8. 8
8
Another night.
Another bar.
Another free drink bought by a horny rig worker.
It’s amazing what an arm graze and a sweet laugh’ll getcha these days , Chastity thought as she chugged half of the ice-cold beer the bartender had just shoved her way. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and clicked glasses with the mediocre-looking roughneck who bought it for her.
He wouldn’t be half bad…
If he had all his teeth.
Chastity rolled her neck and sighed loudly. Despite her agitation at the day’s events and the barrage of non-stop chatter, she had missed The Alibi , her old run-down haunt. The place felt like it hadn’t aged a day in the years she’d been gone. It felt a little like home , more so than her real one.
She recalled how much she used to love sneaking in when she was underage. The staff all knew her by name and couldn’t have cared less about checking her license.
The town was small. They knew who she was and took pity on her for being the pastor’s daughter.
Hearing brides discuss the nuances of Chantilly lace versus French brocade all day made her want to rip the rainbow-colored curls from her scalp. It was always the same gaggle of women, it seemed. Different faces and different names… yet always near-identical personalities when they opened their mouths.
The nervous-but-happy bride.
The subtly controlling mother.
The narcissistic Bridesmaids.
The distracted Maid of Honor.
She wasn’t sure why she’d asked to get her old job back when she returned. Tonight, she just wanted to drown herself in hops and male attention the second she peeled out of the boutique’s parking lot.
The bearded man beside her was now gawking expectantly, waiting for a response to an inquiry she’d been too disinterested in to hear.
“Hmmmm?” she hummed.
“I said, you have beautiful eyes. Are they real? Or are they fake? Like contacts ?”
“Everything on me is real, honey,” she said with a flirtatious wink and hopped off the bar stool. “Thanks for the drink. See you around.”
“Hey. I’m a nice guy ’n all, so I’m not gonna be a dick, but, you know, usually , it’s customary to at least pretend you’re interested in the fella spendin’ twelve dollars on a dollar-fifty beer,” he grumbled, smile falling. “Just sayin’…”
She offered the long-neck to him. “Oh, sorry. My bad. You want it back?”
“Nevermind. Just… get lost.” He waved her away, cursing under his breath at her sarcastic retort.
Chastity rolled her eyes and sauntered away.
This is why you are going to end up alone like some… harlot spinster, Chastity could almost hear her mother say. Your abhorrent behavior brings shame to the Lord… and to us …
According to her folks, ‘God-fearing Christians’ don’t frequent seedy bars. They don’t talk back to their parents or avoid church like the plague. And they certainly don’t go back to random apartments with hot men who have deltoids made of solid rock…
Like Barrett’s .
But wasn’t Noah a drunkard ?
And, hell, Paul murdered Christians.
Yet, according to the Bible and her father’s Sunday sermons, those men were still allegedly aspirational. So.. why was she somehow so unlovable? Why had she fallen so far from their good graces by simply existing?
She supposed it was fate. Some women were destined for riches and fame, some for exciting careers, some for political and social endeavors, some for squeezing out a litter of children…
And then, there was Chastity…
An unstable contrarian with fried-and-dyed hair that seemed to do nothing but irritate the people in her life.
She took another long swig of her beer and silently wished she’d asked for something stronger to help her escape reality, even if just for a while. Still, the bottle of foamy hops soothed a little of her worry and washed away a tiny bit of the disappointment about herself that she’d clung to for the last few months.
Chastity graduating college was the untruth that her mother was pushing publicly, despite what the Bible says about lies, white or otherwise. Maggie was too embarrassed to utter the truth: My daughter flunked out of veterinary school before graduation. She couldn’t hack it. Not even for four more short, stupid months.
The diagnosis changed Chastity’s life, one that scared her, shook her confidence, and made her come crawling back to Jackson to live with her parents. Now, she felt like no one really knew her.
Including herself .
She scanned the room for attractive men, but her mind reeled with thoughts of the glossy pamphlet she’d been given, the one with the damning bold letters that read:
Living Well with Bipolar Disorder.
She recalled the overgeneralized suggestions within its folds almost as if they were memorized lines from a high school play. They were all things that seemed obvious but felt impossible.
Adopt a regular sleep schedule. Exhaustion can trigger mood episodes.
Chastity couldn’t remember the last time she got a full night’s sleep or went to bed at a regular time.
Maintain a regular exercise routine. Exercise releases endorphins, which can improve mood.
That part always made Chastity laugh. So does having sex. That’s considered cardio, right?
Eat healthy and manage stress. Avoid triggers and practice relaxation with yoga and/or meditation.
How can one do that when life always bombards you with aggravating situations? That’s life. Life is stressful.
Avoid drugs and alcohol. Substance use can worsen or exacerbate mood swings.
That was the one that bothered her the most, an impairment that would ostracize her at just about every wedding or social function. She was not addicted to alcohol. She could do without its awful taste and the hangovers. But drugs and alcohol sometimes took the edge off. They made her feel more… normal.
Enroll in regular therapy sessions. Find a counselor or therapist. A psychologist can evaluate your moods and habits and prescribe medication to lessen symptoms. Discuss coping techniques. Learn to identify triggers and mood swings.
She refused to let a hair-brained quack turn her into some emotionless zombie.
Sure, the lows were low . She had thought about ending it all. A few times, in fact. Church had taught her that suicide was an unforgivable sin, but damnation wasn’t what kept her alive. It was something more, the waste of potential that it all would have been if she had taken the easy route. Somehow, inexplicably, she could always see through the fog enough to know that taking her own life wasn’t the answer.
And the highs of being bipolar…
The highs were intoxicating. The thought of ever dulling that with medications so that she could be like everyone else made her want to scream.
For years, she had no idea that she’d even been experiencing manic and depressive episodes. Still, now she wondered if the mania was what was keeping her alive, keeping her tethered to this world, keeping her from making a choice she couldn’t ever come back from on days like today when she felt swallowed by that familiar sense of dread.
The psychologist had been blunt and brief in his diagnosis. Her mind was a tsunami of whirling thoughts and pain followed by an overwhelming sense of loneliness for the weeks that followed. It was devastating to know that once people heard that word, they’d assume they knew just about everything they needed to know about her.
Bipolar.
Not kind or nurturing .
Not great with animals .
Not bright and talented .
People would, instead, think of her as some nuclear bomb, constantly on the brink of detonation.
Something isn’t quite right with her.
Those were her mother’s words, ones she’d overheard for the umpteenth time, ones that landed her in that leather therapist’s chair finally.
Chastity had made the mistake of telling her mother about her diagnosis the same night. Her mother’s brilliant suggestion was to pray it away like a demon to be exorcised, like being bipolar was some sacrilegious act that one could beg for deliverance from.
She tried to explain to her mother that this was something she never asked for. Something she never wanted. Something she didn’t bring on with an action. Something she didn’t deserve.
Chastity set her empty bottle on the bar and heard one of the regular bartenders holler, “Another?”
Chastity shook her head. “Gimme a shot of tequila, and then cash me out. This place is dead.”
The shot was in front of her in a flash and inside of her even faster. As the man behind the bar ran her already-racked credit card, her amber eyes glanced around at the men in the bar.
Even though she didn’t know if he even frequented The Alibi , part of her hoped to see Barrett, hoped for more mind-blowing sex to distract her.
But he wasn’t there.
The man handed her card and receipt over. She debated taking a drive over to the honky-tonk where she’d met him, debated making up an excuse to take a walk by his apartment, but as she scribbled her name and pocketed the card, she felt deflated. Thinking of her diagnosis did that a lot lately.
She decided instead to head home, back to her parent’s place. The newest episode of Summer Love would be on. She could drift to sleep to the sound of petty arguments and dream of a life where she was someone else.