OCTOBER 25, 1996
“DEPRESSION.”
“Post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“No, no, no, your daughter is displaying all of the characteristics of social agoraphobia.”
“Actually, I’m beginning to think we’re steering toward a panic disorder.”
“It’s clinical depression.”
“She needs to take more exercise. Endorphins are a natural mood booster.”
“I would like to schedule her for an MRI, to rule out anything sinister.”
“Major depressive disorder. There’s no doubt in my mind.”
“It’s a chemical imbalance.”
“At this time, we’re considering the possibility of borderline personality disorder.”
“Nonsense, she’s perfectly functioning. Fresh air and healthy food is all she needs.”
“She doesn’t produce serotonin naturally, so we need to help her with that. Prozac is a gentle SSRI, suitable for children.”
“She’s far too young to even consider schizophrenia, but due to the strong genetical link, we can’t rule it out.”
“Depressive disorder…”
Numb to the bone, I sat on the chair between my parents, with my suitcase at my feet, listening as my parents bounced questions at Dr. Christmas. At least, that’s what I called him in my head because he looked just like Santa Claus.
I’d tried to remember all the doctors’ and nurses’ names, but it was too hard. There was always a new name to match a new face to match a new pair of ears that didn’t listen to me.
I couldn’t remember how long I’d been here or if I was even here right now.
It could be another dream.
I had lots of those.
Bad ones with monsters that crawled out from under my bed in the night and scary ladies that scratched holes in my head. But the medicine in the hospital made me too sleepy to worry.
Now, when the monsters came out at night, I let them have me. I didn’t fight back anymore. Instead, I opened the door and let them come inside me.
My body.
My mind.
It didn’t matter to me.
Because it wasn’t real.
The doctors said so.
The monsters were all in my head.
“After a great deal of investigation and having spent many hours working with Elizabeth, I’m confident to say that, while it’s rare, your daughter meets the criteria for early-onset bipolar disorder. There are a wide range of treatments available, but at this time, given her swift improvement, I would like Lizzie to continue with the current prescribed medication.” He cleared his throat before adding, “Of course, this will need to be adjusted as she grows, and you should be aware that adolescence is a particularly difficult period for children. Some studies suggest patients with the disorder encounter early pubertal timing in relation to their peers, including early menstruation. Rapid cycling between manic and depressive episodes is not uncommon, not to mention intense waves of hypersexuality that tend to come hand in hand with severe highs.”
My father bowed his head, while my mother started to cry.
“It’s not a death sentence,” the doctor hurried to reassure them both. “She is an exceptionally bright child, with a world of potential.”
“I can’t do this again,” Dad choked out, dropping his head in his hands. “Not again.”
“Michael, I know you have concerns, but your daughter, with the correct medication, will live a full and healthy life.”
“What can we do?” Reaching for my hand, my mother held it tightly in hers. “How can we make life easier for our daughter?”
“Take your daughter home and love her,” the doctor replied simply. “Never underestimate the healing power of a mother’s love.”
