CHAPTER 1

Four-percent battery.

Why all this psycho mania, you ask? Because, Jesus, who lets their cell battery get so low.

Me, obviously, because usually, under these, ah, circumstances, the ability to simply blink is impossible. Charging my phone? Forget about it.

I won't go into too much detail right now. Thinking makes my head feel like I have granite rocks in there and someone is banging through them with a giant pickaxe. Also, I'm having enough trouble dealing with how the weather matches my mood – miserable and gray and morbid. Although, if I would've had the energy, I might have tolerated the soft pureness of the light snow. It isn't really all that gray outside. It's me. The problem is me. I'm the one stuck in this soul-sucking rut of grayness and blaming it on the weather.

I exit the subway station at Seventh Avenue and head south, trudging through the five blocks to my next nightmare – my brother's wedding. I keep my eyes on the ground, making sure I stay within the concrete sidewalk squares as I walk.

The fact that I'm able to put one foot in front of the other and make this kind of progress of movement is nothing short of miraculous. And miracles are much needed right now, since my mother has given me strict instructions to be in a good mood when I get to the venue.

It's a wedding, after all. David's wedding and he deserves at least that much for putting up with me these last twenty-six years I've been alive.

The rehearsal dinner was last week. David texted me to say what better way to practice being in a celebratory mood. He was kind about it, but still, not helpful. And I'm acutely aware of how selfish that sounds to the unsuspecting ear. It was, after all, David's rehearsal dinner, and no one had time to deal with the troubled younger brother's little mood disorder.

You're an adult now; shouldn't you be over it, Levi? My mother asked me last week, when she also told me not to attend if I couldn't show even one ounce of happiness for David and my soon-to-be sister-in-law, Mary.

I didn't go. Not only because I knew I wouldn"t be able to show one ounce of happiness for David and Mary – even though I really wanted to – but because I really, actually, literally wasn't able to get out of bed.

Sometimes, it's the screams inside my head that keep me buried between my pillows. Other times, the noise is like a drop of water landing at the center of my head at precise intervals – like the torture method they used to use in past centuries. They say even a single, soft droplet of water can feel like rocks falling on your head after enough time has passed.

That"s what the noise in my head feels like –drip, drip, drip, at first. Small and unnoticeable. I can handle it.

Then, more demanding. DRIP, DRIP, DRIP. And finally, the vibrating thunder crashes through my skull from some unknown place, pulling me down through the caverns of my mind until the cacophony of sound deafens me entirely. I can't hear myself think. There are entire conversations taking place inside my head and I can't get it to stop. My skin itches like thousands of little bugs are crawling across every inch of my body and I want to shake myself out of my own skin. I want to dissolve into this skin and just fucking disappear.

I woke up on the morning of the rehearsal dinner with the DRIP, DRIP, DRIP inside my head. My mother accused me of caring only about myself when I didn't show up. Stop making excuses and make sure you're in a better mood for the wedding. You're the best man, for God's sake.

This morning, I dragged myself out of bed with the screams inside my fogged-up head, interrupted periodically by my runaway thoughts: I am the worst person on earth. There isn't a worse son or brother on the planet. What a waste of precious oxygen and space I am. What if I was never born? I should never have been born. Maybe this is all a terrible dream and I'll wake up soon and be relieved that I actually have a normal life.

I step off the sidewalk, just in time for the driver of a city bus to swing three inches to the left to avoid hitting me. Between you and me, I saw him coming, and for one glorious moment, I imagined what it would feel like to have my head caught between those tires. I wouldn't feel anything; I'm almost certain. It'll happen too fast. Dead on impact. And just like that, there'll be no more inexplicable sadness. No more terrifying manic happiness. No more shame. But mostly, there'll be no more noise. Just . . . silence.

Needless to say, I'm not having a good year so far. Actually, it hasn't been a good life so far, but the last six months have been a real fuck-show. I just can't catch a break from my brain.

At the risk of being judged so early in the day, I'll stop here for a moment to admit that my thoughts about disappearing – about dying – are the most comforting part of my low days. Thinking about dying isn't always a bad thing, you know. Sometimes, it's the only thing that gives you any kind of peace. Thoughts about dying can help you live another day.

I could blame my dark contemplations on the vomit-inducing thought of seeing all my family members again, but the truth is, it could be any number of things sparking these awful, comforting thoughts and taking me further and further down into my depressive low. It's a monstrous effort to carry around these thoughts, like trudging through a marsh.

Anyway, I would have asked my mother if she knew where the good mood switch was in my brain because I sure didn't, but she would've just said, "your illness is not an excuse to be rude, Levi." I mean, sarcasm isn't a medical condition, but okay.

I pull my jacket closer to my body to ward off the cold. Force my legs to keep moving forward, even though the thought of turning around and going back home has me in a chokehold. I count my steps as I walk, forget where I am after number seventeen, and then have to start again.

I don't know why anyone would not only choose to get married in fucking February but also make it an outdoor event. Also, where the fuck is spring?

To be honest, I don't know why anyone would want to get married at all, but this is David. And Davidis a linear kind of guy: Perfect first child. Nice brother. Intellectual superstar. High school quarterback. College football. Law degree. And now, the soon-to-be perfect husband. David and Mary will move to California in April for a new job David just landed. They want to start a family immediately, my mother told me while she berated me about being in a good mood. David's new job pays more than enough for them to raise a family in this tough economic climate. "David's got it all together," she said.

The best I could do was be David's best man. The best man on my worst day.

I smooth my palm over my black suit jacket, making sure my keycard for the art gallery is still in there. It is.

It'll be fine. Everything will be fine. Today will be a good day. Not that it ever is when I make these sorts of promises to myself, but, well, maybe today it'll be different. I'll go and watch my brother get married and live happily ever after, and then I'll slip out while everyone is on the dance floor. Not that I want to be rude; I have somewhere to be after the wedding ceremony: my first art exhibition at Gallery 180. It's just a showing for new artists. Not like I'll be selling million-dollar paintings or anything, but still, it's a start. It's also where I work as a gallery assistant.

Honestly, if I could have gotten away with it, I would've skipped both events. But my family would never have forgiven me, and my boss, Daniel Shepherd, has given me one last chance not to let him down with my art, as I have several times over the last few years. If I don't show up to my own group exhibition this time, my art can collect dust in my apartment over in Alphabet City, and I can be the gifted artist that cleans up after artists who actually want to show their work. Daniel's words of stern parental care.

I almost wish I was manic today. Almost, because mania is the devil dressed like a unicorn covered in magic stardust. Sadly, people like me better when I'm ‘happy'.

I've been practicing my smiley face for the last forty minutes. I can't be standing next to David while he exchanges his vows and have two hundred people wondering how many pills the best man had popped. I can hear them all now, murmuring around their champagne glasses: "His eyes look a bit droopy; don't you think? Must be drugs."

Actually, Chad, it's just my I'd-rather-be-dead face.

My parents should have quit while they were ahead with David, because, three years later, enter screaming little me about to fuck everything up.

"He was difficult, even as a baby. Very moody," Mom told everyone she ever met when I was in my teens. I don't blame her. Two suicide attempts before my high school graduation. Which parent would have signed up for that kind of bullshit if they'd known beforehand?

One time, just after I turned seventeen – a few months after the doctors misdiagnosed me with depression – my mother planned a trip to Greece. I started lying about taking my meds soon after I went on treatment because, fuck, I felt like a fucking zombie, and all the kids at school were starting to notice. It was so fucking embarrassing. When my mother found out – she found the unused pills – she didn't talk to me for three weeks. Then she dropped me off at my aunt's place and flew off to Greece with my clueless dad and apologetic brother. My mom ignored me a lot after that, especially when I was low. She loved the hell out of me when I was manic. And after someone at her job where she worked as a front desk operator told her that medication made things worse ‘for people like me' she became convinced that I didn't need meds after all. On the bright side, it helped keep her off my back when I didn't want to be medicated.

Hold on. I got distracted.

Four percent battery.

By the time the rehearsal dinner came around, I'd been manic for just over four months. I was king of the world, and just before the rehearsal dinner I decided I needed to eat a good, home-cooked meal in my sparkly, newly deep-cleaned apartment. I moved my phone charger from my bedroom to the kitchen while I morphed into a skilled Japanese chef and made myself the best sushi omakase anyone has ever tasted.

Do I regret splurging on that delicious bluefin tuna and truffle slices, not to mention edible gold leaf? Maybe also caviar (I can't remember.)? Yes.

The same way I regret maxing out my credit cards with the purchase of an antique pocket watch back in October when my mania began? Also, yes. Turns out, the antiquity of a clock does not equate to the antiquity of time. I could not, in fact, slow down, hasten, or otherwise change time with the purchase of a five-thousand-dollar antique watch, which conveniently had a no-return policy.

Sadly, trying to get caught up on that massive credit card debt meant skipping my full rent payments some months. I'm on a payment arrangement with my landlord but owing rent like that sucks balls. I hate it.

Anyway, the crash and burn after my debilitating happy time came the day before the rehearsal dinner and it was just fucking sensational. The steps required to get from my bedroom to the kitchen to get my charger were the same as trying to walk from Zimbabwe to Bulgaria.

So, there you go. Four percent battery.

A wooden sign, adorned with evergreen branches and fresh snowflakes, greets me at the entrance to David's wedding venue.

DAVID AND MARY'S WINTER WEDDING, it says. We're not too far away from spring, but if I remember correctly, they took the latest available date before spring because of a special discount.

The wedding ceremony will take place under a transparent canopy, with the sides left open so guests can enjoy the exquisite winter backdrop, made up of snowflakes that twinkle delicately in the soft winter sun. Even through the haze of my morbidness, I can appreciate the enchanting beauty of this winter wedding.

"Could you at least smile?"

My fingers curl around my dying phone inside my pocket.

I don't like the idea of hanging from a rope. I'm not great at math. What if I miscalculate the height I'd have to be at? Imagine the embarrassment if they found me, still alive, only like, an inch away from the ground. I prefer a cleaner approach – pills in excess. Ignore my recent fantasy about having my brains become one with the tire threading of a monster city bus.

In fact, ignore all this talk about dying. Since my last attempt, I've come to realize that I don't want to hurt my family like that anymore. My psychiatrist has permission to contact my family if she thinks I'm in trouble, but I won't do it. Sure, I think about it a lot, but I'm pretty certain I won't do it. It would have to be a monumental trigger the size of Texas that would cause me to fall that far again.

The last two attempts had been because I couldn"t handle the humiliation after the things I'd done while manic.

The first time, I got caught on camera taking a piss in the water fountain at school. Some kids got hold of the footage and circulated it online. It wouldn't have been half as bad if my whole fucking dick hadn't been cropped, then analyzed and scrutinized and finally deemed lacking. Look, I don't have the biggest dick on the planet but, fuck, it was humiliating. I just wanted to die.

The second attempt was just before finals in my senior year. I stole my aunt Janice's two-thousand-dollar wedding ring and pawned it for five hundred. I needed the money to go on a trip with some new friends I'd made. They were all over the drinking age limit so it made sense that I should be the one to provide the cash for the alcohol, and they would do the buying.

Yeah, I was manic as fuck, popping pills, drinking, undiagnosed and unmedicated, but the thing that sent me over the edge was when my mother found out.

She made me stand in Aunt Janice's living room, facing her whole fucking family like they were the firing squad, and read a speech she'd written for me: I am a liar and a thief, and I don't deserve any forgiveness for my disgusting behavior. I was not raised this way. I have humiliated my family and I deserve everything I get.

Yeah. Anyway, I'm fine now. I really do try to keep myself together and be a good person. It's just shitty sometimes when you can't live inside your own body or mind.

I turn in the direction of my mother's voice, but only just enough to show my face. The rest of my body remains facing the rows and rows of white cloth-covered chairs. I noticed earlier that the chairs are not in a perfect line, but I don't have the energy to set them straight.

"Hi, Mom." I smile.

My smile is pretty. I may be a depressed basket case, but I know what I see when I look in the mirror. On the rare occasion it makes its appearance, my smile is pretty, even if it feels like screws being drilled into my dimples. Lovely eyes, my aunts always used to say. Like chocolate. You could melt into my gaze. Except, my gaze would be as empty as my soul. You'd find nothing inside after melting into it.

Out of habit, I reach up to smooth my hair, hoping it's up to my mother"s standard of neatness. Leaving the house with unbrushed hair is one of my specialties. I get to choose from one of two options: don't brush it because you just don't have energy, or don't brush it because you have so much energy you couldn't be bothered with a ridiculous thing like brushing your hair. My mother asked me ten times to cut it for the wedding at least and maybe get a few highlights into those wild brown strands, but making the walk from my bed to the barber was a death sentence. Now, it's pulled up into what I hope is a neat bun.

My mother's carefully made-up eyes study me from across the small space separating us. The left wing of her eyeliner is slightly longer than the right, and the neckline of her black and gold evening gown is pulled a few inches too much to the right. Other than that, she looks like a sixty's queen.

The scrutiny in her eyes makes me smile harder. I'm happy, see?

It's confusing. My mother – she's confusing. She's accusing me of something at this moment, but there is also that tired mother's concern lurking around somewhere in her inspection. "Have you been popping Xanax again, Levi?"

"No, Mom," I answer mechanically. It's not an unfair question. These days, I'm pretty responsible with my ‘mental problems' as people like to label it, but I understand how someone could easily make that assumption. I usually look a little drugged when I'm low.

I'd had many great and awful days in high school with my little Xanax stint (combined with alcohol and other things, and not for health reasons), among other great and awful things I'm guilty of, and my mother will never let me forget it. I've come a long way since then. And telling her I'm in one of the worst depressive lows I've ever experienced right here at David's wedding isn't an option. I don't think I'll be able to stomach the predictable and infinitely hurtful ‘can you just get over it?' Telling my mother that I don't even know what triggered this low would make things much worse. ‘Oh my God, Levi. You don't even know why you're so depressed?'

I inhale deeply, and the invisible screws dig further into my cheeks, deepening my dimples. I blink, trying to erase the deadness from my eyes, keeping them wide, like I'm fully awake and happy.

"Do I look okay?" I ask with enough of an inflection to pass as upbeat, when all I want to do is just fucking die with no absolute, concrete reason for why.

It seems to be enough. "Yes, you look beautiful, honey. I'm so glad you're here. I was so afraid—" She stops and inhales shakily, and I feel like a first-class asshole. This is a wedding. David's wedding.

"I'm okay, Mom. Really. You don't have to worry."

"Are you sure?"

No. I want to be crushed by a bus. "Yes, I'm sure."

My father comes up behind her, reaching out his hand for a man's handshake. Hard and firm. "Glad you made it, son," he says. I accept his smile, his handshake, and his detachment with a smile and, "I wouldn't have missed it for the world."

Well, that"s not exactly true. I missed his sixtieth birthday recently. And their wedding anniversary celebration a few months ago. I'm not exactly reliable when it comes to commitment to important family events. Or commitment of any kind, really.

My father doesn't get involved in family drama. He leaves that to my mother. Before I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder and no one could understand why I was so sad all the time, he would just say, "Leave Levi alone. He's just a quiet boy."

After my diagnosis, when my mother would insist that he take some responsibility for raising me – even though I was a whole twenty-years old by then – he would say the same thing. And then, when I was manic, he'd say, "See? He's fine. He's happy." I don't think my father understands at all what it means to have a bipolar child.

David comes up behind me, gives me the best brotherly hug he's ever given me and tells me I look good today. I have my eyes to thank for that. I'm keeping them big and bright, even when it feels like I have ten thousand needles inserted into my eyeballs.

David is every bit his mother's child—tall, dignified and put-together. He got her sharp, intelligent gray eyes and her silky blond hair.

Not long after, I stand next to him while he marries the love of his life. I hand over the rings like a good best man, and do my best to ignore how crookedly they set up the chairs.

Afterward, I manage to get through dozens and dozens of smiles for the photo shoot. And if I thought the photo shoot was bad, the reception is infinitely worse. I suffer through a dozen inspections from various family members, with my mother hovering, making sure I don't ruin David's wedding.

One of my aunts, who I haven't seen since high school – her name is Barbara – pulls me aside to ‘get a good look at me'. Her fingers are still sticky from the mini honey-glazed donuts I saw her eating a minute ago, and the stickiness she leaves on my wrist makes me want to vomit.

"Are you still giving your mother a hard time?" she asks. She's smiling so I think she's teasing me. I laugh awkwardly, but I don't answer because I'm too busy watching her sip her water with a metal straw, and all I can think of is what if she misses her mouth on her next sip and she ends up shoving the straw up her nose? Imagine the scrape of the metal against the soft inside of her nose. What if she bleeds?

Jesus Christ. Can my Bipolar Disorder's best friend, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder please pipe the fuck down?

Luckily, my new sister-in-law rescues me, asking me for a dance. Unfortunately, this too, is awkward because her face radiates with happiness, and I can't keep up. Mary doesn't know that I have Bipolar Disorder. In the two years she's dated David before marrying him today, I've kept my distance so she wouldn't leave David because of his brother, who ruins everything. As if there was an unspoken agreement, no one else in our family has told her either.

"We need to spend more time together," Mary says. "We're family now."

I force out a smile. "Sure." And then my skin starts to burn because she's too close. Everyone is too close. I need to breathe. The noise is too loud, but I don't know if it's the outside noise or the inside noise. I flee as soon as the song is over.

It might have been the dozen family members who asked if I was coming down with something that sends me over the edge. He doesn't look well, Elaine,' they remarked repeatedly to my mother. Maybe it was my mother, standing next to me looking so disappointed and embarrassed. Maybe it was Aunt Barbara. I don't know. All I know is that my face is hot and most likely red, and I can't handle my mother's disapproval. I wish I could tell her that I, too, wish I wasn't like this.

Thirty minutes into the indoor reception my head is spinning, and my skin is crawling. My bones screech when they rub against each other inside my flesh, and I can no longer keep my eyes from looking like I shot pure heroin up my veins.

Outside, surrounded by the virgin-white snow, I contemplate my options. I'm a responsible nutcase. I can do this.

I slip my phone out of my pocket and do the right thing.

"Levi?" Dr. Emily's voice comes through the phone, soothing and soft. Dr. Emily is my psychiatrist and my first step in this whole I'm spiraling, please help game plan. She'll let my therapist, Laura, know as soon as possible and together we'll all figure out yet another way to keep me together.

"Uh, yeah. Hi, Dr. Emily." I pick at the dry skin on my lips and chew on the skin inside my cheek and lips.

"How's everything going, Levi?"

"Yeah, I'm not so good, I think? The thoughts? They're dark?"

"Okay. It's okay for things to sometimes go a little off center, but we know how to work ourselves out of tough situations, don't we?"

"Yeah, I guess?"

"How dark did it get?"

My skin itches. "I imagined my head getting crushed under the tire of a bus."

"You wanted it to end quickly and brutally?

"Just for a second."

"After that, you thought of a different way?"

"Yeah."

"What did you imagine?"

"I ruled out the rope, just in case it didn't work."

"And after that?"

"Pills."

"You imagined if you slipped away quietly, it would be better?"

I touch the pad of my thumb to my cracked lower lip. My lip is bleeding. "Yeah."

"Better for who?"

"Better for my parents. For David. My mother. My aunt. The server inside. I'm at David's wedding."

"So, better for everyone, then? Even the server?"

"Yeah."

"What about you?"

"It wouldn't hurt anymore."

"What wouldn't hurt?"

"My brain. My skin. My ears."

"Tell me about the pain in your ears. What does the noise sound like today?"

"It's the screams. My screams, I think. The ones only I can hear. My ears ache—"

My phone buzzes. I pull it away from my ear. The screen is black. Fuck.

I've almost made up my mind to get the hell out of this place immediately, but Dr. Emily's suicide watch protocol is impeccable. Within seconds, my mother is rushing out into the garden, her eyes wild with all kinds of emotions.

I sigh heavily, take in several deep breaths, and hold up my hands in surrender. "I'm okay, Mom. My phone died, and I didn't get a chance to tell Dr. Emily that I'm okay."

"Why did you call her if you're okay?" Her hands shake. She was the one who found me that first time. The second time too. She sat in the hospital lounge all night while the doctors pumped my stomach. Had to explain to family members why her son wanted to die and lie to friends about the real reason I was in the hospital. This is all the more reason to just end everything. People suffer unnecessarily because of me.

"She said she has an hour open immediately. She wants you to go and see her. We'll have to admit you. Oh, heavens, Levi. I can't do this again."

"I don't need the hospital," I say hastily. I'm careful not to sound argumentative because that will only fuel any ideas she might have of having me hospitalized. And I made myself a promise after my last suicide attempt that I'll never, ever get bad enough to be hospitalized ever again. "I'm really okay, Mom. I'll go see Dr. Emily. In fact, I'll go right now."

"You'll go right now?"

"Yes, right now."

"You won't change your mind on the way there?"

I might, because if I miss my exhibition, I'll lose my last chance to showcase my work. "I won't change my mind."

"Do you want me to drop you off?" My mother asks with the enthusiasm of someone who would be crushed if they were made to leave their son's wedding reception.

"No, Mom. I'm okay. Don't tell David."

"It's his wedding, Levi. I won't spoil the most important day of his life. And are you still picking at your skin? Just stop that and wipe your lip. You're bleeding."

I nod, swipe my tongue over the corner of my bottom lip, and step around her. Her sigh sounds like one of those screams that makes my ears ache. Another thing to add to the noise inside my head, my mother's sighs.

"I wish you could've just kept it together for one day, Levi," she says.

Me too. I keep my back to her. Mostly because the soft dejection in her voice is worse than if she'd hurled the words at me as an accusation. I don't want to add to her troubles by being hurt about it. The guilt over ruining things for the ones I love overwhelms me.

So, I act like I hadn't heard her, and I walk away, making my way back onto the street. David will understand. He'll find something plausible to tell Mary.

I'll charge my phone when I get home, but for now, I like the idea of no one being able to get hold of me. I head west on Fifth Street.

I'm going to my art exhibition.