But When Her Laughter Died, Her Tears Did Not

Therapy disarms me, swiftly and steadily, because it robs me of my ability to laugh. It robs me of my ability to do things on my terms, disables my ability to be stubborn, to demand that things are my way.

"What do you want to accomplish with these sessions?" my therapist prods, trying to tease some sort of answer out of my silence. But what I want is something both intangible and unspeakable. I want a peace I can't afford, some brief silence of mind. I want something I can't have, which is to live my life without worrying. I want all of the good things, the funny things that come with my illness--I want this heightened sense of self, but not at this cost. A cost that is not immediately evident, because I don't want it to be. A cost that erodes at something within me [but that allows me the opportunity to rebuild--on my terms].

I fold my left arm over my right, fold the right forearm up against me. Chin goes on the left shoulder--an immediately defensive pose. I find myself in it in these times, these moments when I feel vulnerable--when asked to be introspective with someone I'm just forming a therapeutic relationship, when I'm alone and don't want to feel judged for my loneliness.

"You're so needy!" Joe exclaims when I throw my notebook and pens down on his or Jacob's desk so I can go somewhere, anywhere. He's joking, at least kind of, but the secret is that we both know it's true. Maybe because we're both needy in the same kind of ways, sometimes.

I need someone to validate my existence. I need someone to laugh with me and at me, someone who will take me seriously without being serious. I need someone to tell me that my mom deserves a break, that when she says "Which one of you am I getting tonight?" she means, "I don't ever want you to be sad; I don't understand your illness, and that scares me." I need someone to fight with, and I need that same person to be on my team, my backup one hundred percent, without being asked. I need someone that will knock me on my ass and pick me right back up.

I think of these things when I am sitting there, arms tangled up in front of me, a complex maze of skin, muscles, nerves and bone that only I understand. I'm crying at this point, and I watch, very carefully, my therapist's face. It is her job to be concerned, to make the obligatory faces. I don't blame her for this--I'm developing that same face. I will use it on patients, use it as a sign to say both "I'm sorry that you're sad" and "I'm sorry that this is a place I cannot go with you." But in this moment, now, I think about how insufficient that face is, how you will never know that as a doctor until you have seen its insufficiencies for yourself. I am crying, and I don't want to be crying. It's out of my control, no parking lot at Publix, no pillows to lean my head back, feel those tears soaking into my hairline. I do not relish them, but I resent them. I resent, if only briefly, myself for crying. She notes that I'm upset. She wants to know why.

I sit in continued silence, and then I'm completely stunned by what happens next.

"It's just so hard," I say. "It's so hard to be bipolar." In this moment, I realize I've never said those words before.

Later, Joe asks how my session went. I had already processed the meeting with Joey, talked about what happened, how I cried, how I often cry in therapy, why I cry in therapy. He worries that I'm having crises that he doesn't know about, but I promise him that this is not so. With Joe, I say, "I had a good session." But, then, I change my mind. "It was probably the best yet," I say definitively.

Because I've finally realized that this is what I want out of my sessions. I want to be disarmed. I want to be pushed and shoved out of my comfort zone. If only for one hour out of every two weeks, I want to admit that it is hard to be diagnosed and treated for a mental illness. I want to acknowledge the struggle and learn how to deal with the extra mental toll that it adds. I want to be recognized for my strength while admitting that it's ok to fall apart. I want to take myself apart.

I've worked with several instruments in the last few years, exquisitely designed instruments that can quantitatively differentiate two compounds with a single hydrogen difference. I've taken them apart, plumbed and wired them up. At first, it is terrifying to take them down, but I find that--if I pay attention--it gets easier and easier to put them back together. Our minds, too, are exquisite machines, running on pure electricity at incredible speeds. They, too, can be taken apart. It's not that hard. But--if the one who takes them apart pays attention--then each time, it gets easier to put them back together.

At least, that's what I'm banking on.