Read Online Madness by Marya Hornbacher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marya Hornbacher
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trying it, just so you know. In fact, I'm open to pretty much anything, at this point. I'm kind of desperate." Weirdly, I laugh. "I mean, kind of
really
desperate. Not to make a fuss or anything. I don't want to overstate my case. I don't want to be malingering. Do you think I'm malingering? Once a nurse told me I was malingering when I told her the Prozac was making me crazy." I pause. "What exactly
is
malingering?" I ask.
"It's when you're making a big deal out of nothing. Making symptoms seem worse than they are."
"See?" I say, and throw up my hands. "Exactly. I don't want to be malingering. I definitely don't want to make something out of nothing."
"You're not malingering."
"Well, that's good. But anyway, really, now that I think of it, this really is nothing. It's not such a big deal. I mean, I'm not
crazy
crazy. I'm not wandering around with a grocery cart full of newspapers and cans talking to myself. I mean, I talk to myself a little, but not in a crazy way—doesn't everybody talk to themselves?" He nods. He sits with his hands folded on his desk. He hasn't written anything on his notepad and appears, oddly, to be listening. I appreciate his attention; it's very courteous of him. "By the way, oh my gosh," I say, suddenly flustered, "I'm going on and on. I know you're busy. I know you must have a million patients. Have I already used up my time?" I ask, a little panicked.
"No."
"How much time do I have?"
"As much as you want. This is a private practice. I'm not an HMO, so no rush."
"Well,"
I sigh, collapsing back in my chair—I notice I've been sitting bolt upright the whole time—"thank goodness." I take a little breather.
"May I ask you something?"
"Sure," I say, feeling magnanimous.
"Do you always talk this fast?"
"Yes."
He nods. "Okay," he says. "Go on."
"What was I saying?"
"Feeling crazy, but not
crazy
crazy."
"Right," I say. "So I guess that's it. Do you mind if I look around?"
"Not at all," he says, so I get up and go over to his bookcase and read all the titles and look at the framed photos and laugh at the little framed cartoon—a man is lying on a couch, yammering on, and the doctor's writing
TOTALLY NUTS!!!
on his little pad—and I go over to the window and hop up on the sill and swing my feet a little, then hop back down and come back and sit in my chair.
"All better?" he asks. I laugh. "Has anyone ever mentioned the word
mania
to you?"
"Nope," I say, folding my hands across my middle.
"They haven't," he says. "I find that a little odd."
"I mean, I've heard the word, obviously," I say. "I've just never heard it applied to me. Is that what you're saying?"
"It was, yes. Out of curiosity, what
does
mania mean?"
"Mania—well, going around like a maniac, I guess." Now that I think about it, that doesn't sound so far off.
"Sort of," he says. "Anyway, you're right, you don't seem depressed right now. You seem like you've got lots of energy."
"I do indeed," I say. "Indeed I do."
"An unusual amount of energy," he replies.
I shrug. "Pretty typical for me," I say. "I like to keep busy."
"What do you do to keep yourself busy?"
"Oh, working, mostly. Or seeing friends. Cleaning, laundry, things like that. I like to have a clean house. Very clean. Unusually clean. Spotless, in fact. I'm an extremely good housekeeper. Most of the time."
"Except?"
"When I'm not. I go through stages. Sometimes I don't clean the house for months. But usually," I say, not wanting to give the impression that I'm a lazy slob, "it's pretty clean."
"What else happens when you go through those stages?"
I furrow my brow. "I don't know. Nothing. It happens in the afternoon, usually. I just want to crawl into bed and hide from the entire world and stop thinking. My brain empties out. It's kind of an effort to breathe. It's like time slows down. It feels like I'm flattened. I don't want to do anything. I can't concentrate. I feel like a failure. I sort of hate myself." I shrug. "It goes away. Then I get energetic
really
desperate. Not to make a fuss or anything. I don't want to overstate my case. I don't want to be malingering. Do you think I'm malingering? Once a nurse told me I was malingering when I told her the Prozac was making me crazy." I pause. "What exactly
is
malingering?" I ask.
"It's when you're making a big deal out of nothing. Making symptoms seem worse than they are."
"See?" I say, and throw up my hands. "Exactly. I don't want to be malingering. I definitely don't want to make something out of nothing."
"You're not malingering."
"Well, that's good. But anyway, really, now that I think of it, this really is nothing. It's not such a big deal. I mean, I'm not
crazy
crazy. I'm not wandering around with a grocery cart full of newspapers and cans talking to myself. I mean, I talk to myself a little, but not in a crazy way—doesn't everybody talk to themselves?" He nods. He sits with his hands folded on his desk. He hasn't written anything on his notepad and appears, oddly, to be listening. I appreciate his attention; it's very courteous of him. "By the way, oh my gosh," I say, suddenly flustered, "I'm going on and on. I know you're busy. I know you must have a million patients. Have I already used up my time?" I ask, a little panicked.
"No."
"How much time do I have?"
"As much as you want. This is a private practice. I'm not an HMO, so no rush."
"Well,"
I sigh, collapsing back in my chair—I notice I've been sitting bolt upright the whole time—"thank goodness." I take a little breather.
"May I ask you something?"
"Sure," I say, feeling magnanimous.
"Do you always talk this fast?"
"Yes."
He nods. "Okay," he says. "Go on."
"What was I saying?"
"Feeling crazy, but not
crazy
crazy."
"Right," I say. "So I guess that's it. Do you mind if I look around?"
"Not at all," he says, so I get up and go over to his bookcase and read all the titles and look at the framed photos and laugh at the little framed cartoon—a man is lying on a couch, yammering on, and the doctor's writing
TOTALLY NUTS!!!
on his little pad—and I go over to the window and hop up on the sill and swing my feet a little, then hop back down and come back and sit in my chair.
"All better?" he asks. I laugh. "Has anyone ever mentioned the word
mania
to you?"
"Nope," I say, folding my hands across my middle.
"They haven't," he says. "I find that a little odd."
"I mean, I've heard the word, obviously," I say. "I've just never heard it applied to me. Is that what you're saying?"
"It was, yes. Out of curiosity, what
does
mania mean?"
"Mania—well, going around like a maniac, I guess." Now that I think about it, that doesn't sound so far off.
"Sort of," he says. "Anyway, you're right, you don't seem depressed right now. You seem like you've got lots of energy."
"I do indeed," I say. "Indeed I do."
"An unusual amount of energy," he replies.
I shrug. "Pretty typical for me," I say. "I like to keep busy."
"What do you do to keep yourself busy?"
"Oh, working, mostly. Or seeing friends. Cleaning, laundry, things like that. I like to have a clean house. Very clean. Unusually clean. Spotless, in fact. I'm an extremely good housekeeper. Most of the time."
"Except?"
"When I'm not. I go through stages. Sometimes I don't clean the house for months. But usually," I say, not wanting to give the impression that I'm a lazy slob, "it's pretty clean."
"What else happens when you go through those stages?"
I furrow my brow. "I don't know. Nothing. It happens in the afternoon, usually. I just want to crawl into bed and hide from the entire world and stop thinking. My brain empties out. It's kind of an effort to breathe. It's like time slows down. It feels like I'm flattened. I don't want to do anything. I can't concentrate. I feel like a failure. I sort of hate myself." I shrug. "It goes away. Then I get energetic
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