Manic (19 page)

What the hell was going on here?

I decided to make a break for the bathroom, which was still empty. Not much had changed in the last thirty minutes. If anything, I looked a little worse for the wear. My hair needed smoothing, my nose was slightly shiny, and my lips had lost their artificial luster. So why were tall tuxedoed strangers beaming at me and kissing my hand? Why was I surrounded by eager, interested eyes? I took a quick inner inventory. No, I wasn’t manic. I wasn’t imagining the attention, either. I could still feel the warmth of it on my skin. The why of it was a mystery, though.

Up until the gallery owner, no one had paid much attention to me. Even he had initially been merely polite, with that old “you look familiar” opening line—until he asked what I did for a living, and I told him the truth. That was it, the point where polite had turned into deeply personal. No wonder the men were attracted. When those words
I’m manic-depressive
came out of my mouth, suddenly I was wearing the most revealing outfit in the room. The other women may have had plunging necklines and slits clear up to their waists, but I was standing there without any armor at all.

I couldn’t wait to get back to the party and tell them everything. I ran a quick comb through my hair, touched up my lipstick, and powdered my nose—then forced myself to sit back down on the tub and count to one hundred. Eagerness is good for the complexion, but it’s a tad too close to mania for my comfort. I took several deep, even breaths, still counting. Maybe I could tell them about the time I was manic and almost got arrested for speeding but seduced the motorcycle cop instead. Or the time that I tried to kill myself and got rescued by my exterminator. Or the night that I…no.

No, no, no.

This was precisely the reason I make myself stand very still when the urge to move is strongest upon me. By the time I had finished counting to one hundred, I realized that telling the truth is a dance like any other, with steps and rhythm and etiquette. It had taken me a lifetime to learn how to lie. I would have to devote a little more time to studying the art of disclosure. So I closed my eyes and simply listened: to my breath, to my blood, to the light patter of the last remaining raindrops on the roof, to the faint snatches of Ella Fitzgerald seeping through the walls. I listened for answers. When none were forthcoming, I realized that listening itself was the answer for now.

I was ready. I stood up, stretched, and walked out of the bathroom without even a sideways glance in the mirror. I’d had enough of my own reflection for one evening. Besides, I very much wanted to dance.

I’m sitting in my favorite café, writing a line,
crossing it out. Writing a line, crossing it out. My soft-boiled egg will be cold by the time I get around to cracking its shell. My latte will have lost all its foam. I don’t care. I’ve had the best meals of my life here in this little café, writing and crossing it out.

The waiters know by now not to disturb me. I sit for hours (I tip really well), hunting for just the right word, the right rhythm to express what I hear inside my head. Some days I never find it. The man at the next table laughs too loudly. Dishes rattle in the kitchen. A woman walks by on her way to the bathroom, her stilettos clicking. I tear the page off my legal pad, and crumple it up in disgust. But I don’t despair. Even at my most discouraged, I don’t despair.

For this day, at least, I’m sane, and I’m writing, and that’s a glorious thing.

It’s all you can really count on when you’re manic-depressive: this day, and no more. But the days add up. To my surprise, it’s been several years since I’ve had a full-blown manic episode, longer still since I’ve tried to commit suicide. Stability feels like such a precarious thing, dependent on just the right dose by just the right doctor. But still, somehow I’ve found it—at least long enough to spend another afternoon in the little café.

Life is not easy, but it’s simpler now. I no longer want to fly kites in a thunderstorm. I have no interest in dancing a tango with the riptide. I can leave my best friend’s boyfriend alone. But I would like to see Santa Fe again. This time in summer, I think.

Los Angeles, California
April 18, 2007

In the midst of madness, I’ve encountered extraordinary kindness. My deepest thanks and love go out to the following people:

To Geoffry White, the only true humanitarian I’ve ever met, who has saved my life so many times I’m afraid I’ve stopped counting. Without him, this book would still be a dream.

To the wise and generous Nancy Bacal, my writing teacher for God knows how many years. She made me dig deeper than I ever thought possible, then taught me how to recognize buried treasure.

To the intrepid pilot Bob Young, who fed me through a straw when I was too ill to eat, then ferried me around town when I couldn’t drive. He’s seen me at my worst, and stayed the course. Words can never repay my debt.

To my dear friend, the talented hunk Paul Mantee, whose wicked way with laughter and women is camouflage for a squishy heart.

To my champion, the warm and wonderful Lisa Doctor, whose enthusiasm for my book was contagious. Her heart knows no bounds.

To Linzi Glass, whose gift with words is exceeded only by her talent for friendship.

To Arnold Pomerantz, who is a constant reminder that goodness does exist in this world.

To the brilliant and loyal Larry Downes, who believed in me early on.

To Phil Green of Autonomy Entertainment, who took a chance when he didn’t have to.

To Steve Brourman, who interrupted his whirlwind life long enough to give me back my dignity.

To Juliet Green, who always spoke the truth.

To all the gifted, quirky, and compassionate characters in Nancy Bacal’s Wednesday-afternoon and Monday-night writing groups, past and present. With special thanks to Maureen Miller, James Fearnley, Kim Kowsky, Ann Bailey, and Janet Tamaro.

To John Wolff, who put up with more than his fair share, and to whom I’ll always be grateful.

To my lovely and indefatigable agent, Lydia Wills at Paradigm, who cared about every word. May she never see another gratuitous semicolon again.

To my gentle but incisive editor, Sarah Durand, who nudged me into a better book when all the odds were against it.

To Dr. Harvey Sternbach, Dr. Jeff Davis, Dr. Rita Resnick, Suzy Davis, Terry Hoffman, Karen Lorre, Kathy Jackoway, David Seligman, Chris Blake, Emily Krump, Sherrill Martin, and Elizabeth Suti for their wisdom and encouragement.

To my beautiful and courageous mother, who has lived through everything I’ve written about and then some, and loved me nonetheless.

And to my father, for everything.

Jacket design by Chika Azuma

Jacket photograph © by Blasius Erlinger/zefa/Corbis