Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Verity
“Verity, open your eyes.”
Dr. Palmer’s soothing professional tone has guided me out of nightmares before. Some waking and some buried in my subconscious, but none as painful as what I just relived.
I blink open slowly, allowing the light back in; allowing in the present.
Shaking off the shadows of the past, I take in the spacious office decorated in cool tones of icy green and blue.
I’m not that little girl standing outside chilled, an indifferent moon strung up in a scar-pocked sky, watching my life and all I love burn.
Instead I sit in the serenity of a Brooklyn spring day, sunshine pouring in through wide windows with curtains drawn back.
Diplomas and family photos paper the walls of my therapist’s office, evidence of success and happiness I’m sometimes not sure I’ll ever attain.
“That was a lot,” Dr. Palmer says, her brows knit, the concern shining from her dark eyes. “How are you feeling?”
I breathe deeply, waiting for the scent of fresh flowers—the hydrangeas Dr. Palmer keeps in her office—to replace the acrid smell of smoke and burning flesh.
“I haven’t talked about that night in years,” I admit. “Hell, I haven’t talked about it much ever.”
“I’m glad we’ve reached the point where you trusted me with it,” Dr. Palmer says. “Thank you.”
“To this day, I still have questions about what happened that night. I assume Daddy used Mama’s candles to set the house on fire when I ran to Aunt Roz’s. Whatever he heard in those walls burned along with everything else.”
“Let’s talk about the voices your father was hearing. From your account he was incredibly agitated in the last days of his life.”
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 stability between the 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 he was dealing 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… local to see in person if shit goes wrong with my meds, ya know?”
“Nothing has to go wrong for 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 be living. 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 I do carry shame. So much shame about the things I’ve done when I was manic, especially at Finley.
Especially to Monk.
“Okay,” Dr. Palmer says, pulling back and smiling. “Talk to you soon.”
“Thank you for everything, Doc,” I say, my voice wavering with tears. “Goodbye.”
The subway ride to the small apartment I share with two other people in Queens affords me time to think.
The Brooklyn-based production company where I work has been exactly what I needed.
Not too much pressure. Just enough pay to survive and benefits for my meds and therapy costs.
Now I’m leaving the city I wasn’t sure I could make it in.
Needing a fresh start, I knew going back to Finley wasn’t an option.
I changed my number and even ignored the emails Petra sent checking on me.
Dr. Garrison was the only person who knew what really happened, and the only one I’ve kept in touch with.
I’ve since discovered that ghosting is pretty common for people who have bipolar.
You often do some out-of-pocket shit when you’re manic.
Once you stabilize, it’s like someone took over your body and while they were in charge they made these awful decisions in proxy that wrecked your finances, ruined your reputation, and decimated your relationships.
It’s so hard to face that many times people just start over.
That’s what I did after Finley. I had to.
My literal survival was at stake, and that part of my life was a painful memory I didn’t need to add to all the other things I was trying to figure out about my brain and body.
Besides, it was such a short chapter of my life.
Not even a full year. Finley wasn’t that hard to put in the rearview mirror.
But Monk…
I didn’t just leave him behind. When we broke up, in many ways I deconstructed, leaving parts of myself back there with him, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get those back.
We weren’t together that long, but for a few glorious months before my life ran into a ditch, I was happier with Monk than I’ve ever been.
Leaving him was like ripping off a limb that won’t ever regenerate, but you must learn to live with the phantom ache where it used to be.
Some of the tears I shed on Dr. Palmer’s shoulder were for him, for what I walked away from.
For how I hurt him and never fully explained myself.
If I ever see him again, I’m still not sure I would.
Because what if he does understand? Forgives me?
Gives us another chance? Another manic episode is more likely to happen than not at some point, and I wouldn’t do that to him.
I’m not saying we’d both end up dead like my parents, but I firmly believe we’d both end up hurt.
Walking away from Monk that night was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but knowing what I do now, maybe it was one of the wisest.