text: First time posting here... I wrote this story for my AP Lit class. Harsh criticism encouraged. “...which means that we should prescribe you something as soon as possible.” I looked up. I had been zoned out for the past several minutes. I’m not even sure what I was thinking about, but I noticed that I was fiddling with a pen in my hands. “Sorry?” I said anxiously. My psychiatrist sighed. “Mr. Cohen, what I said was that there is a high probability that you have Bipolar Type II, or more hopefully, cyclothymia. Both of these should be treated seriously and you appear to be in a depressive state, which means that we should prescribe you something as soon as possible, because if you enter a hypomanic state you may no longer feel the need for medication.” I stared back at Ms. Wilcox blankly. I was having a little bit of difficulty comprehending what she was saying. “I just thought, you know, bipolar means like, drastic mood swings that happen a lot.” “Well that’s a common misconception. Yes, manic episodes often bring extreme mood swings, but mood swings are not the only part of bipolar.” “Can you explain what you mean by Type II and cyclothymic?” “Sure. There are a few types of bipolar--Type I is characterized by periods of depression juxtaposed with severe mania. Mania can cause anything from highly risky behavior down to episodes of full-blown psychosis. Bipolar Type II contains a milder, briefer form of mania, known as hypomania, which is characterized more by confidence, fast talking, racing thoughts and the like. However the depression is much longer and more severe. Cyclothymia cycles rather more quickly between hypomania and dysthymia, which is a type of depression that is not as severe or long-lasting.” “I think I have that last one. Bicyclethymia.” “Cyclothymia. I understand your previous psychiatrist diagnosed with ADHD and an anxiety disorder?” “Yes, ma’am.” “I am inclined to agree with him on the ADHD but you don’t seem to exhibit any signs of anxiety issues.” “I have attacks. Generally in close spaces when people are up in my face and stuff.” “Mr. Cohen, do you have low self-esteem?” “That’s a pretty rude question to ask someone,” I said defensively. “I would say you do. You generally try to preempt criticism with self-deprecation and from what your parents have told me, you tend to act out seeking positive attention,” Ms. Wilcox said flatly. I got a text at that moment. Probably from my mom. “Calvin, are you done yet? I really don’t want to miss my stories” is most likely what it read. “Mr. Cohen, you have so far refused medication for both your attention deficit and anxiety disorders...” started Ms. Wilcox. “Yeah, I did,” I interrupted. “I don’t want to be smothered. You know what would have happened if they put Van Gogh on meds? I mean, he probably never would have cut off his ear, but I don’t think he would have done all the cool stuff he did and drew all those diagrams and wrote backwards and stuff. He would have just been this ordinary boring dude living in a house someplace with a wife and some kids and he would have died and no one would have ever heard of him.” “Calvin,” Ms. Wilcox said, addressing me by my first name. Wow. Things must be getting serious. “This is getting serious,” she continued. Ha. Called it. I pointed at the calendar next to her desk. “Why is your calendar still on December? It’s May.” “Calvin, I need you to focus.” “I think you mean, ‘Calvin, may you please focus?’” Ms. Wilcox did not laugh at my clever play on words. We talked some more and came to the conclusion that I had cyclothymia, which I think is like the wussy version of bipolar. This is what we need psychiatrists for? Seriously? There are people out there with real problems. Like that Son of Sam guy who thought his neighbor’s dog was ordering him to murder people. I’m sure he didn’t have some wimpy “affliction” like cyclothymia. I mean really. The name sounds made-up. I refused medication, got up and walked out of the office. As soon as I passed through the doorway I felt different. I know my brain is wired all sorts of wrong now, so being in the outside world felt really bad. I mean what am I supposed to do with this new information? Go forth and try not to snap and have a nervous breakdown while crossing the street? I was standing outside the building waiting for my mom. Oh, no, my mom. How am I gonna break this to her? “Sorry mom, your kid’s psycho. Guess you gotta live with it.” I started pacing around nervously. I had about fifteen minutes until she got there. How do I handle this? I got another text. This one was for my girlfriend, Jayce. It read “Hey! ” That opened up a whole new avenue of awful. So I have to tell Jayce I’m mentally unsound now? Then she’s probably gonna break up with me and I don’t really blame her. Then what? Am I gonna be single forever? I can’t go on dates. I would just be like a big flashing Ghostbusters NO sign. “DO NOT DATE THIS PERSON. HE IS MENTALLY UNSTABLE. HIS SEED IS UNFIT FOR YOUR WOMB.” I stopped pacing and gathered myself. I can get through this. I texted Jayce back “Hey.” “So how are ya? Still shacked up in the wacko basket?” I received back. I wanted to lie to her so bad. Or at least not tell her. This was something that could wait. But I couldn’t do that to her. That is ridiculously unfair. All I could think of is that one day I was just gonna snap and yell or I would do some dumb thing and hurt her. She puts up with so much already that this one more thing shouldn’t be that bad. “I have something to tell you,” I texted back to her. “Mmmhmmm...” came the reply. “I have cyclothymia. It’s kind of like bipolar. I thought it was just my ADHD and anxiety but apparently it’s not. I’m three shades of insane.” She responded with, “You’re bipolar? Shocker. Wanna show me one of those poles when you get back home?” I laughed out loud. Yep, that’s just what I needed to hear. My mom’s car came rolling up next to me. I got in. I thought telling Jayce would have made me feel better about telling my mom but it didn’t. It really didn’t. Now I just have this giant ball of dread that’s sitting inside my stomach and it feels that if I don’t tell her I’ll explode but if I do tell her, her response may not be something I can handle. “Mom?” I said meekly. My mom had just hung up her cell phone. “Yeah, sweetie?” “So, I was talking to Ms. Wilcox...” “Oh, you’re finally talking to her? I thought you were still doing that whole ‘I’m training to be a mime’ act for all your psychiatrists.” “No, Ms. Wilcox is actually really nice. And um, she, uh, she said I have cyclothymia.” “Okay,” my mom said obliviously. “No, not okay. It’s like bipolar.” “You’re not bipolar!” my mom said. “You just want attention. Jesus. Some people have real problems, you know? Like that UCSB guy who shot all those people. He had issues. You’re just a little off. You’re not a special snowflake.” “I know I’m not a special snowflake, mom,” I said. “I know. But this is serious. I think I have a real problem here.” “No, you don’t. Kids these days, we just sit ‘em down in front of the TV or we pop ‘em full of pills and that’s supposed to solve all our problems. What ever happened to good old fashioned discipline? That’ll slap the cyclothymia right out of your mouth...” “Mom!” I interrupted. “This is not about discipline. This is not about ‘kids these days.’ This is about my brain. And there are neurological problems in my brain. It’s why I go back and forth between feeling so amped and then just feeling like nothing matters. And it’s why I can’t pay attention, and it’s why I freak out and have panic attacks. It’s because I’m messed up. I wish I was some dumb disrespectful little kid, because you can fix dumb and you fix disrespectful. But you can’t fix crazy. This is a job for the professionals.” Mom kept her eyes focused on the road. I was breathing heavily because I was so full of anxiety that I think if I pricked my finger pure adrenaline would have poured out. After about two minutes of complete silence, she said “Okay.” The next week I came back for another appointment and accepted my medication. I think that’s the only thing I can do at this point. I don’t know if it’s gonna restrict my creativity, or any of that. I hope it doesn’t. But I want to fix my crazy. I don’t want to end up like Vincent Van Gogh and cut my ear off when Jayce breaks up with me. I don’t know if I’m gonna be okay, either. But I’m trying. And that’s about the best anyone can really do.