Chapter 27 Verity
TWENTY-SEVEN
Verity
“Please don’t make me,” I moan through the hands covering my face.
“Verity,” my agent, Sheila, says, her tone patient, with a clear hint of Get your ass up, even over speakerphone. “We’ve talked about this. Your career isn’t just what you put on the page. It’s also keeping your name in front of the right people. This screening is a great networking opportunity.”
“I hate networking.” I sit up in bed and rest my shoulders against the headboard, glaring at the phone on the duvet beside me. “I don’t feel like peopling.”
Truth be told, I haven’t had to be on set much this week, and what started with one day skipping morning yoga, because it was so hard to get out of bed, turned into three days without exercise, balanced meals, and—as I give myself an investigative sniff—showers.
If Sheila knew I’ve barely left the bed this week, she’d probably be here banging down my door.
Very few in the industry know I have bipolar, but it’s not something I could keep from my agent, not when more than once she’s had to make excuses for me when the pendulum of my moods swung too sharply in one direction or the other.
Her job is to help my career, and a lie would hinder that.
So she had to know the truth: that at any given moment I’m capable of a euphoria so fragile it could crumble under the slightest pressure.
It could be dragged with a whimper into depression.
It might, in a flash, render me as likely to laugh as I am to wail.
“You hate networking, yes, my sweet girl,” Sheila says in that reasonable voice she uses to coax me out of caves. “But you do like Desiree. Attend the screening for her, if not for the potential opportunities it presents for you.”
I sigh and struggle to keep focused on the conversation.
I’ve been asleep most of the day, but try telling my heavy eyelids that.
She’s right, though. Desiree and I met at USC, two of only a few Black women in our program.
After years of slogging away in mid-level writers’ rooms, she finally sold a script for her first big feature.
“I’ll go,” I say, sliding down until my back sinks into the mattress and I can pull the pillow over my head.
“Now that we have that settled,” Sheila says, satisfaction clear in her voice, “how’s the pitch for the studio coming along?”
I moan like she’s stretching me out on a torture rack.
“That well, huh?” Sheila deadpans. “How can I help?”
“None of their mandates really fit what I’m best at,” I whine from under my pillow. “They want something propulsive and suspenseful and dramatic and woman-focused. And I’m only good at two of those. Being a woman and being dramatic, in case you needed me to clarify.”
“You’ll figure it out. Writers dream of an overall deal like this one. Play your cards right, and this could be a huge leap forward in your career. You might end up the showrunner on this.”
“I know,” I whisper. “And I’m not ungrateful.”
I’m numb and sad and barely existing in a doldrum.
I can’t say those things aloud to Sheila, but that is the truth.
I’m not sure how to explain it to someone who has never had to drag herself from under a boulder merely to accomplish basic hygiene, much less create a dynamic fictional world that people would pay to watch when you feel like roadkill every day.
“Verity, you have to make the most of this opportunity.” Sheila pauses, and her voice is gentle, careful when she speaks again. “Seems like every fall we have this conversation at least once, but you always push through.”
I go still beneath my comforter, glad for the artificial darkness hiding me from the truth.
I don’t reply, but I close my eyes against the tears stinging the corners.
Just when things stabilize, something changes.
Changes in my brain chemistry, the universe, barometric pressure, the moon cycle…
who the hell knows? But the perfectly balanced remedy we found for my bifurcated brain tips off the scale, and I’m in bed for twelve hours, convinced I’ll never write again.
Why does it take all of this for me to exist?
Is everyone this exhausted from simply living?
But Sheila’s right. Certain times of year are harder than others.
It sneaks up on me sometimes. Especially with two projects going—developing the show for United and working on Dessi—my routines are more important than ever if I expect to remain stable.
Exercise, regular sleep, eating balanced meals.
I haven’t gone to a pottery class in a while.
It’s one of the hobbies that grounds me when my mind would spin in a thousand different directions, or rouse me when I feel like…
well, like this. I’m miserable in this bed, but DBT tells me what to do—opposite action.
Identify the emotion: sadness.
What is it telling me to do? Isolate. Stay here alone in the dark.
So I need to do the opposite: get my ass up, and get out. Do something and keep doing something until I start to feel better. Meds alone don’t win this battle. My decisions do, too, and I’m deciding to get up.
“Verity?” Sheila presses on speaker. “You still there?”
“Yup.” I push the comforter off and throw my legs over the side of the bed, letting my feet hit the floor. “I’ll be there.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” she says, and signs off.
My limbs feel like heavy logs, and my movements are wooden, but I force one foot in front of the other until I reach the bathroom and face myself in the mirror.
“Hey, girl,” I say, pushing one side of my mouth into as much of a grin as I can manage. “You know what to do.”
I run cold water and bend, splashing my face.
A startled gasp bursts past my lips as the icy water hits my skin.
I’ll let it do its work, hopefully triggering serotonin, dopamine—anything in my body that can start working to make me feel better.
I splash a few more times and then stand to face the mirror again, blinking through the droplets at the girl with a familiar determined glint in her eye.
“I can’t depend on chance,” I tell the mirror, reciting one of the affirmations I learned in the group where Tessa and I met. “But I can make choices. I’m responsible for myself and must create the best life I can.”
Tessa and I have reminded each other of these so often, for a moment I could swear she’s right here with me, and it gives me the courage I need to get out the door.
Stability is a blessing, and one that is not always promised to me.
I won’t take it for granted but will make the most of every day I have where my mind is clear.
“You made it!” Desiree screeches at the small reception following the screening of her new movie. “Oh, my God. It’s good to see you.”
Desiree pulls me in for a tight hug, the same jasmine perfume she wore back in college familiar and comforting.
She used to sport braids, but now her hair is shorn so closely I see her scalp.
It throws her angular features into striking relief.
The heavy listlessness from the last few days lingers, but I’m glad I pushed through it to come support my girl.
“Good to see you, too, sis,” I mumble into her shoulder. “Loved the movie.”
Six feet tall barefoot, Desiree pulls back and peers down at me, hope and pride shining in her brown eyes. “For real, Tee? You liked it?”
“I believe I said loved. Don’t take words out my mouth.” I reach for her hand and squeeze, willing her to believe me. “It’s your best, Ray. I’m so happy for you.”
“This calls for celebration!” Her grin widens. “Dinner after?”
“There’s food here,” I laugh, gesturing around the minimalist space and grabbing ginger ale and a fancy hors d’oeuvre from a passing tray.
“Now, Verity, you know we celebrate with grease and calories.”
We’re still laughing when the director Peter Shu makes his way across the crowded room to join us.
“We did it,” Peter says, beaming at Desiree. “And they love it.”
“You brought it to life,” Desiree replies, ever humble.
“It was a great script,” Peter says, turning his attention to me. “Verity Hill, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Hi.” I discreetly swipe at my mouth for any stray crumbs. “Nice to meet you.”
“You’re working on that Canon Holt biopic, aren’t you?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I run a suddenly sweaty palm over the slinky material covering my hip.
Is this dress too revealing? Does it say serious writer whom you should definitely work with someday?
“I’m hearing great things about it,” Peter says before turning back to Desiree. “Can I steal you for a second? There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Um, sure.” Desiree glances at me, brows knit. She knows I hate parties. “Will you be—”
“I’m fine.” I give her a gentle nudge. “I’m gonna mingle for a bit. Grab me when you’re ready to go.”
Desiree’s face brightens and she follows Peter, flashing me a quick grin over her shoulder as she goes.
“Mingle, my ass,” I mutter, dropping the smile and kicking off my shoes as soon as they leave.
I lean against the wall and my hand strays to the neckline of my dress where I’ve pinned the small heart pendant Mama was wearing the night I lost her.
As one of her few belongings salvaged from the fire, it holds tremendous sentimental value, but it has also become my talisman when depression encroaches.
I stroke the sharp point and the rounded edges, letting it ground me.
This unassuming trinket is an anchor that helps me stay present when my mind wants to wander in social situations.
“Wow, Verity,” a guy drawls from beside me. “You look even better than the last time I saw you. Didn’t think that was possible, but I guess winning a Golden Globe does lend a certain glow. Congrats, by the way.”