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Authors: Marya Hornbacher
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I look around me at the mess: there's a jagged-edged half of a wine bottle, a pile of green glass shards nearby. There's a circular stain of wine on the wall, streams running down as if it leaked blood, and a puddle-shaped stain on the carpet below. There are the remains of a couple of smashed glasses. The bookshelf is cockeyed, leaning precariously on the back of the couch. Books everywhere. The couch has moved across the room from where it's supposed to be. I peer at what looks like a hole in the wall. I look at Julian.
"Lead crystal clock," he explains.
I nod, still looking around the room. "This is bad," I finally say.
"Not good," he agrees.
"Sorry," I say.
"It happens," he says.
"It does," I say, bewildered. "I don't know why."
He leaves—does he even understand what's happening? I certainly don't—and I stand barefoot, alone in the mess. I go over to the hole in the wall and stub my toe on the aforementioned lead crystal clock. I pick it up and turn it over in my hands. Wedding present. Ugly. I marvel that it didn't break. I set it down on the table and look out the window. My shoulders slump.
I shake the fog out of my head.
Get a grip,
I think. I'm fine. It's little-boy Julian who's making me crazy. No one could cope with his dependency, his lack of drive. It's stressing me out, this game the two of us play, his kicking back, jobless, using my money, embracing the identity of kept man.
No, I correct myself. He's my savior, companion, the
husband,
the rock. Our life is normal, balanced. We're just like everyone else.
I cling to the persona of the good wife, the disciplined writer, the hostess, hanging on with both hands. But even I wear down eventually: the constant fighting, the afternoons crashed out in bed, the sudden spells of ruthless energy—they're just too much.
I give in. I call for help.
The Diagnosis
April 1997
I page through the phone book surreptitiously, looking out the window to make sure Julian hasn't pulled up to the house yet. For some reason, I don't want him to know I'm calling a psychiatrist. Maybe that would confirm the incredibly obvious. Or maybe he hasn't noticed that I've gone completely nuts. I run my finger down the column and stop at one Richard Beedle, M.D. I like his name. A man named Beedle can't be all bad.
I sit in the waiting room, paging through an old
Time.
It's the same
Time
they keep in every waiting room. There is only one, and everyone has it, and it is sorely out of date. Bored, I slap it shut and study the painting of flowers on the opposite wall. It looks like every other painting of flowers on every other wall of every office of every psychiatrist, psychologist, nutritionist, behaviorist, et al. that I've ever seen.
He calls me into his office. I take my usual place in the usual chair on the usual empty afternoon. I study him the way I always study them. Some of them are mean, some very smart, some idiots, most a little hurried, but some just plain old nice—your usual cross-section of humanity. This Beedle looks to be okay. He has one wandering eye and wears a brown suit. I watch his eye while he settles into his chair. Does he get to see two whole scenes at once? Is one part of him having a conversation with me while another is looking out the window at the new green leaves on the trees?
He mispronounces my name and I correct him, as usual. This is how all psychiatric visits start. He looks friendly enough, so I decide to give him a chance.
"What brings you here today?" he asks.
"I'm going crazy."
"Well, don't beat around the bush," he says. "Jump right in."
"I'm going nuts. I mean, I am nuts. I've always been nuts. They've been telling me I have depression for years, but they're wrong. I used to have an eating disorder. They're always giving me Prozac. I know, I know, you'll probably give me Prozac too, which, okay, I understand, you have to give me
something,
though I should mention that if you had something
other
than Prozac I would be open to
"Lead crystal clock," he explains.
I nod, still looking around the room. "This is bad," I finally say.
"Not good," he agrees.
"Sorry," I say.
"It happens," he says.
"It does," I say, bewildered. "I don't know why."
He leaves—does he even understand what's happening? I certainly don't—and I stand barefoot, alone in the mess. I go over to the hole in the wall and stub my toe on the aforementioned lead crystal clock. I pick it up and turn it over in my hands. Wedding present. Ugly. I marvel that it didn't break. I set it down on the table and look out the window. My shoulders slump.
I shake the fog out of my head.
Get a grip,
I think. I'm fine. It's little-boy Julian who's making me crazy. No one could cope with his dependency, his lack of drive. It's stressing me out, this game the two of us play, his kicking back, jobless, using my money, embracing the identity of kept man.
No, I correct myself. He's my savior, companion, the
husband,
the rock. Our life is normal, balanced. We're just like everyone else.
I cling to the persona of the good wife, the disciplined writer, the hostess, hanging on with both hands. But even I wear down eventually: the constant fighting, the afternoons crashed out in bed, the sudden spells of ruthless energy—they're just too much.
I give in. I call for help.
The Diagnosis
April 1997
I page through the phone book surreptitiously, looking out the window to make sure Julian hasn't pulled up to the house yet. For some reason, I don't want him to know I'm calling a psychiatrist. Maybe that would confirm the incredibly obvious. Or maybe he hasn't noticed that I've gone completely nuts. I run my finger down the column and stop at one Richard Beedle, M.D. I like his name. A man named Beedle can't be all bad.
I sit in the waiting room, paging through an old
Time.
It's the same
Time
they keep in every waiting room. There is only one, and everyone has it, and it is sorely out of date. Bored, I slap it shut and study the painting of flowers on the opposite wall. It looks like every other painting of flowers on every other wall of every office of every psychiatrist, psychologist, nutritionist, behaviorist, et al. that I've ever seen.
He calls me into his office. I take my usual place in the usual chair on the usual empty afternoon. I study him the way I always study them. Some of them are mean, some very smart, some idiots, most a little hurried, but some just plain old nice—your usual cross-section of humanity. This Beedle looks to be okay. He has one wandering eye and wears a brown suit. I watch his eye while he settles into his chair. Does he get to see two whole scenes at once? Is one part of him having a conversation with me while another is looking out the window at the new green leaves on the trees?
He mispronounces my name and I correct him, as usual. This is how all psychiatric visits start. He looks friendly enough, so I decide to give him a chance.
"What brings you here today?" he asks.
"I'm going crazy."
"Well, don't beat around the bush," he says. "Jump right in."
"I'm going nuts. I mean, I am nuts. I've always been nuts. They've been telling me I have depression for years, but they're wrong. I used to have an eating disorder. They're always giving me Prozac. I know, I know, you'll probably give me Prozac too, which, okay, I understand, you have to give me
something,
though I should mention that if you had something
other
than Prozac I would be open to
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