Читать книгу Welcome to the Jungle, Revised Edition - Hilary T. Smith - Страница 9

How did it happen?

Maybe you were doing a research project on the Beatles, and by the end of the term you thought you were one of the Beatles. Maybe you were trying to find a girlfriend, and at the end of a futile year of looking you were trying to die. Maybe you were having a perfectly happy summer that turned into an ecstatic summer or a winter sadness that never lifted when spring came. The sun was shining, cars were honking, the radio was playing something catchy. You were toasting a bagel, playing Xbox, talking to your best friend about the afterlife, or tuning your guitar.

Then the mothership landed.

You were diagnosed with bipolar disorder. This big whale of a diagnosis slid over the sun, and your world was suddenly held hostage. A hatch slid open and out came doctors, psychiatrists, pills, hospitals, and self-help books. They strapped you to a gurney and scrawled “bipolar” on your chest in permanent marker. “I'm not bipolar!” you shouted, struggling in your restraints. “She's bipolar! He's bipolar! Anyone but me!” They gave you two Depakote and a glass of water. “Misdiagnosed!” you snarled, gulping it down.

Eventually, the mothership flew away, but left its cargo behind. Medication, doctors, and bipolar were seemingly here to stay. You picked your way out of the rubble, the last one standing after an earth-shattering encounter. Your ray gun is strapped to your side; your freshly acquired jar of anti-psychotics and mood stabilizers is on your other hip. You step out of the doctor's office.