“Then what’s to talk about? There’s no cure. I’m as good as I’m going to get.”
“Dr. Fletcher wrote in his notes about things you haven’t told your friends, to protect yourself. Some trigger topics—”
I stiffen and she raises a hand.
“I won’t bring them up with only a few minutes left today. But you have painful, real emotions, which aren’t symptoms. Talking about them will make you feel better.”
I don’t say anything.
“I’ll give you a stack of blank forms so you can fill them out before you arrive. That way we can spend our time talking instead of you filling them out here. Okay?”
Has she guessed that I fill them out slowly on her sofa to use up time?
“You’re saying next week I have to talk about …”
“No. You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”
I watch her carefully.
“It’s okay, Mel. Dr. Fletcher had … an aggressive style of talk therapy. That’s not how I work. We can just talk about the weather every week till you go off to college if you want. But I do want us to talk. Okay?”
Dr. Oswald gives me a real smile, not some obvious bullshit psychiatrist version.
I want to believe her. Only it wasn’t just Dr. Fletcher. Every doctor except Dr. Jordan has pushed me, or thought I was exaggerating my symptoms, or both.
“So …” she says. “I came from Seattle. Does it ever rain here?”
I smile. “Not much.”
“That’s a shame. I like the rain. Do you?”
I’m relieved. And grateful. Maybe I can try this after all.
I take a deep breath. “When my parents divorced three years ago, six months after … you know … what happened with my brother … I was pretty messed up. We moved here and then a year and a half later, I … had my breakdown. Grandma Cece was friends with a psychiatrist living on the same floor of her retirement home, Dr. Jordan, and … well, he won’t talk about my meds—he’s retired and won’t be my real doctor—but he taught me things that pretty much saved me.”
“You were thinking about hurting yourself?”
“God, no, nothing like that. But my dad says there’s lots of ways to ruin your life.”
“How did Dr. Jordan help you?”
“Too many ways to tell you in just a few minutes, but …”
I pull the printouts from my pocket and unfold them. These graphs are my life decoded; I’m not keen on showing them to anyone. They’re like pages from my diary, or poems I wrote from the deepest, most secret place in my heart, the kind other people would think are silly. I hand them over.
“He taught me that bipolar disorder doesn’t just mean bouncing between manic and depressed. That my rapid cycling isn’t just doing it faster than most. That my mixed states aren’t just being depressed and manic at the same time. He showed me it’s all much more complicated than that, but also how to break it down.”
She looks at my graphs and sits up straighter.
“I’m a mix of all these forces. We talked about it like they were all different animals.”
Dr. Oswald looks at me thoughtfully. I don’t know what her expression means. It doesn’t seem negative.
“The Hamster is my Head, for how clear my thinking is. When my Hamster is Running or Sprinting in its wheel, I’m sharp or racing. If it’s Stumbling, I can still think fast but I’m muddled and can’t put two thoughts together, or I can’t stop thinking something over and over. The attention-deficit part.”
She’s listening. So far so good.
“The Hummingbird is my Heart, how much energy I have. When my Hummingbird is Flying, I want to run around, or if it’s Speeding I stay up for days without sleeping. If it’s Perched or Asleep, I want to lie down.”
She’s not judging. Not yet, anyway.
“The Hammerhead is my physical Health. Cruising when I’m fine; Slogging or Thrashing if I’m sick. And I’m the Host, which is my mood generally plus the combination of the other animals. What Dr. Jordan and I started calling the Hanniganimal—”
“I’m sorry, the …?”
“The Hannigan Animal. The HANN-i-GAN-i-mal. Me.”
My voice is getting quiet but I keep going. If this time goes bad like the others, I don’t want it to be my fault because I half-assed it.
“My animals have minds of their own. They go up and down separately. When they’re all down at the same time, I’m depressed. When they’re all up together, I’m manic. Other times I’m Mixed. Like when the Hanniganimal is Down but my Hamster and Hummingbird are Running and Flying, I feel a dark, gloomy, anxious kind of manic energy.”
“Dysphoric mania,” Dr. Oswald says.
“Yeah, I guess. Anyway, I record everything a few times a day to make these graphs, or more often if I’m cycling rapidly enough. Seeing everything separated out helps me keep it together.”
Dr. Oswald examines my charts, pressing her palm down on the creases.