April 7, 1996. New York.
I don't think I've left my apartment more than three times this week -- twice to see Dr. Fried and once to pick up my prescriptions. I don't have enough energy to go food shopping, so I order in almost every night. The combination of ECT and adjustments that Dr. Fried has made to my medication has really exhausted me. All I want to do is lie in bed in complete isolation -- no television, no music, no telephone, just silence. I crave it. I think this is what best heals me. The though of putting my face into my pillow is the most pleasant one I can imagine. I am so on edge that the sound of a car horn outside, a noise near my front door, even the ringing of the telephone sends me flying. I can't handle any kind of stimulation. I don't take showers, clean up, cook. I lie around and hope that miraculously I'll feel better the next morning.
April 15, 1996
I want to start from scratch with a brand-new therapist, while keeping Dr. Fried as my psychiatrist. I don't feel like I'm making any progress with Dr. Marks and I'm motivated to get well, and so I want someone aggressive. Dr. Wallenstein recommends Dr. Carol Sternfeld, a colleague in whom he has a lot of faith. "She's tough and she knows what's she's doing," he says, and he tells me I will like her very much.
When I first meet Dr. Sternfeld in her Upper East Side office, I'm greeted by her two dogs, both mutts, who are in on our session. Immediately I'm drawn to them -- Guiness, a mostly black dog who craves attention, and Patch, whose white coat is covered with brown patches. Patch lunges for my hand when I get too close to Dr. Sternfeld. She warns me that he is very protective of her, so I learn to keep my distance from him. I'm quickly struck by Dr. Sternfeld's intense blue eyes, which seem to drink in my words. Within five minutes I've decided I want to be her patient. "It's because we both have blue eyes," I tell her. I feel a very strong connection to her. I'm ready to get down to business and begin talking about my recent experience with ECT and manic depression.
"The last year of ECT has sucked every bit of life from me," I tell her. "I feel like my memory's a bit shot and I might be a bit too sedated for this, so I'm not going to be able to give you too much to work with today." "Well, we'll just start slowly from the beginning," she says. Oddly, the past ten years start to unravel effortlessly in the forty-five minute session with this stranger, the two dogs by her side. It's the first time I ever talked with anyone about my illness with such clarity, which probably comes from the ECT and the medication. Dr. Sternfeld sees me three times a week and I begin to gain perspective on where I was and where I am now. I still suffer from the manic depression and have problems with medication. I slip into manic episodes for weeks and still find myself in deep depressions that last days. My use of drugs and alcohol isn't helping; it just continues to blur the picture of my mental health. I'm coming to understand the impact the manic depression has had on me over the last ten years, informing nearly every poor choice I made, leading me to risk, danger, and trouble. And I'm coming to understand the reality that my manic depression is a chronic condition.
