CHAPTER 51

With the new year not so new anymore, the world carries on as if New Year"s resolutions never happened.

Not me.

I begin the new year with a vengeance, determined to make this the best year I've ever had.

Surprisingly, it isn't Hayden's job that limits our time together. It's mine. The newspaper did an article on Gallery 180 after Christmas, naming Hayden as our regular client.

By February, visitors and social media influencers began to demand more access to the gallery and more artwork than we could create.

I'm so busy I hardly have time for anything but my psych appointments. I'm going diligently because, once again, we need to re-evaluate my meds. I haven't been able to come out of my mixed episode. I'm a ping-pong ball, jumping from mania to depressive lows with no end in sight. The drip, drip, drip inside my head is always there but I manage to keep it shoved down.

Hayden asked if I would stay with him full time, but I don't think I can handle such a drastic change right now. Instead, I spend some nights with him.

He wanted to get to know my sleep patterns, he said. He watches my routines carefully and makes provision for them, such as making sure my favorite tea is stocked in his kitchen. He gets copies of Sherlock Holmes and a few poetry collections. He also watches Gotham with me when I'm at his place.

He's quiet when I'm low and alert when I'm manic and I don't know what I ever did to deserve him. Next week, I'm getting a spare key made for him so he can come to my apartment whenever he wants.

Now, with the workday finally over, I head home. I'm stopping at Dr. Emily's office first. She wants to give me some feedback on yet another new treatment plan.

"How are you, Levi?" she asks as I take my seat across from her.

"I'm just all over the place," I say. "I'm agitated. Then I feel so hopeless. Then, like my skin is crawling and I don't know how to make it stop. One day I'm consumed by sadness and the next I feel perfectly fine. It's like this unending, unpredictable cycle. I feel so out of control."

She nods. "I'm worried about the mixed episodes. You"ve had far fewer stable days this past year than you've had in previous years."

Everything smells like bad news. "It was a shitty year."

"I want us to try something new, Levi."

"What is it?" I ask, now terrified, because I know Dr. Emily well enough to pick up on her tics. She's not about to deliver good news.

"Lithium."

I am instantly triggered. "But – but – it's not that bad, right? I'm not that far gone."

She doesn"t answer, so I ask desperately, "Am I?"

"Considering the history of your treatment plans, the recommendation is warranted, Levi." I hate the compassion in her voice.

Lithium means I've run out of options. I'm at the top of the fucking food chain of Bipolar Disorder. Isn't that what everybody says? I haven't been getting better. I've been getting fucking worse.

"I won't do it," I say automatically. "I'm not that sick."

"Levi, it's not a death sentence."

"But it's Lithium." And that, to me, is a fucking death sentence.

"Bipolar Disorder is not a one-size-fits-all disorder, Levi. Lithium is a very effective drug. Does it work for everyone? No, of course not. But that doesn't mean it won't work for you. It's a work in progress. It's always a work in progress. Let's concentrate on what you need without judgment and stigma."

Despite Dr. Emily's assurance, despair courses through my system like little snakes growing and slithering through my bloodstream. This will send me into a low so deep and dark I might not want to return to the light. Or it might send me into a manic episode so unbearable I might as well just fucking die. With my mixed episode, who knows which way I'll go?

I need to talk to Hayden. He'll understand.

"Tell me you'll work with me on this, Levi," Dr. Emily says.

"I want to talk to Hayden first."

"Okay. Why don't we schedule a session for you and him with Laura and then one with me next week?"

My heart rate is out of my control, but I manage to agree.

On the bus ride home, I try to text Hayden several times, but I delete each one. I should try and deal with it on my own first.

Then, I force myself out of that headspace. I have a support system. I should reach out to someone. If not Hayden, then at least Daniel. Or Terri. Or maybe even Sasha. Sasha will understand. Then I remember Sasha is in her own dark place. I don't need to add to her shitpile of problems.

In my apartment, I pace the living room. I can do it, right? I could. Lithium is not some monster waiting to devour me. It's there to help me. I'm grateful for the medical and scientific community that works so hard for people like us.

The drip, drip, drip inside my head increases.

My phone pings. It's a text from my mother telling me that David has made a surprise trip to New York, and can I please come over for dinner before he leaves. He's here for a work meeting, the text says. I ignore it. Suddenly, I hate my whole family. Fuck. Where is all this coming from?

Agitation nips at the edges of my mind. It's an oppressive weight sitting on my chest and making my skin burn from the inside.

I try to keep myself busy, cleaning, then organizing and reorganizing art supplies. I throw out old brushes and empty paint tubes. Then, I clean the bathroom. I cry while I scrub the toilet, but I don't know why.

The kitchen is next, followed by my closet.

I'm knee deep in clothes I no longer wear, ready to box them up for the shelter when a pile of clothes at the bottom of the closet catches my eye.

Hayden's tuxedo.

I groan, wishing I could lose the memory of that day.

It's been months, and he hasn't asked for it back. I grab the pile, holding the jacket to my face. It's a beautiful suit. I'll need to return it to him soon. Maybe dry-clean it first.

With nothing else to do, I head to the dry cleaners downstairs.

"We're quiet. Won't be too long," Marge says.

When I return several hours later to pick up the clothes, I've cleaned my apartment again and roasted a chicken to take to Hayden's place.

"Here, this was in the pants pocket," Marge says when I pick up the suit. She hands me a piece of paper.

"Thanks, Marge." I grab the cleaned clothing and the paper and head back to my apartment. Setting down the bag on my bed, I open the piece of paper.

It's a handwritten note.

Nicholas, the next time I see this tuxedo, you'll be wearing it as we exchange our vows. I hope you like it.

I love you.

Hayden.

No.

My eyes scan the note again.

No. This isn't happening. It can't—

Oh. God. I can't breathe. Help me. Someone, help me.

I drop to the floor, shoving away from where the suit lies.

Nicholas's suit?

Nicholas's wedding suit?

No. I need my meds. Help me, someone.

Scrambling to my feet, I race to the kitchen. I'm manic? Am I fucking manic? Why am I manic? What's going on? No. Wait. I'm in a mixed episode. Still, I don't know what's happening. This isn't happening. I'm hallucinating. It's all in my head. I didn't wear Nicholas's wedding suit. I'm making it all up. This is not really happening.

My body convulses and I run to the bathroom to empty my stomach. Vomit sits in my throat. I don't make it. Dropping to my knees, I empty the contents of my stomach on the hallway carpet.

Drip, drip, drip.

My skin crawls. The voices inside my head begin to scream. Humiliation coils itself around me. A python wrapping itself around me. My bones, cracking. Blood vessels bursting. I won't survive this.

DRIP. DRIP. DRIP.

Boulders land on my head, crushing my skull. The noise. Oh, God. The noise.

I should be dead.

I should—

Yes. How does that sound?

DRIP. DRIP. DRIP.

The noise inside my head gets louder and louder but—

It'll be a small funeral. I don't have many friends. Hayden won"t come because funerals are probably not his favorite thing in the world.

I look around my apartment. Yes. Everything is clean and neat. No one would have to come and clean out my apartment and think about what a slob I was. But maybe I'll take a look around just once to make sure.

I'll use the pills. All of them. Absently, I walk through the apartment, opening up the windows so the place won't smell. I'll clean up the mess in the hallway in a minute.

I collect all my meds. Even the ones from last year and the year before. Line them up on my nightstand. Four bottles of water in a neat line behind the bottles of pills. What about the roasted chicken?

My head screams, but now it's no longer the shrieky high-pitched screams from the horror movies. It's more like the howl of a wolf. Many wolves. So sad at first when you hear just one howl. But then, it"s the sound of ten wolves, then a hundred wolves, and finally, the sounds are screaming out of your ears like mania has become a person and is now demanding to be heard.

I crawl onto my bed with Nicholas's suit clutched to my chest.

Pop the first pill into my mouth. A gulp of water. Another pill. Another gulp of water. Please God, send me to hell. I can't face Nicholas in the afterlife. I set Hayden's love note to Nicholas next to me. Set my phone next to the note. Another pill. More water. Pill. Water. Pill. Water. Pill. Water. My phone. Pill. Water—