Track 30: Side A

I’d Rather Be Manic

 

Lincoln

I wake up, still in somewhat of a fog, but better than I felt the day before. I blink the sleep out of my eyes and sit up in bed.

“Linc, how are you feeling?” Jace asks, drawing my gaze to where he’s curled up in a chair in the corner of the room. He gets up in a rush and crawls onto the bed beside me, brushing my hair out of my face and studying me with concern.

“Um…a little better.”

“Good. You had me really worried yesterday,” he confesses. Through the haze, memories of his friend Wyatt coming by filter through. “Wyatt gave me the number of someone he thinks you should call right away today. He made sure his friend was expecting your call. He said he should be able to get you in today.”

“Get me in for what?” I ask, still wading through mushy thoughts, trying to make sense of everything.

“His friend is a therapist. I asked Wyatt to help you, but he said there’s a conflict of interest. He gave me the number of his friend, Alex, who will see you.”

“A therapist?” I ask skeptically. I know we talked about it a week or so ago, but I’m not sold on the idea. Maybe part of me is afraid of just how crazy I’ll be declared.”

“Linc!” Jace’s tone is sharp. “This is a deal breaker for me. If you won’t go to a therapist and do everything you can to get better, we’re done right now. I can’t watch you hurt yourself. I can’t go to work every day and worry I’ll come home to find you dead. I won’t live that way.”

Jace’s words settle in my heart, and I nod in understanding.

“Okay, let’s call him,” I agree.

My stomach is a jumble of nerves as I step into Alex’s office. My fingers twitch toward my pocket out of habit, searching for a blade to slide between my fingers just to know it’s there.

I’ve always thought of Jace as the quintessential nerd, but the man waiting for me puts Jace to shame. Alex is wearing a pink polo, his hair neatly coiffed, and a pair of thick rimmed glasses sit low on his nose.

“Lincoln, it’s good to meet you.” He offers me his hand. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

I glance around the office. It looks very professional—all dark wood and leather furniture. I wonder if he really has his shit this together or if he organizes himself so everyone thinks he does.

After a few moments of patient silence from the good doctor, I plop down on the couch.

“How does this work? I’m supposed to tell you about what a piece of shit my dad is or something?” I fidget toward my pocket again

“If you want to talk about your dad, we can,” he agrees with a mild expression.

“That’s okay; I try not to think about him too much. Although, I guess that is where everything started.”

“Tell me about that,” Alex prompts.

“My dad hated me. He said I was too soft, too emotional. Boys don’t cry, he told me that all the time—usually when I was crying like a fucking pussy. I couldn’t help it; I felt everything so intensely when I was young. It felt like I might bleed to death from every hateful word he flung at me. The only thing I remember about the first time I cut myself was the rush of adrenaline. It felt so good, like I was in control of something for a change. Jace made things so much better when I was young, but he couldn’t totally chase away the shadows.”

“And you still self-harm?”

“Sometimes,” I shrug. “A lot of the time I feel too…tired, I guess?”

“Tell me about being tired.”

“A bone deep exhaustion that feels like it might suffocate me. I don’t want to get out of bed; all I want is to fade into non-existence. But then, I’ll wake up one morning, and I’ll feel too much. That’s when cutting helps. It turns the volume down when it starts to get too loud, and I just want to be numb again.”

“And after that, do you find yourself having more energy? Maybe even having difficulty sleeping?”

“Yeah,” I agree. “That’s usually only for a few days, though and it’s not often.”

Alex nods and jots some notes down. I want to get up and take the notepad from him to see just how crazy he thinks I am. Does he have a scale of one to ten he’s rating me on?

“During these energetic episodes, do you find yourself more sexually active? More impulsive? Anything of that sort?”

“I don’t know, maybe? I feel like I’m the life of the party. I go out with my band mates and have fun. Then, I go home and sob into my pillow or stay up all night writing music that I later throw away,” I admit, sitting forward on the couch, watching him write.

“And how long do these episodes of excitement and energy usually last?”

“I don’t know. It varies, I guess. Sometimes two weeks, maybe a month. Other times just a day or two.” My leg bounces, and his pen continues to scratch against the paper with the words he’s writing. “Tell me straight, how crazy do you think I am?”

“You’re not crazy, Lincoln. I want to continue meeting with you and find out more before I make any official diagnosis, but from what I’ve heard so far, I think you might have bipolar disorder.”

“What?” I shake my head and lean back on the couch. “That can’t be right. I know what mania is supposed to be like, I don’t fuck everyone in sight, or take drugs, or like wind up in another state for no apparent reason.”

“That’s not how all mania presents.”

“My aunt, she was bipolar, and she was a fruit loop. She’d be laughing one second, crying the next. She bought a boat and then crashed it; she nearly lost her house gambling. She would go on drug binges that would last weeks. I’m not like that,” I argue, growing more agitated at the implication.

“As I said, not all mania presents the same way. You may have hypomania, which would just feel like extreme excitement—like a prolonged adrenaline rush. And bipolar is genetic, so if your aunt had it, your chances are higher.”

“Well shit,” I mutter, my heart sinking.

Bipolar…that’s like a real mental illness, the kind where you avoid people who have it. I feel like my life is about to crumble around me. Will Jace stay, knowing how truly fucked up I am? Will continuing with the band even be an option? I can only imagine the field day the press will have if this gets out.

“Many people live very normal lives with bipolar disorder,” Alex assures me. “With the right combination of medication, talk therapy, and applied coping mechanisms, your life can be normal. In fact, your life can be better than it’s been because you’ll know how to handle to dark times when they come.

“Really?” I ask, letting a sliver of hope in. “But will the meds make me a zombie or anything? I still need to be able to do my music.”

“Some people do experience what they describe as a general emotional numbness, but we can try different medications and doses until we find the most tolerable option for you. This isn’t the kind of illness where you just get some pills and it goes away. I need you to be active in your recovery, communicate with me as we go, and lean on your support system. Does that sound like something you’re up for?”

“Yeah,” I agree readily.

If I didn’t have Jace back, I’m not sure if I’d be emotionally ready for the long road ahead. But I need to get better for him…and for me too.

 

 

Jace

I’m waiting with a casserole and a pan of Lincoln’s favorite cookies when he walks through the door after his appointment with Wyatt’s friend, Alex.

I hear his feet shuffle and the door click closed quietly behind him, and my heart sinks. Did the appointment not go well? What the hell am I supposed to do if he won’t keep going to therapy?

“Hey, baby,” I call out as cheerfully as possible. “How’d it go?” I ask as he enters the kitchen.

“Fine,” Lincoln answers without enthusiasm as he plops down at the kitchen table and lays his head on his arms.

With my stomach in knots, I sit down beside him and put my hand on his knee.

“Tell me about it?”

Lincoln squeezes his eyes closed, and I see a tear escape from the corner of his eye and streak down his nose. “He thinks…he said, I probably…”

“Whatever it is Linc, we’ll figure it out together.”

“He said it sounds like I’m bipolar.”

I let his words roll around in my head for a few seconds and then a certain amount of relief whooshes through me.

“Have,” I correct.

“What?”

“You aren’t your mental illness. No one would ever say I am cancer, so why would it be different for a mental illness?” I place a comforting hand on Linc’s. “You seem upset about it. But It sounds like good news.”

“In what universe is having bipolar good news?” he snaps.

“In what universe is having an undiagnosed and untreated mental illness good news?” I counter. “At least now you know what you’re dealing with. I’ll help you do some research on it, the doctor will get you on the right meds or whatever it is you need to feel better. And we’ll get through this together.”

“Together?” he asks with an insecure tremble in his voice. “You still want to be with me?”

“Oh, Linc, of course I do.”

He sits up and opens his arms. I leave my chair and slide onto his lap. Linc buries his face in my neck, and his body is wracked with sobs as I rub my hand up and down his back and let him cry it out. When his breathing starts to even out and his body stills, I tilt his head up and kiss his tear stained cheeks.

“I love you, Linc.”

He gasps at my declaration, and a smile spreads across his lips.

“I love you more than you could ever know, Freckles.”

He pulls me in for a kiss, the taste of his tears lingers on both of our lips as our tongues tangle together, and our hearts both start to mend.

 

 

Lincoln

I breathe a sigh of relief, pulling Jace against me and letting my tears fall. In a way, it’s a huge weight off to finally understand why I am the way I am. I finally have a name for the darkness and a way to fight it. But I was truly worried Jace wouldn’t be able to accept me with this new label. What about the band? Will the world be able to accept the new me?

I voice these worries to Jace, and he gives me a sad smile, using his thumbs to wipe my tears.

“You’re the same Lincoln you’ve always been. If anything, now you’re better because you can get well. I’m sure the guys will be thrilled to know they can have the Lincoln they’ve always loved without the fear of how you might hurt yourself. And the world may be cruel, the press may paint this as something negative, but you need to see this for what it is.”

“What is it?” I ask, my eyes locked on Jace’s, anchoring me to him.

“It’s a chance to finally live without fear.”

“It won’t be easy,” I warn. “I may still have setbacks. The meds may not work the way they’re supposed to. What if I cut myself again or have another episode of depression?”

“I know,” Jace assures me, pressing a chaste kiss to my lips. “And when it gets hard, I’ll be here to help you through. You can lean on me, Linc.”

I nod and kiss him again, this time with renewed desperation. Our tongues slide against each other, our hands clutching at each other like we’re afraid the other person will disappear if we let go.

“You really still love me, Freckles?” I check, moreso because I need to hear it again than out of true disbelief.

“I really do.”