From my real, and not so imagined, life as a bipolar princess:
So Nick, with his Michelangelo's David cut cheeks (I'm talking about his face now...what were you thinking?), looks at me when he finds out I have a weekend psych ward pass. Weekend passes are supposed to be for going home or visiting friends in quiet, healthy, socially appropriate and psycho-social rehab sort of ways - not for partying, cutting loose, screwing up and messing around.
‘You want go somewhere?' He whispers. I don't know if he means meet like for a double-double at Tim Hortons or go like ‘clubbin' it on the town' kind of go somewhere. But who cares? Both options sound good to me. I can't imagine another weekend playing Scrabble and Uno with Jim and Tom. Both of them whine. And Jim cheats, though he swears he doesn't. We bet cigarettes - which is kinda of weird since I'm really don't like smoking.
‘Sure.' I say, still trying to sound nonchalant. Which I am so bad at - trying to act like I don't care. I have a MOOD disorder for cryin' out loud. If I could control my emotions I wouldn't be here. He smiles, like he's imagining how much fun I might be. I think he's confusing my anxiety for enthusiasm.
‘Let's hook up somewhere.' He leans in and whispers, ‘But you know,' and he pauses this feature-film-romantic-swept-away' pause, ‘we've got to be smart about this though.'
I just nod, very quickly as if this opportunity for approval will pass me by if I don't act on it now. I know this will take stealth, creativity and possibility a lot of alcohol.
We set our watches. Agree on staggered departure times. I drive to Ambleside beach, find overnight parking. This is dangerous and more. He will pick me up in front of the...get this: the police station at Ambleside. His audacity is downright seductive.
This is definitely not what my psychiatrist would consider part of a good life skills program. But no reason to feel guilty or nervous - we're not doing anything illegal. Not yet at least.
I slide into the passenger seat of his car. It's old, grey and beaten up. But man is it fast. Like me when in this state of rising hypo-mania. We peel out of the cop shop and turn onto Marine drive. He doesn't tell me where we're going. I don't even know his last name. Maybe Nick ‘The Psych Ward Guy'. Yeah. That sums it up enough for me. Who needs last names anyway? It's not like he's my ‘in case of emergency' contact.
Like many of my encounters over the past few years -it lacks a lot of concrete details. Hyper-sexuality (that's what it's officially called - however I was called other things) frequently comes with the territory of bipolar disorder. I just thought I had no boundaries and low self-esteem. To be honest I think it was a bit of both.
He takes the 15th street exit and blasts onto the highway. Windows open, sunroof popped, my long hair out of its usual ponytail. I even have on dark sunglasses. I feel like Uma Thurman in one of her movies (minus the to die for lithe and slender body). I've gained about 25 pounds since this whole push-me-pull-you psychiatric disorder started (a greasy result of mood stabilizers that may maintain mood but not my weight and part compulsive overeating).
‘Where are we going?' and I try to smile a coy smile.
‘You'll see...did you get the stuff I told you to?' He says, his left arm, tawny skin and all, resting on the car door while his right hand casually grasps high noon on the steering wheel. I feel like we could rob a bank...successfully. Don't worry we don't. We do something better.
To be continued...
© 2009 Victoria Maxwell
