Not Another Bipolar Memoir: An Excerpt

My manic hypersexual super logic.

Posted Sep 28, 2020

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I’m writing a book. There, I said it. Not quite sure if it’s going to be a straight-up memoir. Perhaps titled, as someone joked, “Not Another Bipolar Memoir.” Or, the book might be a combination "memoir/personal-essay-with-action-tips” kinda book. Either way, as I write it, I’m going to, from time to time, share excerpts with you. I love the idea of having a friend like you (‘cause that’s how I think of you) getting a peek into what I’m thinking and what I’m writing. 

I don’t have a date set for the final draft, or a publisher (if I go that direction) in place. But as a valued reader, I value sharing these pieces with you. If you have thoughts about them, resources that might be helpful as I get closer to publication, people you think I should contact, or just general cheerleading comments and encouragement – email them my way! 

This piece is pretty self-explanatory. If it’s not, then I need to do a major rewrite. Read on and hope you enjoy it.

Cute Guy in the Psych Ward

One month in on A2 at Lion’s Gate hospital – A2, the acute psychiatric ward. By the way, there is nothin’ cute about a psych ward. I’m following this blue line down the middle of the hospital hallway. It leads to the smoke "garden." That’s where all the chain smokers hang out. I never smoked before until I got here, but the cute guy from room 17 lights up every 35 minutes. I won’t see him otherwise. I don’t think he knows I’m alive. I must be invisible. Oh, don’t ever say that to your doctor: "IN-VISIBLE." Red flag phrase for psychiatrists.

Anyway, I’m in the smoke "garden" wearing those regulation blue hospital PJs, sitting on one of those flimsy white plastic patio chairs. One leg is shorter than the others, so I’m trying to find my balance and at the same time trying to be all flirty while I look at Sam. That’s his name, Sam, the cute guy (red hair, pulsing biceps) who undoubtedly has a girlfriend. I know his name because we’re all assigned orderlies for the day and it’s posted on a whiteboard with our names listed under them. Wednesdays I’m with Liam. So is Sam. Isn’t that cute? We’re a couple without even trying. This is my manic hypersexual "super" logic. 

“Can I have a light?” I lean towards him, careful not to topple over. A silky hand carries his Bic lighter close to my mouth. I inhale, the flame flares and cigarette ignites. I cough. “Thanks.” And I cough again. Not quite the impression I wanted to make. 

Despite the giant hedge of fir trees running the circumference of the unit, the grass of the smoke garden and beyond is scorched. Rays of late afternoon summer sun laser through the foliage onto the top of Sam’s head. His red hair lights up like sparkles in a snow globe. 

And then? Out of his mouth comes poetry, snippets from his therapy journal. His words make me think of tangerines and the smell of sandalwood. He says these things and I just laugh. Like a lunatic. NO. I mean really like a lunatic. And he looks at me like I’m crazy or something “‘cause,” as he tells me “it wasn’t supposed to be funny.” And there I am with my burning butt of a cigarette feeling like an idiot, a crazy woman, thinking about the tie-dyed sunsets of India. And then, guess what Sam does? He leans back, takes a drag of his cigarette, and smiles. For the next five minutes, we sit in comfortable quiet, staring at each other, waiting ‘til our smokes die.

© Victoria Maxwell