and this summer’s freckles are my patina? Wabi-sabi says rust and faded paint hold beauty. So what if I let these marks be passport stamps from where I’ve been—ones that don’t determine a damn thing about where I’m going next? What if I apologized to Amala and Ruby and didn’t give a shit what people at school think about me because I know the truth? What if I was honest with Jonah and let him make his own choices and stopped feeling so goddamn ashamed? What if I dealt with what I’ve got?