Dismantling Evan (6 page)

“Why did you take my door?”

Mom started, “Evan we were afraid of...”

I cut her short. “Afraid? Afraid of what? I just wanted to be left alone! That is it! You couldn’t even give me that!”

Dad loosened his tie around his neck as he raised his voice. “We didn’t want you doing anything you might regret.”

That really pissed me off. Him thinking I was going to kill myself or some shit. “I am not going to kill myself, Dad!”

I didn’t think I would start crying, but I did. I couldn’t believe they thought I had gone so far off the deep end I would consider suicide.

In the heat of the moment, I went back to my room, both of them following behind me, begging me to talk to them; I didn’t. I curled up on my bed, put my ear buds in, and closed my eyes. I could feel them standing over me for a long time, watching me, trying to make sense of what was going on in my head, but I didn’t once open my eyes to look at them. I lay there until the house and everyone and everything in it became silent. Sleep finally took me away.

The next morning, Mom and Dad told me I wasn’t going to school and I had a doctor’s appointment.

“I just had a bad day? You guys are blowing this out of proportion!” I yelled.

Being the logical one, Dad’s tired voice reflected what had become true over the years, “You have more bad days than not, Evangeline.”

He only called me Evangeline when he was worried about me which, in turn, made me worry.

I had never sat in my doctor’s real office before; only the patient rooms with their metal and cushioned bed, the little stool for toddlers, and the fun colorful walls to make it seem like a bright happy place. This was decorated with bookshelves, chairs, a desk, computer, and side chairs. Yes, there was a wannabe-shrink-doctor chaise longe too. Dr. Middleton had Mom and Dad sit in the waiting room while he talked with me about…me.

Some of the questions were strange: “Do you dream when you sleep?”, “Do you have sudden bursts of energy, then really low moments?”, “Do you ever want to kill yourself?”, and “Do you ever want to hurt anyone around you?”

I had never wanted to end my life or hurt another person and I was insulted by his questions, but I answered a resounding ‘no’ anyway.

“I have never prescribed medication for you Evangeline, but from what your mother told me on the phone, it seems you might be suffering from a sadness only medication can help,” he said, his voice gentle.

“You mean depression?”

“Yes, depression.” he responded.

“I don’t think I’m depressed. I think I’m just having a. . .”

He quickly reacted to my pause, “A rough patch?”

He continued to scribble down words on his yellow notepad. Words about me. I wanted to be a fly on his shoulder, to see what he had written.

“You are writing down I am in denial, aren’t you?” I guessed.

He stopped writing and angled his head toward me. “Why would you say that, Evan?”

I fiddled with the dry skin on my left thumb, looked down and answered. “Because, it is what you think. I can feel it.”

Dr. Middleton took down another note then removed his glasses, setting them on his desk. “Maybe I should speak with your parents while you sit in the waiting room,” he said, matter-of-factly.

That was the nail in the coffin. He was deferring to my parents because I was in hopeless rebellion of any mental diagnosis and he was done trying to talk me into it.

Hesitantly, I rose, not yet wanting to leave the office. My parents would have their turn to discuss my state of mind without me here and I wasn’t quite finished pleading my case. I turned to him before I left and asked, “You have been my doctor for my entire life. Do you think I am clinically depressed?”

Somewhat stoically, he sat back in his chair. “What does
clinically
mean to you, Evan? Do you know what clinical depression, or say bipolar disorder looks like? Did you Google it?”

Bipolar struck me as coming out of left field. I had Googled depression and bipolar disorder did pop up with some of the symptoms I was having, but not all of them. I folded my arms across my chest protectively and stepped toward his desk like getting closer to him might affect his opinion of me. “I don’t hear voices if that is what you are getting at. I’m not losing my mind.”

The way he eyed me, I understood his question was purely rhetorical and didn’t entertain an opinion on my part. He had already formed his own and my comments were just dead air. I walked out of the office without another word and told my parents Dr. Know-It-All wanted to see them. They were in there for a long time. Whereas I was evasive and elusive with my answers, I’m sure they were very generous to accommodate.

I Googled bipolar disorder on my cell phone while my parents were in with the good doctor, divulging my flaws and unfixable damage.

Bipolar Symptoms:

Mania:
“Maybe”

High energy:
“Sometimes”

Irritability:
“Yeah”

Little need for sleep:
“Yeah”

Denial:
“No comment”

I was feeling some of these symptoms, but not all of them. There were at least ten more symptoms that I didn’t think I had. Just then the doctor poked his head out and called me back in to join him and my parents. As soon as I saw Dad’s stiff, lamenting lip and Mom using a crumbled tissue to gently wipe her eyes, I knew they had drank the proverbial Kool-Aid Dr. Middleton was passing out to them. Early onset Bipolar II is what he diagnosed right off; not just depression. Apparently it is the less psychotic of the types of Bipolar though. He said if we left this disorder untreated, it could worsen and I could have more severe psychotic breaks, which scared the hell out of my parents. As I sat next to them, he began to detail how my ‘condition’ had been manifesting for a long time and was somewhat disguising itself over the years as depression. He explained how depression is hereditary and my mother’s bout of it was evidence of it being the case here. I hadn’t even known my mom suffered from depression until that moment. He continued pulling situations from my elementary school years that only my parents or I could have disclosed to him. As he flipped through my thick medical chart, he listed things I did that, he said, were ‘telltale signs’ of a festering mental illness. I couldn’t deny the instances of impulsiveness, aggression, anxiety, depression, self-isolation, anti-social tendencies he was referring to, but I also couldn’t see them labeling me with an illness that had so many more symptoms I didn’t show.

He asked my parents if my teachers had ever mentioned getting me evaluated for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder as a young child? I sat there shocked by the progression this appointment had taken with him bringing in yet another flaw in me, another disorder.

“No doctor, we did not,” my dad said somewhat surprised by his question. He immediately looked at my mom for an answer, like she may have known more about this than he.

Mom’s shaky, emotional voice added, “The teachers said it was a stage. That she was just a daydreamer and a little distracted. Her grades were fine. Yes, she struggled a bit, but they said she would be fine.”

He nodded flatly and jotted down more notes on his yellow notepad. He spoke about how many disorders like ADHD can sometimes be precursors to mental illnesses, such as depression and bipolar, due to the stress they put on the individual.

This was when I stepped in and told Dr. Middleton I was not psycho and he was full of shit.
Irritability and irrational behavior... check.

I know, bad Evan. Shouldn’t have done that in Dr. Wannabe-Shrink’s office at the very moment of diagnosis.

Mom and Dad chastised me immediately on my lack of respect. Dr. Middleton completely overlooked my blowup, but did give my parents the ‘see, I told you so’ look and spoke directly and intentionally to them for the rest of the appointment.

He sat behind his chair, pulled out a prescription pad from his side drawer, and started writing as he continued to speak. “Cybalith S is a mood stabilizer; also known as Lithium.”

Lithium?
He was putting me on a medication made of a soft metal found on the Periodic Table? A lump of fear in the pit of my stomach migrated quickly to my throat and my mouth went dry in a matter of seconds. He was about to continue when my mom interrupted him, “Dr., I mean no disrespect, but I think we would like a referral to a psychiatrist at this point.”

Mom was good with words and I was thankful she was on my side regarding the dose of metal I was being prescribed.

Dr. Middleton looked to Dad immediately with expectations of him to show some kind of manly and domineering over-ride of Mom’s questioning his professional authority, but Dad didn’t. Dr. Middleton nodded and abruptly said, “I understand. A psychiatrist specializing in adolescents should take over from here, but getting an appointment might take a few weeks. There aren’t many adolescent psychiatrists in our area and they book up quickly.”

Mom and Dad looked at each other with concern then back at the doctor. Dad asked, “What if she has another one of these spells?”

With my dad’s sign of concern, Dr. Middleton ripped the top prescription sheet from the pad, tore it up, and began writing on a new sheet as he spoke. “I suggest a low dose of antidepressant and a mild tranquilizer for the first plan of action. Zoloft, the antidepressant will help level her depression and mood.” He ripped one script from his pad and began another. “Xanax will help with the insomnia and in turn help with any manic type episodes Evan might experience between now and you getting in to see the specialist.”

Mom chimed in, “I’m familiar with both.”

She was?
The doctor said he had some samples of the Zoloft and he left the room briefly. Mom and Dad sat quietly, gazing at each other, obviously wondering where they went wrong with me. I simply zoned out, I wasn’t a part of this decision any more. All he was doing was throwing medication down my throat. Medication I might not even need and my parents were on board with or without me because they were afraid. Afraid for me and of me.

After we left the office... correction, after I stormed from the office without a word to the doctor or my parents, I ranted and raved in the car with shameless slurs and maniacal ideations.

Mom got a few words in edgewise though. “We are calling a specialist, but until then we need to do what is best for your health. He isn’t just drugging you, Evan.”

Dr. Middleton suggested a few days to watch how I reacted to the antidepressant. I wound up staying home for a week. I took one Zoloft in the morning and one Xanax every night before bed, under Mom’s watchful eye, to help with sleep. The Xanax actually helped with the insomnia for a while. The side effect was it made me feel dopey, sleepy, and limp which helped me relax enough to sleep. I thought that was a sucky way to have to go to sleep every night. I hadn’t felt any of the Zoloft’s side effects yet, so I thought I was in the clear or it wasn’t working on me. Mom watched me like a hawk, asking me endlessly, “How are you feeling?”, “Do you feel anything?”, and “What are you feeling?”

Low and behold, the third day, mid-morning, the side effects of the Zoloft kicked in. The tremors, the racing heart, the anxiety, dry mouth, and more hit me mid-morning. Mom called Dr. Middleton’s nurse and she told her to give me Xanax to help with the side effects.

“What? That is going to put me to sleep Mom! I can’t function like this! I won’t be able to function at school on this stuff!”

Mom shook her head, “The nurse said to cut the dose in half to curb the side effects. You only need to take it until the side effects taper off.”

I started pacing around the kitchen, unable to stand still and wanting to crawl out of my skin. I felt alien to what was happening to this body I no longer recognized as my own. “No, I’m not taking it. This isn’t working! Look at me! It is making me worse!”

I was crying hysterically by this point and Mom was trying to hold it together. Her voice shook. “Listen to me Evan.”

She grabbed hold of my shoulders and held me still. “Baby, the nurse said it is the side effects of the medicine getting into your system. In a few days your body will stabilize with the medication but now, we need to keep them under control. Do you understand what I am saying to you? You have to take this.”

She held the broken pill in front of me in her palm and a glass of water in the other. I put it in my mouth and washed it down with water before bursting into tears. Mom held me to her as I cried. She walked me to the sofa and sat with me until the shaking subsided. My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

I spent the next three days taking Xanax, every four hours, to curb the tremors and the desire to jump out of my skin. Every time I tried to think about something, it would slip through my mind, like my thoughts were detaching. I was clumsy, dropping everything I tried to put my hands around. I felt like puking constantly and food wasn’t appealing. Mom and Dad made me eat something small at each meal. Between the two of them, they must have called Dr. Middleton’s nurse fifty times asking when the side effects would ease up. Sunday was day six post Xanax and Zoloft cocktail. I woke up that morning not feeling the coolness on my skin that happens before the anxiety creeps in for the first time since the cursed day three. I was able to hold down soup and crackers that morning and at night I actually ate a full meal. I had broken out of my personal hell on earth and I was starting to feel like myself again. That night, I didn’t need the Xanax to fall asleep. Mom and Dad agreed to shelf the Xanax for any future manic episodes, as instructed by the nurse, but as far as I was concerned, I didn’t intend to take the damn Xanax for my manic ‘spells’, BECAUSE I WASN’T BIPOLAR OR MANIC.