Page 1 of Don't Leave Me

I

Part One

1

Chapter 1

I couldn’t remember the last time I had slept. Like,reallyslept. I sat at my desk at work, staring blankly at my Macbook, my eyes feeling like 100-pound bags. I couldn’t even read the scribbled post-it notes scattered around on my desk; everything just looked like gibberish in my brain, the words running together, floating around like they were weightless clouds passing by.Holy crap. I need to sleep.

Insomnia had taken over after numerous nights out, drinking and laughing and running around Tompkins Square Park, mostly with other people, sometimes by myself. For most people, this would be okay; oh, they’re just having fun, they’re just young and kooky! But for me, the introvert who preferred to be at home alone reading, it was clear what was happening: I was hypomanic.

A hypomanic episode is not that different from a manic episode with symptoms that may include pressured speech, inflated self-esteem, racing thoughts, decreased need for sleep, easily distracted, engaging in pleasurable activities that may have a potential for negative consequences such as shopping sprees, sexual indiscretions, etc. A big difference between mania and hypomania is that with hypomania there are no psychotic features and there’s a lesser degree of impact on functioning. And it’s usually caused by something called type two bipolar disorder.

I was diagnosed with type two bipolar disorder when I was 22, shortly after moving from New Haven, Connecticut to New York City. I had just graduated from Yale and moved into an amazing two-bedroom apartment in the extremely hip and eccentric Williamsburg, a neighborhood in Brooklyn, with my best friend Billie. Billie and I met when we were freshmen in college and were paired as roommates and we hit it off immediately. We shared the same interests (she was an art major and I loved to paint – I was an English major and she loved literature), sense of humor, style, everything. I admired her from the very beginning of our friendship for her charisma and kindness, her natural charm bringing out the best in everyone, and her ability to become friends with virtually anyone. I, on the other hand, was naturally an introvert; I was quiet and observant, a little awkward and anxious. I wasn’t sure of my place in the world yet. I wasn’t sure of myself, in general.

After a stressful first week at my new internship at a writing firm, I had my first hypomanic episode. I started to stay up till 5 AM, writing and reading and working and painting, and then would get three hours of sleep and run 5 miles around the park, go to work and write and write, buy anything and everything online with my emergency credit card, and then go out with my friends and explain to them that I was writing a book that I was sure I could send to any publisher and get a book offer immediately. Billie noticed something was off with me and went to a psychiatrist with me. I went just to humor her, but after one meeting with the doctor, she knew I was experiencing a hypomanic episode and immediately diagnosed with me type two bipolar disorder.

I didn’t believe it at first. I shrugged it off; this psychiatrist knows nothing about me!I thought it was some bizarre joke. She explained to me that type two bipolar disorder was characterized by hypomanic episodes, but mostly depressive episodes. I didn’t take the recommended medication and continued to do what I was doing, against the doctor and Billie’s concern. But about a week later, I slumped into a deep depression. I couldn’t get out of bed, I felt hopeless and constantly tired, my whole body ached, and it got so bad that I eventually quit my internship. I went to a different psychiatrist with the urgency of Billie’s concern, and she also diagnosed me with type two bipolar disorder. I was prescribed a mood stabilizer and finally came to terms with it: I had bipolar disorder.

Within the span of the next two years, I had three depressive episodes and two hypomanic episodes and was told that I had “rapid cycling” type two bipolar disorder, which meant having four or more major depressive, hypomanic, and/or mixed (symptoms of both depression and hypomania) episodes within a 12-month period.Great!

And here I was, two years and a half years later at age 25, sitting at work and coming down from a quite exciting hypomanic episode. Hypomania can be fun, although it’s often agitating and annoying, but it’s certainly not fun falling into those deep depressive episodes. Sometimes I’ll be okay after I’m hypomanic; sometimes I’ll stay in bed for days, catching up on the sleep I didn’t get, or sometimes I’ll stay in bed and cry and wish I were dead. I couldn’t quite tell how I’d recover from this episode just yet.

“Miss Miller,” I heard my boss’ voice from behind my desk.

I whipped my head around and noticed him leaning his hand on top of my cubicle, staring at me intently.Uh oh. My boss, Michael Barnes, was extremely attractive but extremely intimidating. He had taken over as editor at New York Daily shortly after his uncle retired a year prior, and I would still get dizzy at the sight of him: he was in his early 30’s, tall with brown perfect hair and piercing grey-blue eyes and often had a stubble of facial hair that made him especially attractive. I guess it’s a little clear that I had a crush on him, but I was still scared shitless of him: he was often intense, and his Irish accent made everything that he would say sound extremely important and urgent. He had a quick, dry and sarcastic sense of humor that I enjoyed on a few occasions, but mostly he was very professional and straight-forward.

“Yes?” I answered, my eyebrows raised as I attempted to look like Iwasn’tjust daydreaming and not working at all.

“Can I see you in my office?” he said, more of a statement than a question.

“Yes,” I nodded, then followed him down the hall and into his large, floor-to-ceiling windowed office.

Michael sat on his desk, casually picking up a stress ball and smiling at me as I stood awkwardly next to the door, waiting for him to speak.

“Have a seat,” he pointed to the comfortable club chair in front of him.

I quickly walked to the chair and sat down, eyeing Michael in all his glory; he was always so well-dressed, like a hipster professor with his elbow-patched blazers and suede oxfords.

“So what do you have for me this week?” he observed me, a lot friendlier than usual.

It took a moment for me to respond. My brain was scrambling…what do I have for him this week? Just start talking…it’ll come out.

“Um…” I started. “I’m working on…on a review for this up and coming band that I saw perform at the Bowery last week,” I finally answered.

Michael just nodded, seemingly wanting more.

“And the weekly book reviews, of course. I’m also working on a piece on confessions of a NYC taxi driver,” I went on, hoping it was enough.

He nodded again. “Good,” he said, then put the stress ball back down on his desk, shifting his weight a little as he clasped his hands together in front of him.

“Hana, how are you doing lately?” he asked, his intent gaze back on me.

He sounded so concerned. I was a little confused.

“Um…how do you mean?”

Michael smiled a little, as if he were amused. “In general, how are you doing?” he reiterated.

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