The next morning, as on so many of these recent mornings, I dropped Sophie at school and drove home in a fog. My blood sugar felt perpetually low, my body heavy with fatigue, dulled to the piles of work all around me. The dogs were hungry; at least I could feed them. I pulled the huge bag of dog food from the bin, and it felt like it was going to overwhelm my body, crush me underneath it.
I sat in front of the bin and let grief wash over me. I forced myself to crawl to the hand-woven carpet David had given me for my birthday four years earlier, and I let myself lie down.
He’d bought the rug when we were in Costa Rica, and he tromped all through the streets with that thing lugged over his shoulder. We couldn’t locate a place to mail it, so he carried it everywhere, into little shops, to the beach, back to the hotel. We finally found a place to ship it home. It probably cost us more than if we’d bought it in the States. He was so headstrong in everything he did.
That reminded me of Jody, the divorce attorney. The divorce had been the last thing on my mind that week, but now I sat up and considered my list of “Crucial Things to Do.” Jody had told me to find a copy of David’s company charter. I dragged myself up from the carpet and willed myself upstairs. David’s office was on the top floor of the house, where the heat rose, and I stayed out of his space as much as I could. I couldn’t think straight with all his crazy piles, piles, and more piles. He never threw anything away. Sometimes, I’d find files that were fifteen years old, dated back to when he first started building.
“David,” I’d say. “Let it go.”
He’d shake his head. “Nope, not yet.”
His drafting board had a half an inch of dust on it; the first time I saw him standing at that board, I realized I’d fallen in love with him. I’d surprised him at his home, but he hadn’t heard me come in. I climbed the stairs to his office to find his back to me, deep in concentration, puzzling over a set of plans on his drawing board. He stood back from the plans, and then moved forward, interacting with the design as if he were an artist and it was his painting.
On that day, which now seemed like another lifetime ago, the window had been open to a view of the elementary school across the street. Sounds of children wafted into the room. He wore a white button-down cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his hair was typical, mussed, thick dark brown.
He turned to see me and didn’t jump or even act surprised. He put his drafting pencil behind his ear before he reached around to kiss me. I thought he was the one person I knew best, that the normal walls and barriers between human beings wouldn’t be there for us. He was different, yes. But I understood him. And I loved him so much.
Now, a decade later, I opened drawer after drawer of his chaos. I couldn’t find anything in this mess. In hindsight, I knew the disorganization was a symptom of the illness. I pulled open the bottom two drawers of his desk. Inside were dozens of white envelopes with his name on them. Strangely, they were unopened. I looked at the return addresses—Multnomah County Court, Clackamas County Court, Yamhill County Court.
Bills? Lawsuits? Worse?
My heart beat as if it were hooked to an electrical prod. I forced myself to focus on my breath, right now. I asked myself to survive the moment, just this one, and I’d never ask for anything again.
I tore into the envelopes, ripping them open one after another. At first, I thought they were misprints—how could David owe so much and not mention it to me? Clackamas County Court claimed he owed $2,600 for failing to appear in court for a ticket. Multnomah County wanted him on a $1,200 violation that had been ignored for eighteen months. How did I miss this going on? I ripped another envelope, and my index finger started to bleed. I opened letter after letter without stopping to find a bandage, leaving bright red stains on notice after notice about his seriously delinquent debt. One of the notices, from a roofing contractor, had both of our names on it.
How dare David hide these from me, hide my responsibility, take my good name from me! David had always retrieved the mail first since he worked at home. I thought it was polite that he sorted my mail from his and left mine in the foyer. I ripped open more envelopes. There was a warrant for his arrest. Jesus. My heart was going to explode. I’d never had a panic attack before. It was as if a stranger had entered my home and forced himself on me. I ran from his office to the garage, where he kept another old filing cabinet. I pulled open the top drawer and dozens more unopened envelopes fell out. This time there were thirty or forty. The second drawer wouldn’t budge; when I finally yanked it hard enough, dozens more envelopes fell onto the floor. The third drawer was also stacked full. I couldn’t swallow. I was covered in sweat.
The extent of his deceit now hit me hard, took the wind from my lungs. His business was tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. I couldn’t breathe; I couldn’t get my breath under control. I threw the envelopes in a pile and cried. Some of the dates on the envelopes were three years old, a timeline to the worsening of David’s illness.
Now that day in the swimming pool last summer took on new significance. David probably had several bill collectors like the greasy-haired man with the gray suit and scuffed shoes. Our independent way of living had protected his secret. We had separate bank accounts, separate phone lines, separate lives. I had made sure the mortgage, the utilities, and Sophie’s school tuition were paid on time. I had trusted that David knew what he was doing with his business, that the juggle of construction credits and debits, although highly precarious, would work out in his favor.
The first time he asked for financial help with his business, I ignored my own internal warning system and bought his excuse that it was just a “bridge loan,” money he’d use just until his punch lists were complete and his many clients paid. A hundred thousand dollars was a lot of money. It meant taking out a second mortgage on the house. But I loaned David the money. The debt was in my name.
NEW BREAKTHROUGHS IN THE UNDERSTANDING OF PSYCHOSIS
At the University of Maryland, Dr. Robert Buchanan is testing anti-inflammatory action in schizophrenic patients using a combination of aspirin, omega 3 fatty acids, and fluvastatin. The trial is being conducted to determine whether psychosis might be caused by inflammation in the brain.
Researchers reporting in the journal Biological Psychiatry have observed the role inflammation plays in the onset of psychosis. Dr. Tyrone Cannon says, “Inflammation is increasingly recognized as a contributing factor to the emergence of progression of disease in every organ in the body.” In people who develop psychosis, markers of proinflammatory cytokines, or substance secreted by certain cells of the immune system, may predict the rate of gray matter loss among the individuals who convert to psychosis. The research suggests that activation of microglia, a type of cell that acts as the first form of active immune defense, is involved in tissue loss.
Neuro-inflammation may tip people over from an at-risk state into psychosis. The authors of a 2010 review of the literature suggested “it has been established that pro-inflammatory cytokines induce not only symptoms of sickness, but also true major depressive disorders in physically ill patients with no previous history of mental disorders.” There is even some evidence for a connection between inflammation and depression-related suicidality. Researchers don’t yet understand precisely how inflammation could lead to depression, but they are testing anti-inflammatory strategies in the hope of finding one or more that works.
A study reported in March 2015 linked psychosis in bipolar disorder to a gene variant associated with higher levels of a protein thought to play a role in cognition and psychosis. The protein is found at high levels in the brains of people suffering from infections. Scientists hope to develop anti-inflammatory drugs that can safely cross from the bloodstream into the brain and affect the pathways beneficially.