Are We All Lemmings & Snowflakes?, page 15
“Who makes you feel like that?”
“Basically everyone.”
I scrunch my face up over my notepad. “Who the hell are these everyone? Point them out to me so I can beat them up for you.”
He blushes and smiles. “You see, that’s why I like hanging out with you,” he says quietly. “I think you’re the first girl in history who can talk to me without making me feel like a freak.”
I blush too. We’ve been spending a lot of time together just us two. And we haven’t told the others about our project yet. I tell Lewis it’s because they won’t understand, but, selfishly, I want Lewis and his brain to myself. I want to get my algorithm sorted before he starts helping everyone else. Because he’s nice and kind and will no doubt help anyone who asks and we’re not here for very long and I NEED to get it sorted.
But it’s working, it’s working. I can feel it working.
I’ve not felt low for DAYS. Not since that weird call with my parents. I fill out my mood diary each night smiling. I am swimming fifty lengths of the pool. I am using photography to be creative and also combining that with CONNECTING with people. I am learning through all my maths lessons with Lewis. I am actually taking our mindfulness class seriously – lying spread-eagled and dutiful on my yoga mat each day, letting Elizabeth’s soft voice coax me into a state of breathing in and out. I’m giving back by being nice to everyone. I found Sophie crying in the hallway the other day and I totally looked after her. She was a weeping mess because Dr Rossen had made her do all kinds of hardcore exposure therapy in her one-to-one and it had cracked her open.
This could be it, I think, as I walk through the woods. Scrunching through fallen twigs, feeling the dappled light decorate my face like intricate lace. How I feel now could be how I feel all the time. Zingy and fresh-out-the-box and grateful and energized and positive and exactly the sort of person I want to be. I feel so proud of myself. For crawling my way out of the chasm again. It’s okay to fall over seven times as long as you get up eight. And I got up and got here and found the secret to not falling down for an eighth time. As long as I can keep this delicate balance up. I will be okay then. As long as I can always live somewhere quiet and always have time to do the algorithm…I will be fine. Better than fine. Jolly. Even. Steady. Cured. Normal.
Some people, however, have noticed that I’m not quite keeping up with the camp schedule.
“How come you never come to group therapy any more?” Jamie asks me one lunchtime as we settle to eat with the others.
“Yeah,” Hannah says. “You’ve not been all week.”
Lewis and I share a look over our spaghetti bolognese. I’d decided that it suited me better to spend the daily group session going on a really long walk outside, so I’ve been skipping group to match my sanity formula better.
“No reason,” I say, innocently twirling pasta around my fork. “I just like to go for a wander then.”
Jamie elbows me playfully. “But you’re missing all the juicy details about our traumatic pasts. Aren’t you curious?”
Is it bad that I’m not actually? I mean, I like Jamie and Gabriella and Sophie, and even Hannah sometimes. They’re okay enough and seem to have formed a little clump of friendliness. But I’m too absorbed in this formula and sorting myself out to be that bothered with them. Okay, that is harsh, but I’m only here a month and we’re two weeks in already. I need to focus on me.
“I guess.” I take a mouthful of food and talk through it. “What did I miss earlier?” I ask the table.
Gabriella lifts up a spoonful of today’s “healthy rice pudding”, looking distinctly unimpressed with it. “Today we talked about everyone’s progress.”
I raise both eyebrows.
“And? Is everyone cured?”
There’s a rumble of laughter laced with sadness. I look round the table and really take them all in for the first time in a while. Hannah and Sophie are practically joined at the hip, sitting next to each other at all times. Gabriella seems to be having one of her calmer days – though yesterday she went berserk when Kieran accidentally hit her with the Frisbee on the lawn.
“I’ve been told I have to try and sit and watch the alpacas being mucked out,” Hannah starts in her plummy accent. “And the thought of it doesn’t make me want to leave a cartoon-like Hannah-shaped hole in a nearby wall. So I guess that’s something.”
I nod, impressed. Remembering how, on the second day, she ran off crying when they’d even mentioned muck-out duty. “Cool.”
“And this is my third day in a row I’ve felt confident enough to just come and sit with you guys at lunch,” Sophie squeaks, making my heart flood with warmth.
Hannah turns and gives her a hug. “Because you are totally welcome, babe.”
She starts to glow. “Thank you.”
I tilt my head at Jamie. “How about you?”
His eyes go dark and he shrugs. “Still a useless addict.”
I get a jolt of feeling sorry for him, and I’m about to ask more questions, when Darrell and Kieran and Liv all join us.
“Liv, your lipstick is ON POINT,” Gabriella says. “Do you think it would suit my skin colour?”
The conversation fragments into different clusters. The girls start talking make-up, the boys start discussing football – like someone has just painted a gender-cliched line down the middle of us. Lewis and I share another look, silently passing our secret back and forth. He’s more of a conformist than me and hasn’t been missing group. He says it’s “helpful”, but I’m unconvinced. It’s great and all that everyone seems to feel slightly better, but I can’t help thinking that I’m betterer. They’ve made teeny tiny steps, whereas since I’ve adopted this formula, I feel like I’m Queen of the Universe. I’ve never felt so sure I’m on the right path. I’ve never felt so full of hope. I really, truly think I’ve cracked it and the thought is so overwhelmingly magical that I don’t even think I can stay sitting on this chair for a minute longer. I want to go outside and cartwheel across the perfect lawn.
I really do feel bloody great, so it’s kind of surprising when I’m mid-cartwheeling and Dr Jones comes out and asks me in for a “special” session.
The “special” part seems to be this man in with her. Who’s all tweed and beard and coffee breath.
“Hi, Olive, nice to meet you. I’m Dr Bowers.”
I don’t take his hand, I just look at him with a What the hell are you doing here? face.
Dr Jones jumps in. “He’s going to sit in on our session today, Olive. Is that okay? He’s a psychiatrist.”
I raise both eyebrows.
I flop into my chair and cross my legs. My toes want to dance in my trainers, so I tap my foot to let them get it out.
“Why is he here?” I ask, feeling panicked he’ll make the session longer. I don’t want to be late for photography because that is my creative outlet and outletting creativity is an important part of my sanity formula. “I’m feeling fine. Great even. I’ve been telling you as much.”
The two doctors don’t look at each other, and yet I sense that they want to share a look. “Well, firstly, Olive, I want to know why you’ve missed group therapy every single day this week.”
Not this again! I cross my arms. I’m feeling twitchy already. She is messing with my formula. She is making me feel like a bad person rather than a good person who tries their best.
“I thought everything here was optional?”
“It is.” She pauses. “And you’re not in any trouble, Olive. I’m just interested to know why you’ve started skipping it.”
Because that is my outside time. That is the only time I get in my day to go on my long walk in the woods that I know helps me.
“I just felt like it, that’s all,” I say.
“Do you find it hard to hear the experiences of the other people here?”
“It’s not that it’s too hard,” I tell the doctors. “I just have more important things to do.”
She nods slowly. “More important things?”
“Yes. That’s when I go for my walk in the woods. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“No, there’s not. But you can learn a lot about your own mental health from listening to your peers, Olive. Sometimes it’s comforting to know other people are going through the same thing.”
“I spend all day with these people, I know they’re going through stuff. People don’t save their talk just for group anyway. We talked about it just now, over lunch!”
Dr Bowers comes in, his voice all deep and authoritative. “But that’s different from a safe, supervised group therapy session.”
I shoot him a look. “And who the hell are you again?”
“Olive!” Dr Jones’s voice is strict. “Please try not to be rude.”
“It’s okay,” Dr Bowers says. He looks totally unoffended. “We’ve not really explained to Olive why I’m here. I’m sure she’s not that comfortable with my presence.”
“Yes, why are you here?” I ask them both. “I told you, I’m feeling good. Camp is working! You should be happy!”
Dr Jones leans over a pile of papers and picks up the top sheet. “Yes, Olive, and we’re very happy to hear that, we really are. But some of your readings are concerning us, and we just need to check in.”
“Readings from my bracelet?”
“Yes, combined with the data you’ve been giving us via electronic diary.”
I scrunch my nose up. “I feel really happy. I’m not suicidal at all. Why is it alerting you?”
“The bracelet shows that you’ve not been sleeping as well as you did your first week here.”
I raise both eyebrows again. I mean, this isn’t news to me. I am me. I am aware of my sleep. Or my lack of it. I have twisted and turned in my sheets and counted sheep and recited the alphabet backwards and swum twenty extra lengths in the swimming pool so I’d be more tired at bedtime. It’s the one key part to my recovery that I’m lacking. That said, I’m not missing sleep. I don’t feel that tired – just annoyed at myself. Because if I could sleep eight hours, eight blissful hours a night, I could feel even better. But my body won’t oblige.
“I know I’ve not been sleeping,” I tell both of them.
“And, well, there’s no easy way to put this, Olive,” Dr Jones starts, looking at the other doctor. “But your behaviour this past week has been somewhat erratic. We’re a bit concerned about you.”
“Erratic how?”
“Well, you’ve started to miss group therapy. You seem very, umm, full of beans. You’ve taken a lot of photos in art class. Which is great but, still, it’s a lot. Dave tells me you’ve developed over two hundred photos. You’ve used up all the photography paper. We’ve had to order more.”
“I’m making a montage. You need stuff to montage. Look,” I sigh, because it’s so much easier when Dr Jones just says what she wants to say, rather than trying to get me to figure it out, “what are you getting at? Why is he here?” I point with my eyes towards Dr Bowers.
He coughs to assert that he’s about to take over proceedings. “Olive, what Dr Jones is trying to say is that we’ve been alerted to your behaviour by a number of things, and I was asked to review your progress. You don’t appear to be adapting to camp as easily as some of the others, and it’s…well…some of your behaviour is symptomatic of the start of a hypomanic episode, and this has worried me about your meds.”
“What’s wrong with my meds?”
“I obviously have not been the person to diagnose you and I know your diagnosis still isn’t set in stone…” And before I can stop him, before I can shout out “NO”, before I can wave my arms in the air and scream “DON’T DO THIS”, he says, “but in my professional opinion, you may have bipolar disorder and…”
And I zone out because I’m screaming inside and my fists are clenched and tears are in my eyes and I can’t, I can’t, I can’t undo this. I can’t unhear what I’ve just heard. It’s like hearing a spoiler for your favourite TV show but so, so, so, so much worse. Dr Jones has noticed me screaming, even though I’m very quiet, and she’s clocked on.
“Albert!” she interrupts quickly. “Olive didn’t want to know her diagnosis.”
His face falls. “Oh no, Olive, I’m sorry.”
“IT’S IN MY NOTES!” I scream. I actually do scream. “YOU’RE MONITORING MY FUCKING HEART RATE AND YET YOU DON’T READ MY NOTES.” And I’m up and the chair has been kicked across the room and I’m quite sure it was me that did it because they’re calmly telling me to calm down and I totally zone out for a moment or two. I only remember blackness and crying and the word:
Bipolar. Bipolar. Bipolar.
A label. A diagnosis. Who I am boiled down to a catchy title that will probably be called something else in fifty years’ time because eventually, with time, all titles get politically incorrect. They pick up the chair and sit me on it and keep saying, “Sorry, sorry,” but it’s not like saying sorry undoes anything.
Here’s a life tip. Never do anything that requires you to say sorry. Because it’s too late then. Sorry isn’t a magical eraser. Sorry doesn’t get the stain out. Just don’t shit the bed in the first place, rather than apologize for the stain I now can’t wash out.
Dr Jones is kneeling next to me, her hand on the arm of my chair. “We are sorry, Olive. For what it’s worth, what you’ve not known by refusing to know your diagnosis is that we’re still not completely sure what your diagnosis is. So please try not to get too upset by Dr Bowers’s slip up. Nothing is concrete yet.”
“But you think I might have bipolar?”
She shakes her head. “We don’t have to go into this if you don’t want. You’ve had a shock today.”
I cling to the arms of the chair and use them to push myself up. “It’s too late now, you may as well go on.” Because now I know I need to know everything. And this was my concern. This is what I was trying to avoid. Now I have a sticky-note on myself, I want to know everything about it.
Dr Bowers does look really awful to be fair. He keeps pushing his head into his hands and letting out these sighs that make the coffee breath float towards me. “It’s so important to stress here, Olive, that I’ve not formally assessed you. I’ve only looked at your file and your meds and come to a few hypotheses. You’ve not been formally diagnosed with bipolar for two main reasons. The first, your age. You’re only sixteen and we don’t like to jump the gun on this sort of thing. But it’s clear you do have mood cycles.” He smiles. “But then so does every teenager – that’s what makes your age-group so fascinating. But it also makes things a little harder to diagnose.”
I find I’m laughing again. “You don’t know which cluster to put me in? I don’t fit into your diagnostic tree!” I giggle at that. Oh God, I am a special snowflake after all!
“How do you know about mental health clusters?” Dr Jones asks.
“I looked it up.”
“That’s interesting. Why did you feel the need to do that?”
I guess I could tell them – about all the stuff I’ve been doing. Then they’d realize that I’m not blowing off group or getting hypomania or whatever it is they say I’m getting – they’ll realize I’m just helping them do their job. Like an animal sidekick in a Disney movie or something. But Dr Bowers looks like he takes himself way too seriously to appreciate a young lass like me helping an old bloke like him.
“Just interested.”
“Well, yes, in your case, we are having some internal debate about where to place you,” he says. “And this leads me to concern about your medication. It says in your notes that this is the first time you’ve been medicated for your episodes of low moods?”
I nod. And also feel a tingle of anger. So he read that much in my notes but not the part about not telling me my diagnosis? I really don’t trust him then. This thing. This whole thing is a clown operation. I’m doing a better job getting myself better than they are. I just need them to think I’m okay enough to let me stay – because the food is good and Lewis is here. Plus, the swimming pool is quite handy, and all the photography kit. But I’m done listening to THEM thinking they know what’s good for me, when they can’t even agree what’s wrong with me. I do not trust any of them at all.
“And the hospital put you on a standard antidepressant, is that right?”
I nod. “Very standard. Tesco own-brand.”
Neither of them laugh.
“This is my concern.” He draws himself up in the chair so we’re the same height. I want to stretch my neck up so I’m even higher but I need to act normal enough to be let out of this room to get back to my project. “If you do have bipolar, and not just depression, being on an SSRI antidepressant can trigger hypomania. This could be what’s happening to you now.”
“Or I could just be in a good mood?”
Dr Jones smiles in the tiniest way. “Perhaps. But your lack of sleep is a worry, Olive. We don’t want you to crash.”
“But I’ve never slept much! If I hadn’t had a label like bipolar stamped onto my forehead, my lack of sleep wouldn’t be freaking you out.”
Dr Bowers coughs to get the attention back onto him again. “I would like you to try some mood stabilizers, alongside your other meds, Olive,” he says. “Have you heard of lithium? You’re in a safe environment here. It’s a good place to be monitored, see how you take to them.”
Lithium… A mood stabilizer… I instantly reject the idea. It’s so clear this supposed doctor doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. I bet this project doesn’t even pass the pilot. It won’t if I tell them that they accidentally told me my diagnosis. Especially if my diagnosis is a fucking…fucking… SHRUG!
“But you don’t even know what’s wrong with me! And I’m supposed to start taking serious drugs on what? Your whim?”
I can hardly compute everything that’s just happened. I’m so angry. So confused. So pissed off that I was in such a good mood and now they’re ruining it and making me not trust it any more and definitely making me not trust them any more. I don’t like the idea of these meds. I don’t like the idea of them just shoving them on me based on a random guess. Maybe I don’t want my moods to be stabilized. Who would I be without them? Everyone has moods, right? That’s just a side effect of being alive.
“Basically everyone.”
I scrunch my face up over my notepad. “Who the hell are these everyone? Point them out to me so I can beat them up for you.”
He blushes and smiles. “You see, that’s why I like hanging out with you,” he says quietly. “I think you’re the first girl in history who can talk to me without making me feel like a freak.”
I blush too. We’ve been spending a lot of time together just us two. And we haven’t told the others about our project yet. I tell Lewis it’s because they won’t understand, but, selfishly, I want Lewis and his brain to myself. I want to get my algorithm sorted before he starts helping everyone else. Because he’s nice and kind and will no doubt help anyone who asks and we’re not here for very long and I NEED to get it sorted.
But it’s working, it’s working. I can feel it working.
I’ve not felt low for DAYS. Not since that weird call with my parents. I fill out my mood diary each night smiling. I am swimming fifty lengths of the pool. I am using photography to be creative and also combining that with CONNECTING with people. I am learning through all my maths lessons with Lewis. I am actually taking our mindfulness class seriously – lying spread-eagled and dutiful on my yoga mat each day, letting Elizabeth’s soft voice coax me into a state of breathing in and out. I’m giving back by being nice to everyone. I found Sophie crying in the hallway the other day and I totally looked after her. She was a weeping mess because Dr Rossen had made her do all kinds of hardcore exposure therapy in her one-to-one and it had cracked her open.
This could be it, I think, as I walk through the woods. Scrunching through fallen twigs, feeling the dappled light decorate my face like intricate lace. How I feel now could be how I feel all the time. Zingy and fresh-out-the-box and grateful and energized and positive and exactly the sort of person I want to be. I feel so proud of myself. For crawling my way out of the chasm again. It’s okay to fall over seven times as long as you get up eight. And I got up and got here and found the secret to not falling down for an eighth time. As long as I can keep this delicate balance up. I will be okay then. As long as I can always live somewhere quiet and always have time to do the algorithm…I will be fine. Better than fine. Jolly. Even. Steady. Cured. Normal.
Some people, however, have noticed that I’m not quite keeping up with the camp schedule.
“How come you never come to group therapy any more?” Jamie asks me one lunchtime as we settle to eat with the others.
“Yeah,” Hannah says. “You’ve not been all week.”
Lewis and I share a look over our spaghetti bolognese. I’d decided that it suited me better to spend the daily group session going on a really long walk outside, so I’ve been skipping group to match my sanity formula better.
“No reason,” I say, innocently twirling pasta around my fork. “I just like to go for a wander then.”
Jamie elbows me playfully. “But you’re missing all the juicy details about our traumatic pasts. Aren’t you curious?”
Is it bad that I’m not actually? I mean, I like Jamie and Gabriella and Sophie, and even Hannah sometimes. They’re okay enough and seem to have formed a little clump of friendliness. But I’m too absorbed in this formula and sorting myself out to be that bothered with them. Okay, that is harsh, but I’m only here a month and we’re two weeks in already. I need to focus on me.
“I guess.” I take a mouthful of food and talk through it. “What did I miss earlier?” I ask the table.
Gabriella lifts up a spoonful of today’s “healthy rice pudding”, looking distinctly unimpressed with it. “Today we talked about everyone’s progress.”
I raise both eyebrows.
“And? Is everyone cured?”
There’s a rumble of laughter laced with sadness. I look round the table and really take them all in for the first time in a while. Hannah and Sophie are practically joined at the hip, sitting next to each other at all times. Gabriella seems to be having one of her calmer days – though yesterday she went berserk when Kieran accidentally hit her with the Frisbee on the lawn.
“I’ve been told I have to try and sit and watch the alpacas being mucked out,” Hannah starts in her plummy accent. “And the thought of it doesn’t make me want to leave a cartoon-like Hannah-shaped hole in a nearby wall. So I guess that’s something.”
I nod, impressed. Remembering how, on the second day, she ran off crying when they’d even mentioned muck-out duty. “Cool.”
“And this is my third day in a row I’ve felt confident enough to just come and sit with you guys at lunch,” Sophie squeaks, making my heart flood with warmth.
Hannah turns and gives her a hug. “Because you are totally welcome, babe.”
She starts to glow. “Thank you.”
I tilt my head at Jamie. “How about you?”
His eyes go dark and he shrugs. “Still a useless addict.”
I get a jolt of feeling sorry for him, and I’m about to ask more questions, when Darrell and Kieran and Liv all join us.
“Liv, your lipstick is ON POINT,” Gabriella says. “Do you think it would suit my skin colour?”
The conversation fragments into different clusters. The girls start talking make-up, the boys start discussing football – like someone has just painted a gender-cliched line down the middle of us. Lewis and I share another look, silently passing our secret back and forth. He’s more of a conformist than me and hasn’t been missing group. He says it’s “helpful”, but I’m unconvinced. It’s great and all that everyone seems to feel slightly better, but I can’t help thinking that I’m betterer. They’ve made teeny tiny steps, whereas since I’ve adopted this formula, I feel like I’m Queen of the Universe. I’ve never felt so sure I’m on the right path. I’ve never felt so full of hope. I really, truly think I’ve cracked it and the thought is so overwhelmingly magical that I don’t even think I can stay sitting on this chair for a minute longer. I want to go outside and cartwheel across the perfect lawn.
I really do feel bloody great, so it’s kind of surprising when I’m mid-cartwheeling and Dr Jones comes out and asks me in for a “special” session.
The “special” part seems to be this man in with her. Who’s all tweed and beard and coffee breath.
“Hi, Olive, nice to meet you. I’m Dr Bowers.”
I don’t take his hand, I just look at him with a What the hell are you doing here? face.
Dr Jones jumps in. “He’s going to sit in on our session today, Olive. Is that okay? He’s a psychiatrist.”
I raise both eyebrows.
I flop into my chair and cross my legs. My toes want to dance in my trainers, so I tap my foot to let them get it out.
“Why is he here?” I ask, feeling panicked he’ll make the session longer. I don’t want to be late for photography because that is my creative outlet and outletting creativity is an important part of my sanity formula. “I’m feeling fine. Great even. I’ve been telling you as much.”
The two doctors don’t look at each other, and yet I sense that they want to share a look. “Well, firstly, Olive, I want to know why you’ve missed group therapy every single day this week.”
Not this again! I cross my arms. I’m feeling twitchy already. She is messing with my formula. She is making me feel like a bad person rather than a good person who tries their best.
“I thought everything here was optional?”
“It is.” She pauses. “And you’re not in any trouble, Olive. I’m just interested to know why you’ve started skipping it.”
Because that is my outside time. That is the only time I get in my day to go on my long walk in the woods that I know helps me.
“I just felt like it, that’s all,” I say.
“Do you find it hard to hear the experiences of the other people here?”
“It’s not that it’s too hard,” I tell the doctors. “I just have more important things to do.”
She nods slowly. “More important things?”
“Yes. That’s when I go for my walk in the woods. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“No, there’s not. But you can learn a lot about your own mental health from listening to your peers, Olive. Sometimes it’s comforting to know other people are going through the same thing.”
“I spend all day with these people, I know they’re going through stuff. People don’t save their talk just for group anyway. We talked about it just now, over lunch!”
Dr Bowers comes in, his voice all deep and authoritative. “But that’s different from a safe, supervised group therapy session.”
I shoot him a look. “And who the hell are you again?”
“Olive!” Dr Jones’s voice is strict. “Please try not to be rude.”
“It’s okay,” Dr Bowers says. He looks totally unoffended. “We’ve not really explained to Olive why I’m here. I’m sure she’s not that comfortable with my presence.”
“Yes, why are you here?” I ask them both. “I told you, I’m feeling good. Camp is working! You should be happy!”
Dr Jones leans over a pile of papers and picks up the top sheet. “Yes, Olive, and we’re very happy to hear that, we really are. But some of your readings are concerning us, and we just need to check in.”
“Readings from my bracelet?”
“Yes, combined with the data you’ve been giving us via electronic diary.”
I scrunch my nose up. “I feel really happy. I’m not suicidal at all. Why is it alerting you?”
“The bracelet shows that you’ve not been sleeping as well as you did your first week here.”
I raise both eyebrows again. I mean, this isn’t news to me. I am me. I am aware of my sleep. Or my lack of it. I have twisted and turned in my sheets and counted sheep and recited the alphabet backwards and swum twenty extra lengths in the swimming pool so I’d be more tired at bedtime. It’s the one key part to my recovery that I’m lacking. That said, I’m not missing sleep. I don’t feel that tired – just annoyed at myself. Because if I could sleep eight hours, eight blissful hours a night, I could feel even better. But my body won’t oblige.
“I know I’ve not been sleeping,” I tell both of them.
“And, well, there’s no easy way to put this, Olive,” Dr Jones starts, looking at the other doctor. “But your behaviour this past week has been somewhat erratic. We’re a bit concerned about you.”
“Erratic how?”
“Well, you’ve started to miss group therapy. You seem very, umm, full of beans. You’ve taken a lot of photos in art class. Which is great but, still, it’s a lot. Dave tells me you’ve developed over two hundred photos. You’ve used up all the photography paper. We’ve had to order more.”
“I’m making a montage. You need stuff to montage. Look,” I sigh, because it’s so much easier when Dr Jones just says what she wants to say, rather than trying to get me to figure it out, “what are you getting at? Why is he here?” I point with my eyes towards Dr Bowers.
He coughs to assert that he’s about to take over proceedings. “Olive, what Dr Jones is trying to say is that we’ve been alerted to your behaviour by a number of things, and I was asked to review your progress. You don’t appear to be adapting to camp as easily as some of the others, and it’s…well…some of your behaviour is symptomatic of the start of a hypomanic episode, and this has worried me about your meds.”
“What’s wrong with my meds?”
“I obviously have not been the person to diagnose you and I know your diagnosis still isn’t set in stone…” And before I can stop him, before I can shout out “NO”, before I can wave my arms in the air and scream “DON’T DO THIS”, he says, “but in my professional opinion, you may have bipolar disorder and…”
And I zone out because I’m screaming inside and my fists are clenched and tears are in my eyes and I can’t, I can’t, I can’t undo this. I can’t unhear what I’ve just heard. It’s like hearing a spoiler for your favourite TV show but so, so, so, so much worse. Dr Jones has noticed me screaming, even though I’m very quiet, and she’s clocked on.
“Albert!” she interrupts quickly. “Olive didn’t want to know her diagnosis.”
His face falls. “Oh no, Olive, I’m sorry.”
“IT’S IN MY NOTES!” I scream. I actually do scream. “YOU’RE MONITORING MY FUCKING HEART RATE AND YET YOU DON’T READ MY NOTES.” And I’m up and the chair has been kicked across the room and I’m quite sure it was me that did it because they’re calmly telling me to calm down and I totally zone out for a moment or two. I only remember blackness and crying and the word:
Bipolar. Bipolar. Bipolar.
A label. A diagnosis. Who I am boiled down to a catchy title that will probably be called something else in fifty years’ time because eventually, with time, all titles get politically incorrect. They pick up the chair and sit me on it and keep saying, “Sorry, sorry,” but it’s not like saying sorry undoes anything.
Here’s a life tip. Never do anything that requires you to say sorry. Because it’s too late then. Sorry isn’t a magical eraser. Sorry doesn’t get the stain out. Just don’t shit the bed in the first place, rather than apologize for the stain I now can’t wash out.
Dr Jones is kneeling next to me, her hand on the arm of my chair. “We are sorry, Olive. For what it’s worth, what you’ve not known by refusing to know your diagnosis is that we’re still not completely sure what your diagnosis is. So please try not to get too upset by Dr Bowers’s slip up. Nothing is concrete yet.”
“But you think I might have bipolar?”
She shakes her head. “We don’t have to go into this if you don’t want. You’ve had a shock today.”
I cling to the arms of the chair and use them to push myself up. “It’s too late now, you may as well go on.” Because now I know I need to know everything. And this was my concern. This is what I was trying to avoid. Now I have a sticky-note on myself, I want to know everything about it.
Dr Bowers does look really awful to be fair. He keeps pushing his head into his hands and letting out these sighs that make the coffee breath float towards me. “It’s so important to stress here, Olive, that I’ve not formally assessed you. I’ve only looked at your file and your meds and come to a few hypotheses. You’ve not been formally diagnosed with bipolar for two main reasons. The first, your age. You’re only sixteen and we don’t like to jump the gun on this sort of thing. But it’s clear you do have mood cycles.” He smiles. “But then so does every teenager – that’s what makes your age-group so fascinating. But it also makes things a little harder to diagnose.”
I find I’m laughing again. “You don’t know which cluster to put me in? I don’t fit into your diagnostic tree!” I giggle at that. Oh God, I am a special snowflake after all!
“How do you know about mental health clusters?” Dr Jones asks.
“I looked it up.”
“That’s interesting. Why did you feel the need to do that?”
I guess I could tell them – about all the stuff I’ve been doing. Then they’d realize that I’m not blowing off group or getting hypomania or whatever it is they say I’m getting – they’ll realize I’m just helping them do their job. Like an animal sidekick in a Disney movie or something. But Dr Bowers looks like he takes himself way too seriously to appreciate a young lass like me helping an old bloke like him.
“Just interested.”
“Well, yes, in your case, we are having some internal debate about where to place you,” he says. “And this leads me to concern about your medication. It says in your notes that this is the first time you’ve been medicated for your episodes of low moods?”
I nod. And also feel a tingle of anger. So he read that much in my notes but not the part about not telling me my diagnosis? I really don’t trust him then. This thing. This whole thing is a clown operation. I’m doing a better job getting myself better than they are. I just need them to think I’m okay enough to let me stay – because the food is good and Lewis is here. Plus, the swimming pool is quite handy, and all the photography kit. But I’m done listening to THEM thinking they know what’s good for me, when they can’t even agree what’s wrong with me. I do not trust any of them at all.
“And the hospital put you on a standard antidepressant, is that right?”
I nod. “Very standard. Tesco own-brand.”
Neither of them laugh.
“This is my concern.” He draws himself up in the chair so we’re the same height. I want to stretch my neck up so I’m even higher but I need to act normal enough to be let out of this room to get back to my project. “If you do have bipolar, and not just depression, being on an SSRI antidepressant can trigger hypomania. This could be what’s happening to you now.”
“Or I could just be in a good mood?”
Dr Jones smiles in the tiniest way. “Perhaps. But your lack of sleep is a worry, Olive. We don’t want you to crash.”
“But I’ve never slept much! If I hadn’t had a label like bipolar stamped onto my forehead, my lack of sleep wouldn’t be freaking you out.”
Dr Bowers coughs to get the attention back onto him again. “I would like you to try some mood stabilizers, alongside your other meds, Olive,” he says. “Have you heard of lithium? You’re in a safe environment here. It’s a good place to be monitored, see how you take to them.”
Lithium… A mood stabilizer… I instantly reject the idea. It’s so clear this supposed doctor doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. I bet this project doesn’t even pass the pilot. It won’t if I tell them that they accidentally told me my diagnosis. Especially if my diagnosis is a fucking…fucking… SHRUG!
“But you don’t even know what’s wrong with me! And I’m supposed to start taking serious drugs on what? Your whim?”
I can hardly compute everything that’s just happened. I’m so angry. So confused. So pissed off that I was in such a good mood and now they’re ruining it and making me not trust it any more and definitely making me not trust them any more. I don’t like the idea of these meds. I don’t like the idea of them just shoving them on me based on a random guess. Maybe I don’t want my moods to be stabilized. Who would I be without them? Everyone has moods, right? That’s just a side effect of being alive.
