“I have absolute faith in your abilities,” I told her, “but maybe you should wait and experiment with one of Marcus’s starry‑eyed recruits.”
“I suppose I could. I mean, I don’t think it’ll cause any harm. The biggest problem will be whether it works or not. And the only way we can find out is if the Alchemists try to re‑ink the guinea pig–which none of us want.” Her small, thoughtful frown was adorable. “Unless I could get a hold of Alchemist ink and do more experiments . . . but, ugh. That won’t be easy without sanctioning. And I don’t have an earth user around either.”
I scoffed. “I’m sure Abe would love to help.”
“Oh, yes,” said Sydney. “I’m sure he would. I’m sure he’d love to know all about my side project.”
Zoe pulled up just then in that beast of a car. She didn’t drive over the curb or crash into the building, so I supposed that was promising. Nonetheless, I saw Sydney’s sharp eyes studying the exterior for even the tiniest ding. Satisfied, she took the driver’s seat from Zoe and waved goodbye to us. Her eyes held mine, and for a few moments, I was suspended in that amber gaze. I sighed as she drove off, and when I glanced down, I saw Jill watching me knowingly.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll make an appointment.” She hugged me.
I called a psychiatrist recommended by Carlton’s health center and kind of hoped it would take a while to get in. After all, specialists were always busy, right? This one apparently was–but had just had a cancellation for tomorrow. The receptionist told me I was incredibly lucky, so what I could do? I accepted and then skipped mixed media the next day, earning “slacker” name‑calling when I asked Rowena to let me know what I missed.
The doctor’s name was Ronald Mikoski, but I promptly forgot that because he looked exactly like Albert Einstein, complete with disheveled white hair and mustache. I’d thought there’d be a couch where I’d lie back and talk about my mother, but instead, he directed me to a plush armchair while he settled behind a desk. Instead of a notebook, he had a laptop.
“Well, Adrian,” Einstein began. “Tell me what brings you in here today.”
I started to say, “My girlfriend made me,” but that sounded petulant.
“My girlfriend thought it’d be a good idea,” I amended. “I want to get some antidepressants.”
The bushy eyebrows rose. “Do you? Well, we don’t just hand out prescriptions around here, but let’s get to the bottom of things first. Are you depressed?”
“Not at the moment.”
“But you get that way sometimes?”
“Sure. I mean, well, everyone does, right?”
He met my gaze levelly. “Yes, of course, but is yours worse than the average person’s?”
“Who can say?” I shrugged. “It’s all subjective, right?”
“Does your girlfriend think it’s worse than the average person’s?”
I hesitated. “Yes.”
“Why?”
That made me falter. I didn’t know if I was ready to talk about that. I hadn’t expected to. I knew enough about mental health from Lissa to understand that psychiatrists prescribed medicine and therapists talked you through your problems. I’d thought I could just come in here, say I needed pills, and get them.
“Because . . . I drink when I get down.”
Einstein’s fingers tapped away. “A lot?”
I was ready with another “subjective” quip but chose to answer bluntly. “Yes.”
“When you’re happy too?”
“I guess . . . but what’s wrong with letting loose?”
“Tell me how you feel when you ‘get down.’”
Again, it was another opening for a joke. Like, I should’ve said something about getting down at a dance club. After all, how could I describe what I felt in those dark moments when spirit’s shadow seized hold of my soul? And even if I could find the words, how could he understand? How could anyone truly, truly understand? No one could, and that was part of what made things so bad. I always felt alone. Even another spirit user couldn’t completely understand my experience. We were all in our own personal hells, and of course, I couldn’t actually mention spirit specifically.
Yet, I found myself talking to Einstein anyway, describing everything as best I could. After a while, he stopped typing and just listened, occasionally asking me to clarify my feelings. Soon, he shifted from how I felt when depressed and wanted to know how I felt when I was happy. He seemed especially interested in my spending habits and any “unusual behaviors.” When we’d exhausted that, he gave me a bunch of questionnaires that asked variations of the same questions.
“Man,” I said, handing them back. “I had no idea it was this hard to qualify as crazy.”
I saw a glint of amusement in his eyes. “‘Crazy’ is a term that’s used incorrectly and far too often. It’s also used with stigma and finality.” He tapped his head. “We’re all chemicals, Adrian. Our bodies, our brains. It’s a simple yet vastly sophisticated system, and every so often, something goes awry. A cell mutation. A neuron misfiring. A lack of a neurotransmitter.”
“My girlfriend would love this,” I said. I nodded at the paperwork. “So, if I’m not crazy, do I still get the pills?”
Einstein skimmed through the pages, nodding as though he was seeing exactly what he expected. “If you like, but not the ones you came in for. Your situation is more complex than just depression. You exhibit a lot of the classic symptoms of bipolar disorder.”
There was something sinister about the word “disorder.” “What’s that mean? In words that don’t begin with ‘neuro’?”
That actually got a smile from him, though it looked a little sad. “It means, in very simple terms, that your brain makes your lows too low and your highs too high.”
“Are you saying it’s possible to be too happy?” I was starting to get very uneasy about this. Maybe the fact that his patients canceled on short notice should’ve been a warning sign that he wasn’t a very good doctor.
“It depends on what you do.” He opened up the packet of papers I’d filled out. “You spent eight hundred dollars on a record set recently?”
“Yeah, so? It’s the purest form of music.”
“Was it something you’d been wanting for a while? Something you’ve been searching for?”
I thought back to when I’d walked past the handwritten sign on campus. “Um, no. The opportunity just came up, and I thought it was a good idea.”
“Do you have a history of other impulse purchases?”
“No. Well, I mean, I once sent a girl flowers every day for a month. And I also had a giant box of perfumes sent to her. And then I bought my current girlfriend some custom perfume that kind of cost a lot. And I technically bought a car for her. But you can’t judge those,” I added quickly, seeing his wry look. “I was in love. We all do things like that in pursuit of the fairer sex, right?” Silence answered. “Maybe I should just take a money management class.”
He gave a small, nondescript grunt. “Adrian, it’s normal to be happy and sad. That’s human life.” I definitely didn’t correct him there. “What’s not normal is to be so drastically sad that you can’t go on with typical activities or to be so happy that you impulsively engage in grandiose activities without thinking through the consequences–like excessive spending. And it’s definitely not normal to switch so quickly between these drastic moods with little or no provocation.”
I wanted to tell him that there was provocation, that spirit did these things to me. And yet, did the cause matter? If fire users burned themselves with their magic, it didn’t change the fact that they needed first aid. If spirit was causing this bipolar thing, then didn’t I still need treatment? My mind spun, and I suddenly found myself caught up in a chicken‑and‑egg dilemma. Maybe spirit didn’t cause mental illness. Maybe people like Lissa and me were already “off” chemically and that’s what made us gravitate to spirit.
“So what do you do about it?” I asked at last.
He took out a small notebook and scribbled something onto it. When he finished, he tore off the top sheet and handed it to me. “You get this prescription filled and take it.”