The clock on the wall is the loudest thing I have ever heard, and I’m counting the ticks like the gun that had gone off when I killed Brick.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Dr. Schultz is waiting for me to say something, but I don’t know where to start. I’m wearing an oversized sweater to cover up the mark that he’d left. I still don’t know what had come over me. I like to think I’m not one to ask based on emotion. I like to think that I can do an okay job of thinking about consequences, considering the logic of things. But my track record isn’t looking great.
Schultz taps his pen against his notebook, waiting.
Draven? I whisper it into my brain. I try it on the left side; I try it on the right. I try it in the front, and I try it in the back. I try to say his name through my body, sending it down to my toes. It’s impossible to know when he’s around. But I think I’ve figured out his kryptonite.
“I’m worried,” I finally say between the tapping of the pen and the ticking of the clock. I can’t focus, can’t search my body for him until I can focus.
The pen clicking stops.
Draven?
“Be more specific. About whom, dear? About what? When did it start?”
I noticed it a day or two ago. The kryptonite, not the worry. It made as much sense as something could when you’re grasping at straws. Draven gets weaker—loses his hold on me—when I think of sunshine. He’s a demon, so maybe it all adds up.
However, thinking of sunshine isn’t enough when someone is already inside your head. It feels like whenever I begin to contemplate the warmth of a summer day, imagine the blinding light that one might see from staring straight into the sun, he’s slamming down a brick wall. Now I am the sunshine. I have, discreetly, rubbed my arms and the back of my neck with the essence of lemon.
My sweater is yellow. I’m wearing a sun ring on the finger next to my pentagram ring, another one of the many pieces of jewelry mother had given me from her odd collection.
For now, I think Draven is at bay.
“About me,” I finally say. Schultz raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything else. He wants me to explain. “I’ve been… feeling unlike myself.”
He shifts in his seat. “Tell me more.”
“Well,” I sigh, crossing one leg over the other, “I’ve been… making rash decisions. I’ve been distrustful, yet too trusting all at once. I’d say I’m paranoid, maybe. I’ve been… having these nightmares.”
“You mentioned those last time.” Schultz nods his head as if he already knows. He scribbles a few things down. “It may help if you give me specifics, Ms. Nova.”
I take a deep breath. What instance can I tell him without making me seem insane? How can I sound just insane enough so that he gives me advice, a prescription, but doesn’t admit me into a hospital?
Should I be going to a hospital?
I hate myself for thinking of Stephanie. I can’t even figure out the right answer, think critically about whether or not I need to go stay somewhere for a while to get my mental health in order. Rumors would get around. And Stephanie will win.
“Like… with Daven,” I try to explain. Schultz leans forward, peers at me over his glasses, but doesn’t add anything. “Is it okay if I talk about him?”
He lets out a slight professional chuckle as he sits back against his chair. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Well, aren’t his family members clients of yours? I don’t want to offend—”
“I’m a doctor, Bella,” he interrupts me, setting his notebook on the side table next to him. “I can’t disclose to them anything you say. I have no favorites. They’re a lovely family, but trust that anything you say is between you and I.”
“Okay,” I mumble, sitting up. “I guess I can give you an example. With Daven.”
“Sure,” he nods.
“We broke up.” I feel a sadness in my chest, though I’m usually more angry than sad. “And… I don’t know if it’s my fault or not.”
“Explore that. Talk about that more.”
“Something happened.” I scratch the back of my neck, hoping that breaking the surface of my skin will allow the essence of lemon to hide me from Draven. “With this girl at school. She hates me, and she embarrassed me, and I… could have communicated with him better about it. But I just… felt like everything was…. like it had all been a part of this big conspiracy to hurt me.”
“The paranoia.” Schultz nods, taking the notebook and scribbling again. “That’s a common thing for many mental… dilemmas.”
I notice him not trying to say ill. I don’t care if he says I’m mentally ill. I almost want him to—maybe that means I just need a bowl of chicken soup, a little rest, and a cold compress pressed to the front of my skull to freeze Draven out.
“Sure,” I mumble again, shifting in my seat. “Sure. Yeah, maybe it was silly of me to think that Daven could have anything to do with what Stephanie did—”
“And what did she do?” He crosses one leg over his knee and peers over his glasses again. I take another deep breath. Does he feel like a dentist? Pulling teeth?
“At the homecoming dance—the one Daven took me to—she… ugh. It was awful! I don’t even want to talk about it. She humiliated me in front of the whole school.”
“And you think Daven helped?”
“No, of course not.”
“So, why were you upset with him? Walk me through that thought process. Tell me what you were thinking when you decided you didn’t want to communicate in the way that you—as you have mentioned—thought would be successful.”
I shrug. “I guess there was a… voice in my head.”
He perks his eyebrows up. “A voice—”
“Not a real one!” I jump in quickly, and we both smile. “Sorry, I’m new to therapy.”
“Everyone is at one point. And that’s okay. Tell me what you want to tell me, and I will respect your privacy. When I’m asking these questions, Bella,” he smiles when says my name, refers to me as a friend, “it’s to guide you to a different understanding of what you have already said. Yes?”
I shake my head yes and continue. “There was a little voice in my head, an itch, that said if Daven really cared about me, he would have chased after me. And made sure I was alright. This happened less than a week ago, and he’s already dating someone new. And I know it’s because I am already dating someone new, but—”
“Let’s pause here.” Dr. Schultz puts his pen and notepad back down on the coffee table, grabs his coffee mug, and leans forward before taking a sip. “You’re already dating someone new? And this only happened a week ago?”
Draven? I whisper it again and hear nothing. But how am I supposed to know if he’s just hiding somewhere, watching over me, waiting to hear what I say about him? I’m careful about my word choice. I don’t want to know what might happen if Draven gets angry.
“He was there for me when Daven wasn’t. He has this… energy. It’s like a magnetic connection. I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Do you feel this way a lot?” he asks. I feel as though it’s a trick question.
I quickly answer, “No!”
But maybe I do. Maybe I’ve felt these magnetic, fatal attractions to others for whatever reason. What about Brick? What about Daven? And Draven?
I’m looking down at my fingernails, picking at the acrylics I got for the homecoming dance. They’re beginning to lose their shine, and there’s a gap between the nail and my cuticle. Daven had paid for me to get them done.
When I look back up at Schultz, he’s smirking. “It seems like you’re thinking about your answer a little more critically now.”
I deflate, leaning my head against the cushion of the old couch. The lighting in here is relaxing to some, I’m sure, but it isn’t to me. He has lamps, not fluorescents. The lamps are on their lowest setting, making mostly everything cast an eerie shadow. Draven? But none of the shadows transform. I am relieved, and still suspicious, and still paranoid, all at once.
“I guess I do feel like I fall for people pretty fast.”
He nods. “Do you think it’s healthy for you to jump back into something so quickly after Daven?”
I shrug. “You’re supposed to tell me.”
“How was your relationship with Daven, Bella? Was it… safe?”
I scrunch my eyebrows, tilting my head back. “Safe? What do you mean?”
“Well, if I can be blunt,” he explains, “it’s pretty peculiar for a client to come to me about their significant other unless it’s couples’ counseling. Except for, of course, if the significant other is worried their partner will say something they shouldn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“How’d you get that mark on your wrist, Bella?”
I look down. Just barely, the mark that Draven had left on me is peeking out.
“Oh,” I pull down my sleeve self-consciously, “that wasn’t Daven. Daven was nothing but respectful toward me.”
“Okay,” he sits back, “I just want to make sure this wasn’t an… abusive situation. I was hoping he hadn’t forced you into not telling me the whole truth.”
“No, he would never do that.”
“So, is that the whole truth?”
The clock is ticking so loudly. Shadows are shooting across the room as he moves, always forward and back, and forward and back, the shadow of his pen projecting across the wall. I feel highly anxious; I feel sweaty! What is the whole truth?
“I think I’m seeing things. And no one else seems to see them. Not… not real things. I’m just—paranoid, Dr. Schultz. And anxious. And I feel like there’s two of me. Not that I have a split personality or anything like that—but there’s a version of me that makes great decisions, plans things out, and then there’s another version me that just takes these leaps that don’t end up going right in the long run.”
He nods. “This sounds like, at least from our first conversation, a case of Bipolar Disorder. I think you are manic when you’re making these big, leaping decisions, Bella. And those with Bipolar Disorder—”
“I have Bipolar Disorder?” I repeat as a question. I try to think of what I know about Bipolar Disorder, and this just doesn’t fit. “I’m not having mood swings, though.”
“That’s a common misconception,” he explains. “Most people with Bipolar Disorder swing between mania and depression. The mania is sometimes glorious highs of making wild decisions—selling everything you own and moving to a convent, quitting your job without notice for no good reason, purchasing several instruments though you’ve never played. And then comes the depression. The loneliness, the exhaustion.”
“Hm,” I whisper. That’s all I can say.
“Those who are bipolar may jump into relationships. They may have an intensity. And their intensity may become reflected by others, especially those who also have something going on.”
“So, what’s the cure?”
“No cures here,” he said, scribbling. “You’ll have to take medication, continue seeing me, and work at making adjustments. In time, it’s a truly controllable disorder, especially in your case. It seems to be mild. Let’s try you out on some mood stabilizers and see if they help. You can come back to see me in a week.”
He’s already handing me a script from his pad, with a funny name written across it in bad handwriting.
“But… what if I don’t have Bipolar Disorder?”
“Then the pills probably won’t help, but they won’t hurt you, either. Let’s go ahead and schedule our next appointment for next week.” He moves from his armchair and goes over to his desk, looking through his calendar. “Same time? Same day?”
I look at the word again. I can’t even make out all the letters, and I pray that a pharmacist will be able to.
“Would Bipolar Disorder give me hallucinations?” I ask. It sounds abrupt coming out of my mouth. I sound scared, though I don’t mean to.
He whips his head around, face in a poorly disguised horror. “Bella, are you having hallucinations?”
I shake my head rapidly. “No. I was just asking. Same time, same day, next week.”
I get up quickly, grabbing my purse, and I bolt out the door.