This excerpt was cut from Crazy, my memoir about being diagnosed with bipolar 1 during an extreme manic episode, the psych ward and healthcare system, and my recovery. As per Virginia Woolf, “In expressing it I explained it and then laid it to rest.”
To learn more about my memoir, visit charisejewell.com/crazy.
∞∞∞
Slender fingers slide through silky ribbons of hair and I watch them dance for a moment too long before recognizing my daughter’s head and my own nimble hands. I pause mid-fold, worried that I’ve ruined this magical moment by becoming present, and it will cease to be mesmerizing. Braiding my daughter’s hair can be a pleasure but it is more often a chore. Just now it felt artistic, and I don’t want that feeling to end. Auto-pilot was working well for me. Will I be able to finish her elaborate hairstyle now that I am second-guessing my every move?
I chuckle and my doubt dissolves. Of course I can do this. Lately, I can do anything. My fingers start to fly again, faster than before, until suddenly there is no more hair to braid. I’m at the end of my rope. I snap an elastic around this tight fishtail boxer braid, tie it together with the matching one on the left side of her head, which I have no recollection of creating, and twist them both into a messy yet somehow still precise low bun. It is perfection. I grab a hand mirror to show my four year-old the result. Her expression tells me everything before she even opens her mouth; it feeds my heart and soul.
“Wow,” she says, drawing out the word. Her mouth widens into a huge grin as she reaches up to touch my masterpiece, ever so gingerly in case it might break. “Thank you!”
She wraps both arms around my waist as tight as she can, so her fingers almost touch behind my back.
“You’re the best,” she whispers.
I am. I am the best. We both know it. Everybody knows it.
“Okay, sweetheart, ready to go?”
We leave the dirty dishes where they are. I don’t worry about those details anymore. I grab the dog’s leash and connect it to her collar while Suzie puts on her shoes. The three of us walk out of the house without coats, gloves, or sweaters, for the first time this April. Life is so much easier, so much better, in the spring. I always feel like a butterfly emerging from my winter cocoon.
Within minutes we arrive at Suzie’s school, just as the bell rings. She reaches to cuddle our dog, hugs me, and then runs to join her line. Her teacher holds the door open and greets each student.
“Cool shoes, Oliver.”
“Did you remember your snack today, Preston?”
“Suzie, I love your hair!”
My daughter beams at this compliment. She holds her head up proudly, turns to wave at me, and then follows her classmates into school. Her teacher, Mrs. H, looks my way and smiles while nodding her head, eyebrows upraised, in silent appreciation of my stylist skills. I smile back. I like Mrs. H. She’s a good teacher and cares for each child in this school. The walls of her classroom are decorated with my kind of inspirational quotes, and the room itself feels like a sanctuary. If we had met anywhere else, we would have been friends. In another world, she could be me.
I turn to head home. A glorious day lies ahead of me and it’s time to get to work. The world won’t fix itself.
∞∞∞
“Suzie, time for school!”
The last time I walked my daughter to school was six weeks ago, when I made those mad braids. I couldn’t make a ponytail today if I tried, which I won’t. I stand at the bottom of the stairs, holding the railing to steady myself. I breathe deeply to calm my pounding heart. I don’t like to be late and the last six weeks have messed up my whole concept of time. I also don’t like the medications I have to take since being a psych ward inpatient. They make my muscles tremble and I’ve already started to gain weight. I wish, not for the first time, that I could go back to the end of April. Try to settle my mind on my own before I needed hospitalization.
“Mommy, I’m here,” she says. “I’m ready.”
I glance around the corner and there she is. Waiting for me. How did she do that without my noticing? I’m living in such a fog. The psychiatrist warned me that the anti-psychotics might have this side effect, and also that I would experience a depression following the mania that began in the spring. Is that what this is now? Am I depressed? Will I be depressed all summer?
“Well, so you are.” I force a smile. I have to get things right again, even if I’m only pretending for my children. “Let’s go, kiddo.”
I lock the door behind us once we are out of the house and pull out my phone to check the time. Again.
“Oh.”
Suzie looks at me. Her face registers concern. Everyone looks at me with this same worried expression these days. I know they mean well but it’s too much. I’m not an invalid.
“What is it, Mommy?”
“Nothing, it’s fine.” I wave my hand dismissively. “We’re just early.”
Her furrowed brow relaxes. She reaches for my hand and we start to walk. It’s rare that Suzie and I have time alone together these days. Since I was admitted to the hospital and my mother flew here to fill my shoes, I’ve been trying to figure out my place in the family. The only reason my mother is not walking with us today is because we’ve all decided to take baby steps back to life as we used to know it, before I was diagnosed with bipolar. She returns home next week and everybody wants to know if I will be up to speed. Myself included. I haven’t tried to drive alone yet, let alone with the kids. Driving was never a problem before but what if one of the delusions hits while I’m behind the wheel? What will I do if I have no control? My palms start to sweat at the thought. I have to change focus.
“Anything fun at school today, Suzie?”
Without the need to rush and with no other distractions, I can be fully present as my daughter tells me about today’s planned activities. By the time we reach our destination, I feel caught up and more connected.
“Charise! Hi!”
I turn towards the female voice calling out to me. Suzie grips my hand tightly. I’m not sure why—it’s her teacher waving to us across the yard. Mrs. H glances around before leaving her post at the door to walk towards us. She kneels down to eye-level and Suzie’s hand relaxes in mine.
“How are you today, Suzie?”
She is suddenly shy, my daughter who usually doesn’t stop talking to her favourite teacher. Mrs. H knows not to force a conversation on a four year-old, so she stands and turns to me.
“It’s great to see you here,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
I feel terrible but how do I say that to her in a nice way, in this nice moment, in front of my daughter?
“I’m okay, thanks.” A bead of sweat drips down my back. “How are you?”
She reaches to touch my elbow and starts to talk, but I can’t listen. I can’t do this now. I plaster a stupid smile on my face and nod every time she pauses. When she is finished, I look down at Suzie.
“I like your hair, Mrs. H,” she says. My intuitive daughter—did she know that I needed to be rescued?
“Oh, yes, I tried your technique!” She reaches up to touch the waves cascading to her shoulders. “It worked just like your mom said it would!”
She looks at me with an eager smile. I don’t know what she is talking about. She must recognize the confusion, or fear, in my eyes because her smile drops.
“Remember? You told me about making fishtails on Suzie’s wet hair to create those fabulous curls?”
I remember doing braids on Suzie’s hair, a lot of braids, right before Eric took me to the hospital, but I don’t remember a conversation about it.
“Remember the pizza lunch, Mommy? When you helped out at school and explained about the braids?”
No. I have no memory of any of this.
“Right,” I say. I have to get out of here before I start to cry. Once I start, I won’t stop. “It looks great.”
Thankfully, the bell rings.
“Well, that’s me. Want to be class leader, Suzie?”
My daughter gives me a quick, tight hug before skipping alongside Mrs. H towards the door. I force myself to breathe, wait for my wave, and then turn to walk home. Along the way, I hear birds chirping before I see them dancing in a nearby water bath. I don’t know what they are but they’re small and happy. I feel the sun on my face and look up to the brilliant blue Calgary sky. Even the grass looks mildly green today, a rarity in this bright, dry city. I’m reminded of the brilliant colours when my manic episode began. This startles me. I thought things were more beautiful because my chemical imbalance distorted my view. But I’m not manic now. Something about the conversation with Mrs. H almost made me cry but it also made me feel something I haven’t felt since before the hospital: hope.
I don’t remember teaching Mrs. H how to braid, but she remembers. She took what I taught her, during a manic episode, and used it to do something good for herself. It’s a small thing, but it’s still good. My memories of mania are darker, more sinister, and up until this moment I had not realized that something good might have come from all of that trauma. It’s a small thing, but it’s something.
For more about my memoir and to watch the trailer, visit charisejewell.com/crazy.
© Charise Jewell, 2024
Charise Jewell 