CHAPTER 3

"No one is happier than me that you made it."

I turn at the sound of Daniel's voice. My psychiatrist would disagree, but my boss doesn't have to know that I chose to come to the art gallery instead of checking into a health facility to be put on suicide watch.

I don't need to be watched, even if no one believes me. I was just thinking about dying. I know once you've attempted suicide you're always at risk, but I've come a long way since my previous attempts. I haven"t had the urge or desire to make any further attempts in recent times and I work hard to keep myself from situations that could trigger me. These thoughts are nothing but fantasies now. Comforting fantasies, but still, just fantasies.

"Me too, Daniel." I shrug out of my best man coat and hang it up in my locker. My movements have improved. Am I coming off my low? If I am, that would make it more than four months manic and a little more than one week low with no stable in-between moments. Fuck, I wish these things could be predicted. So far, it's been a shitty year, that's all I can say.

Daniel scratches his bald head and then rubs his bearded cheek. Daniel is a fifty-year-old, slightly off-beat bachelor for life. Involuntarily singlehood, he always says. But it doesn't matter because even if he's eighty, when that special lady comes dancing into his life he's going to marry her on the spot. He's also one of the kindest, most gentle people you'll ever meet. I hope he gets that lady sooner rather than later because he's got way too much love to give.

"You sure you're up to it?" he asks. Daniel speaks with a lisp. He sounds like Sid the Sloth, and whenever he talks, I imagine the saliva gathering at the back of his mouth and bubbling between his teeth when he pronounces his s sounds. It makes me want to cover my ears, but I've gotten used to it over the years.

His shoulder lifts in apology. "I have to ask," he says. "You know, considering the last time."

Considering the last time I had a panic attack so severe when a visitor asked about a painting, they had to usher me outside just so I could breathe. It was like the poor visitor had threatened my life instead of asking for some assistance. From the fucking gallery assistant.

"I asked Terri to stay close to you, just in case." Another apology in his voice.

"Thanks, Daniel. I appreciate that."

Terri is basically my best friend. She's a psychology major with plans for a career in psychiatry. She often says I'm her biggest teacher about mental health. I tell her she's welcome but I'm just being my usual Bipolar self. She tells me to cut it out with the smart-ass self-deprecation.

Terri runs a support group at the local library for people who struggle with all sorts of problems – recovering addicts, people reintegrating into society after jail time, abuse survivors, and those of us who struggle with mental disorders, like Bipolar Disorder.

It's how Terri and I met. I walked into the wrong reading room at the library one day about six years ago and she insisted that I stay for the meeting. I said okay because I'm fuckin' Anxious Anthony with no backbone in basically every social setting, and all the attention on me in those first five seconds just about killed me. I got her a part-time job here at the gallery. She's been here for the last three years.

I feel useless, always needing her or Daniel or my family members to look out for me. One time, I was so low I didn't shower for a week. Maybe even two weeks. I can"t really remember.

My father eventually came to help me. Can you imagine someone actually bathing a fully-functional, healthy adult? That's what my mother said when she found out. Another humiliating moment for my great book of humiliating moments.

My father told her I was just having a bad time and to leave it alone. I guess my mother has a different definition of fully functional than just about every person with a disorder like mine. Somehow, I managed to not try and kill myself after that one.

But here, they're kind. Sometimes overly so, which can add to the noise inside my head, but, logically, I know they mean well.

"I know I give you a hard time about your art, Levi. But it's only because I know how talented you are, and I'd hate to see that talent go to waste."

"I appreciate that too, Daniel." I sincerely do.

Daniel gives me a wide smile. "Life can be beautiful, Levi. All we need in this world is a small amount of kindness and understanding."

I chuckle. "I love your optimism. Some kindness and understanding? Where do they sell that stuff, Daniel? Please. Do tell."

Daniel laughs. "The world isn't always bad, but how will you know if you don't let people in? Maybe it's time you got out there and experienced some of it. Get yourself a nice boyfriend, maybe?"

I scrunch up my nose. "You remember Lukas, right?"

That wipes the smile right off Daniel's face. "Yeah, yeah," he says with a large amount of dejection. "Sorry, Levi. I didn't mean to bring it up."

I tap his shoulder. "Don't worry about it. But you understand why I'm the worst candidate for a long-term relationship, right? You know better than anyone. You and Terri."

Daniel reaches up to his shoulder, squeezing my hand. "I know. If I ever see that Lukas again, I'll rearrange his face." His eyes turn sad, and that's the part about Daniel I struggle with the most – when he gets sad for me. I don't know why he likes me so much. "But still, I don't want you to miss your chance for happiness because of an asshole like Lukas and – and—"

"And my dululu problems," I joke, because I'm too depressed for a serious conversation about how Bipolar Disorder has ruined any chance I might've had for any kind of love life. And you can forget about happily-ever-after.

Daniel shakes his head but doesn't chastise me this time for making light of my issues.

Lukas served as the ultimate lesson for why I should never, ever be in a relationship. We dated for fourteen glorious months three years ago. I met him at an underground scene, manic as fuck, unmedicated, and looking to sell my soul to the devil just to get some relief. Guess who loved manic-me more than even drugs. Yeah, Lukas was the Devil with a capital D.

I won't deny my penchant for hard fucking, manic or not, and I certainly won't deny that there was a time in my life when I was a proud Grade A whore.

Despite that fountain-pissing incident that landed me in the psych ward, I managed to sleep with just about every gay boy at my high school and the neighboring one. But Lukas wanted me manic all the time for the sole purpose of manic sex.

I mean, I was down for manic sex, and we were just having fun. But Lukas started insisting that I didn't need my meds. He began offering me a range of street drugs to use instead. I took him up on his offer a few times. When I hit a low about a week before we broke up, Lukas got so mad that I wasn't being myself. He gave me something new to try to get me in the mood.

At some point, Daniel and Terri had to come get me from some ratty apartment almost three hours away from home. I couldn't explain how I got there or how long I'd been there, and that's when I knew it was my cue to get the fuck out of that situation.

I was in what they call a mixed episode,which is the worst way to be. A mixed episode is like falling up. It's a constant agitation, like you have to be constantly on the move, but at the same time, there's a constant lethargy, like you simply cannot move your body.

It's the absolute worst of a depressive episode and the absolute worst of a manic episode all rolled up into one time frame where you literally want to die and live forever at the same time.

Where you think the CIA, FBI, KGB, every law enforcement agency in the world and your next door neighbor is about to get you, and, at the same time, you think everybody loves you the most in the whole world because you're the most amazing human being to ever live. Where your thoughts feel like a hundred bullet trains flying through your head and you can't catch a single thought, but, at the same time, everything is happening in slow motion.

I would take an independent episode of mania or depression over a mixed episode any day. Lesser of two evils, and all that.

Anyway, after that, my whoring days were over. Daniel helped. He kicked Lukas out every time he tried to show up at my job, made me change my phone number so Lukas wouldn't try to contact me, and he, together with Terri, co-signed my letter of accountability to myself. It sounds stupid, I know, but at the time, it was necessary. I needed a signed document to hold myself accountable.

No drugs. No alcohol. No more disappearing and trying to start a new life in a different state. Stay on the meds. Don't lie to my psychiatrist. Definitely no sex because the odds were that I'd find more assholes like Lukas.

That last one was fuckin' tough. I'm a pro bottom, but sometimes I fantasize about climbing some dude and fucking him till we're both dead. Sadly, I'll never know what it is to top some motherfucker someday. Such proclivities combined with my talent for attracting assholes, is, and always will be, dangerous for someone like me. So, I renounced all sexual ambitions.

"You ready?" Daniel asks. "The gallery is getting full."

Not really, but, "Yes." I shake off the thoughts about versatile sex and focus on the present, rolling the sleeves of my white dress shirt to bring some casualness into my appearance. My stiff wedding attire isn't required at today's show. I pin my name badge which says Levi Anderson, Gallery Assistant, onto my shirt and walk out after Daniel.

My palms are already damp when I enter the gallery. My heart, racing. Good afternoon to my good friend, Severe Social Anxiety.

Fifteen paintings hang in various places around the gallery, mine among them. It's my best work to date. Or my worst, depending on how you look at it.

I named my piece A Place Not Found. It's signed with my initials only, deliberately scribbled so it's indecipherable. Daniel let me keep my full name out of the exhibition. No one has to know I'm the nut job behind these brush strokes.

It happened back in October, after I'd eaten my golden leaf sushi while my newly-purchased five-thousand-dollar pocket watch rested accusingly next to my paints. I was searching for my sanity – the quietness for my mind – and I couldn't find it. So, I painted it onto a piece of canvas, knowing even then, while it lay in front of me, I still couldn't have it.

My search for the quiet will never end.

What others take for granted is, to me, nothing more than an elusive dream. For me, happiness doesn't exist. There is only the manic insanity and the crushing hopelessness, interrupted by the in-between moments of waiting. Waiting for the high and then the low. Euthymia is what they call it, those in-between moments.

A happy and quiet mind is, for me, lost somewhere in a place not found.

My eyes scan the room, looking for Terri. She's not here yet.

Thanks to some effective marketing strategies, the gallery is, indeed, full. I can"t say if I'm disappointed or relieved that only one person is standing in front of my painting, where three or four visitors can be seen gathering around the other paintings.

I keep my distance from the visitor anyway, waiting for Terri to arrive, just in case the man has questions. Luckily, Shawn, our other gallery assistant, is here too, wearing his Gallery Assistant badge. Shawn is one of those bubbly, butterfly types. A true people's person. And he's closer to the visitor to offer help than I am. I try to tell my nervous system that I don't need to be that relieved to not have to deal with a visitor but it's of no use. I'm immensely pleased that Shawn will most likely have to deal with him.

I make my way around the gallery casually, acting like an assistant and not one of the artists. I pretend to look approachable, but I'm secretly praying that no one will need to ask me anything.

When I've completed a full circle and come back around to where my painting is displayed, the man is still standing in front of it.

Normally, I wouldn't care how long a person studies a painting but this man . . .

From a respectable distance, and with enough people milling around that I would hardly be noticed, I study him as he studies the product of my manic mind.

Wow. How fucking annoying for me, the self-proclaimed celibate, that his face is so fucking beautiful.

He's got about two inches on my six-foot frame. Nice and broad at the shoulders. Dark brown hair, brushed neatly to the side. He's wearing a suit. Like he's been to or is on his way to a wedding. I would say his suit is like the one I wore today, but there is something about the way this man is standing . . . so confident and relaxed . . . that makes me think his suit must have cost the equivalent of two hundred of mine. More, actually. He slips both his hands into his pockets and the move confirms my suspicion that he's someone who would pay a hundred grand for a single painting. He looks just so smooth. Also, that ass.

I'm off to the side, feeling safe enough in my inspections until he turns. His eyes land on Shawn, which sends a sizzle of relief racing down my spine. But then, his eyes move to me. I watch, horror engulfing me, as he drops that astonishing gaze from my face to my name badge. He starts walking toward me, totally ignoring Shawn, who's in his direct line of sight. Oh shit. Where the fuck is Terri? And anyway, Shawn is right fucking there.

Despite my internal hysteria, all I can think of is how this man, whose eyes are concentrated on my name badge, is the most beautiful specimen I've ever laid my eyes on.

I try to pry my eyes away from him to look for that traitorous latecomer, Terri, or at least send a smoke signal to Shawn, but I'm rooted to the spot, unable to move.

He reaches me, flicking his brown eyes from my name badge to my face again. "May I get some help with the painting titled APlace Not Found, please?"

His voice rakes over my body from crown to sole and all the way back up, as if he'd touched his long, elegant fingers to my bare skin. But it isn't the beauty of his face or the electric currents racing through my body that grabs me by the jugular.

It's his eyes. They're dead too.