I squirmed awkwardly in my crappily-padded chair, trying futilely to make myself comfortable. Every time the white clock’s second hand clicked, the feeling that I was five years old and in trouble for something petty grew dramatically, the patronizing aura of the room becoming palpable. To my right sat my mother, who clenched her mock-snakeskin purse tightly enough to make her knuckles white, and to my left sat my father, who looked more bored than anything else. I was shaking with a cocktail of nervousness, humiliation, and anger. I wanted someone besides me to say something.

The doctor, a fifty-something-year-old man with gray hair and a large nose, cleared his throat, clasped his hands, and tried making eye contact with me. I stared at my knees. After a moment of fruitless silence, he gave up and instead leaned forward on his desk like a principal would, asking, “So, what brings you here today?”

I tried to swallow, but the lump in my throat was making that very difficult. My parents had called him the day before and demanded a prompt appointment. We all knew he knew what was going on.

I couldn’t look him in the eye, “Well, I––”
“She’s been scratching herself,” my father interrupted. I flushed with hot embarrassment.
My mother ignored him. “We think––”
“You think,” my dad murmured.
“––that she’s got bipolar disorder.”

My heart stopped at those two words. Bipolar disorder. Was it possible? I knew my mom had it, and as a child I hated her for it, but was it truly possible that I could have it too? Was bipolar disorder even a genetic thing? Could a fifteen-year-old even have bipolar disorder? What did that even mean?

Tick. Tick. It sounded like that second hand was moving too fast and too slow at the same time. Tick. Maybe I should tell the doctor to check it? No, that’s stupid, why would he check it now? Tick. Tick. Well, he’s a doctor, he’s supposed to be very punctual, tick, maybe that sort of thing is important to him, tick, maybe we should just let him know, tick, maybe we should just say something, tick, maybe we should just say something, tick, maybe we should just say something, tick, maybe we should just say something, tick––
When I was very young, I would wake up as early as possible to help my mother make her morning coffee. I would have to wake up bright and early, just like she always did, if I wanted to participate. Hence I was generally up and roaming the house before 6AM, though, often to my horror, my twin sister was already awake by that time, with her fat little baby hands all over the red sippy-cup. Holly and I frequently bickered about who would get to help Mommy brew the coffee, but more than that, we always fought over who would drink their “coffee” (chocolate milk) in the red sippy-cup. We had a set of four––green, blue, yellow, and red––but for reasons beyond my parents we’d throw a fit over who got the red one. (They don’t know it, but for me it was because the red one had a firetruck on it.)

Every morning, I’d trail behind my mother into the kitchen, where she’d set me on the marble countertop and cue the following ritualistic events: she’d use a shiny measuring cup to scoop out the grounds from a blue Maxwell House container, counting with me; if she felt I could handle it that day, she’d let me put the flimsy white filter into the bowl-thing before adding the strongly-scented brown powder; then I’d pour the water into the grated part on top of the coffee machine and close the lid. I never drank the coffee; I still don’t. But even though I couldn’t have been older than four, I remember bubbling with excitement every morning to help Mommy prepare it.

It felt really fulfilling, having moments like that––I don’t think it was in my toddler capacity to appreciate the simple, carefree daily events that bonded me with my family, but in my teen years I find myself missing those silly “the-best-things-in-life-are-free” traditions. Though, in those moments, I never really wondered the reason my mother looked so sad.

Tick. The doctor looked at me with hard, gentle eyes. “So, you’ve been scratching yourself?”
I grimaced. How do I answer? “I’ve been...well, it’s not really scratching, it’s more like––”
“She’s cutting herself,” explained my mother. The word “cutting” made me feel like that stereotypical emo girl who uses razors to get attention. I bit my tongue nervously. Is that what I am?

“It’s more like scratching,” my dad said snobbishly. How would he know? I didn’t know boxcutters were used for skin-scratching. Wasn’t flesh easier to slice through than multiple layers of boxing tape and cardboard? But why does it matter what it’s called? Why am I so upset when my mother says “cutting” and my father is dismissive? Is there no middle ground? Maybe it’s just something I’m so ashamed of that I will never appreciate labelling it, or even addressing it...or maybe I really am doing this just for attention….

Growing up, I never really got the impression that something was wrong with me. Maybe there wasn’t, then––but that’s something I’ll never know. All I can say (and not even with certainty) is that around the time I was old enough to notice the disintegration of my parents’ marriage, there were physical changes beginning to bloom in the soft, squishy little sack of life occupying my skull. My brain, that precious, hideous little organ, was reshaping itself, obeying the coded orders of some DNA that got confused a few generations ago and, unbeknownst to itself, was betraying the human it was so gingerly created to protect.

For me, though, things were different from the other girls, the girls whose brains were just experiencing the onset of puberty. Something else was happening. Maybe it was triggered by the divorce, or maybe my pituitary gland telling my ovaries to wake up, or maybe I was just too young to notice it before, but there was something, something happening inside me that I could not stop. Without my permission, my body plunged itself into a sea of mania and depression that I would never escape from. I was developing bipolar disorder.

“Could you show me these cuts?” the doctor asked. My heart thumped hard in my chest––so hard I could hear the blood rushing through my ears––and a million thoughts raced through my head. These are not badges of honor. These are not signs of strength. These are not something I am proud of.  These are an embarrassment, a reminder of my inability to cope with heartache, an undeniable, physical proof that I am an idiot too self-absorbed in being sad to appreciate the fact that I am alive, too damn selfish to respect the godsend that is my body. These are not something I will show off.

My insides became ice as I halfheartedly pulled up the right sleeve of my jacket, shattering any remaining dignity I had. He inspected my arm, noting the marks weren’t open or deep enough to be a concern for infection. My dad smirked, somehow pleased with himself more than relieved for his daughter.

When I recall simple pleasures like helping my mother make coffee, I get this melancholy dagger to the heart––I pity that child so much, that poor girl, who just wanted to grow up and create more memories like those...but instead, she grew up to become this diseased, handicapped disappointment. Somehow I’m always able to find ways to blame myself for being this way, though parents, friends, doctors, counselors, science, and common sense all tell me to believe otherwise. That little girl who just wanted to play in the bathtub with her Arctic-themed animal toys now found herself sobbing in that same bath, wishing she had the guts to end the unrealistic emotional pain that followed her around wherever she went. That little girl who just wanted to be the dad when they played house now feels a sting in her heart when she realizes she will never allow herself to have children, to spare the next daughter the lifetime of mental torment she knows she herself will have to face. That little girl who thought she was going to be young and carefree forever now knows she will not only bear the burden of adulthood, but the burden of an incurable mental disorder that will affect her every decision.

“It’ll take an official test by a specialist to guarantee that this really is bipolar disorder,” the doctor said in the same tone one would describe the weather, “but based on the family history, symptoms of depression, and...do you have episodes of mania?”

I just sat there stupidly. My mom told me that years ago that her mother, my grandmother, had stopped taking her medicine once and, driven by her mania, performed a naked rain dance in the parking lot of a motel. Is that what mania does? Have I done things like that?

“Well, mania can have many symptoms,” my doctor said suddenly, as if answering a question. Had someone asked for an explanation? Did I ask? “You may feel extreme happiness or anger, sleep less, be full of energy...you might have racing thoughts or constant ideas...difficulty concentrating, impulsiveness, acting recklessly...in severe cases, hallucinations and beliefs that you have special abilities or powers…”

With his every word, my heart climbs closer towards my esophagus. I feel my face tighten and a bulge form in my throat, and I try desperately to push the sobs I want to exhale into my stomach. Impulsiveness. Acting recklessly. As I thought of all the stupid things I’d done in my past, all the s*** I put myself through without thinking––sneaking out of the house for a few feel-good hours with my boyfriend, even though he made me miserable––experimenting with substances my parents would definitely not approve of––websites I’d been on, people I’d met, hearts I’d broken––nothing I’d done when I was “that way” was healthy. I always ended up regretting it. I could be like that for days, weeks, or months, depending on how much I’d let myself indulge, and at the time, I wouldn’t care. The world was a party, and I was the star; everyone was paying attention to me, everyone was attracted to me, everyone looked up to me, everyone was amazed with me. I was at the top, and everyone else was a toy, a pawn, a plaything that I would laugh at behind their backs as I manipulated them without thinking twice. Controlling people...making stupid choices...regretting nothing...giving zero cares about the consequences of my actions...giving in to desire, giving in to pressure…
That girl is a megalomaniac. She’s a hormone-driven, deceitful b****. She is abhorrent. She is a let-down to her friends and family.

She is my mania. That girl is who I become.

The realization sunk into my heart like an anchored corpse into a river. I just nodded and acted like I knew what was going on as my doctor described the medication he was prescribing me: half of a tiny white pill called lamotrigine per day, along with one disturbingly familiar blue pill called fluoxetine––Prozac.
“So, you just take these and it’ll go away,” my dad reassures me, oblivious to his hopeless ignorance. My doctor had to explain to him how medication was not, and would never be, a cure, while I shot my mother a glance that read, Can you believe this guy?

I left the small office that day feeling melancholy. Yes, it was extremely upsetting that I was told I had bipolar disorder. Yes, it was humiliating that I needed to take two prescriptions every day, knowing that the dosage could and would be upped at any time it became necessary. Yes, I was now going to need to take counseling for life and coping skills. But the sense of relief I felt leaving that office was immense. I felt like crying with both heavy-hearted knowledge that I was going to be forever labelled as a mentally unstable, emotional shipwreck, but at the same time I felt like crying with joy that I finally had an answer. Everything made so much sense to me now: the pendulum of personality, the swings of sorrow, the lifelong loop of feelings I’d been experiencing from youth now had a perfectly reasonable explanation.

By the time we got outside, the sun had already set and the cold of autumn darkness had set in. Mom gave me a big hug before I went to go to the pharmacy with my dad, her frizzy mane of red hair flooding my face with sweet-smelling shampoo. I knew that she was going to support me with my newfound dilemma, since she, too, had been struggling with it all her life. I thought for a moment how glad I was that we had diagnosed the problem while I was still young, too young to make any permanent life mistakes. My mother did not have that blessing. I smiled weakly despite myself, appreciating for the the first time how I really was very lucky.

Dad opened the passenger door of his green Saturn for me as I got into his car, something he had never done before. Was he feeling sympathetic? Was this his way of apologizing for his thoughtlessly offensive behavior earlier? I didn’t know, and he never explained, but as he entered the driver’s side of the car I found myself beaming. He looked at me, a little confused, and I saw him give a slight smile back.

That little girl who, twelve years ago, helped Mommy make her coffee in the morning was now reclining in the shotgun seat of Daddy’s car, on her way to pick up the first dose of her medication, a medication she would have to take for the rest of her life. That little girl had grown up into what some may have considered unhealthy and socially crippled, but what she considered to be strong and able-minded. She was intelligent. She was compassionate. She had experienced more insoluble emotional trauma than most girls her age, but now she had answers, and her life was now going to head in an entirely new direction.

The girl sat in her dad’s car, rolled down the windows, and took in a deep lungful of autumn-scented wind. She felt a bittersweet twang throughout her as she exhaled, knowing her old life had disappeared. Things were never going to be normal for her again. But this change was one she was willing to embrace.