I nod slowly. “Of course. I know. That’s the reason I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to worry needlessly.”
“I understand that, too,” he says quietly. “I do. But it just seems like such a bad idea to me. I mean, even if it doesn’t lead you to harder stuff, isn’t that a risk that’s really not worth taking? Think of how much you have to lose now. Think of Tallulah and having to give her up. I know how much she means to you.”
I try to answer back something reassuring right away, but my voice cracks, and I’m tearing up suddenly. “It is worth it, though,” I say through the blur of stinging teardrops. “It is worth it. I mean, everything is so hard. Pot’s like the one thing that gets me through it. I feel so lost and out of control. I don’t know what the hell to do. And I feel like the only answer anyone ever has for me is to, you know, go back to meetings—get a sponsor—work the steps. That shit doesn’t work for me, Dad. I’ve tried and tried, but I just don’t feel anything when I’m there. So then I’m left with no other option except to keep numbing out. You have to understand, I don’t know what else to do.”
My dad pulls me toward him, wrapping his arms around me and holding me tight like that. “I do understand, Nic. As much as any outsider ever will, I do understand. And I want you to know that I really do trust you to figure out whatever you think is best for you. I’ve tried controlling your decisions in the past, and I realize that was wrong. So I really am going to leave it up to you to decide what you need and don’t need. For my part, I will help you in any way I can, if you need referrals for treatment options or psychiatrists. As it is, you’re not seeing anyone right now, are you?”
I struggle to get my words out. “A psychiatrist? No. I haven’t seen anyone since leaving Safe Passage Center.”
“Nic, you’re kidding. So you’re not on any medication?”
“Uh, no. I mean, I didn’t have any money, so I couldn’t afford to go see anybody.”
“Well, Nic, I don’t mean to tell you your business, but weren’t you diagnosed with bipolar disorder? Didn’t you write about that in your book?”
“Yeah, but, uh, I didn’t have any money to follow up on it.”
“But you do now,” he says, pushing my hair back out of my eyes for me. “And you’ve got insurance now, right? Well, don’t you think that some of what you’ve been going through might have to do with the bipolar stuff? I mean, I feel like it has to be connected. The way you’ve been acting, it really seems very manic to me. And I know you go into some pretty intensely deep depressions, right?”
I pause for a moment just trying to remember—or think—or something.
God, I mean, could that really be it? I have been really manic recently—like there’s a sports-car engine opened full throttle inside me.
The lows go so low, and the highs go so high.
And, man, I remember when I was diagnosed with bipolar the last time, the doctor talked to me about how people in a manic state can suffer delusions that they are in direct contact with God and are being given specific messages about what to do and where to go. Basically, it’s exactly what’s been happening to me this last month and a half. I’ve been totally delusional—practically hearing voices in my head—getting high off these delusions of grandeur—racking up an eight-hundred-dollar phone bill.
It’s so obvious, and I feel so stupid. But I guess I really just didn’t take the diagnosis seriously. I mean, I’m pretty disdainful of the way doctors seem to slap labels on practically everyone who walks in their doors. The last thing I wanted was to be playing right into the hands of the pharmaceutical companies, convinced I have all these disorders of which only their medication can cure me. Hell, I watch TV. I see how almost every other ad is for some new prescription drug designed to combat ailments I never even knew existed. Fucking bipolar disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, borderline personality disorder, restless legs syndrome, varying degrees of autism, ADD, ADHD, OCD. It’s like doctors have gone fucking diagnosis simple these days. And there was no way I was gonna fall victim to that shit.
But the thing of it is, well, now that I’ve had some time to sit with the diagnosis—you know, just trying to evaluate whether it seems accurate, or whatever—I guess I’ve gotta say that the shoe pretty much fits. I mean, everything about my behavior is straight outta the goddamn DSM. I mean, not that it’s any kind of excuse, or the answer to all my problems, but it does make a whole lot of sense. In fact, so much so that I suddenly can’t help but burst out laughing.
My dad jumps back a little—startled, or frightened, or I don’t know what. His face kind of freezes in what looks like total confusion. But I, uh, I can’t stop laughing. I mean, I feel like I’m just about to split open, I’m laughing so hard.
I laugh and laugh and laugh, and then suddenly my dad is laughing, too, and we laugh together until finally he says, “What the hell are we laughing about?”
My body’s all doubled over, and I’m gasping to try ’n’ get a hold of myself.
“It’s just… I… I can’t believe I never put it together. I’m such a fucking idiot.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, laughing a little more. “I won’t argue with you there. But, hey, now that you’re in LA, maybe I can ask some of the researchers I interviewed at UCLA if they have a good doctor they can recommend. Do you want me to try that?”
I smile at him. “Oh, man, that would
