[stylist] Bipolar Astronaut, Parts 1 and 2

[Slery]

Good to see you back. I remember when you first joined us at convention. I
am moving so won't be able to read this till later.
Cindy


On July 21, 2017 7:26:39 PM Chelsea Cook via stylist <stylist at nfbnet.org>
wrote:

> Greetings Fellow Writers,
>
> I've been busy off-list trying to get my life in order after a recent
> medical diagnosis and three rounds of hospitalizations. I need to write
> this all down, and science fiction is the best outlet I've found to do
> that. pasted and attached are the first few installments of what I hope
> will be a broader book about my journey, but these are the allegories.
> Please, comments welcome, and I've got more for people who are interested.
> Some mild language and heavy mental health topics are included here, so
> read at your own discretion.
>
> Sincerely,
> Chelsea Cook
>
> Dormitory Eighth Level: Lunar Station, June 2035
>
> We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the Space
> Corps Academy Training Center on Jupiter Station.  Please report for duty
> at the Sagan Cycler in two weeks' time.
>
> Sincerely,
> Commander Cruiser
>
>
> ***
> Space Corps Academy Quarters, October 2036
>
> "Are you contemplating your own death?" The question is soft but direct.
>
> I don't answer.  I just look away.
>
> Byte looks at me, calm, but I can tell she's scared now.
>
> "The fact that you didn't say anything tells me the answer.  There is
> medication for these sorts of feelings," she continues warmly.  She is not
> angry, which is a relief.  "Believe me, I was suicidal and took it for at
> least a year.  It will help.  Can we go down to the med bay? Please? It
> will get better."
>
> I don't believe it will ever get better.  I have no energy reserves left,
> however, so I let her lead me from the dorm room.
>
> Before we can get to the med bay, I start shaking.
>
> "What's wrong?" Byte asks, genuinely concerned.
>
> "I'm scared of what will happen," my breathing and speaking rate quicken.
> "I feel like people are going to judge me! I feel like something very bad
> will happen to me!"
>
> "No one will judge you." That soft voice again.  "They know how to deal
> with this stuff.  Nothing bad will happen."
>
> I sit in the examiner's chair, filling out my questionnaire to what I
> surely believe is the doorway to hell.
>
> "Do you have thoughts of hurting or killing yourself?"
>
> I cannot speak, so nod.
>
> "Do you have a plan?"
>
> Byte sees I'm scared, so squeezes my hand and reassures, "No one will pass
> judgment here."
>
> "Yes," I grudgingly admit to the examiner and byte.  I do not know what
> will happen to me if I divulge my "plan." I really had no idea how, but
> space offers a thousand ways, sudden decompression  being the least painful.
>
> "When was the last time you had these thoughts?"
>
> "A few minutes ago." I had been irritable with Byte on the way down.
>
> "Don't worry about me!" she pipes up.  "This is all about you.  Just focus
> on you and your emotions, your feelings."
>
> "Fear?"
>
> "especially fear. That fear will keep you safe. Though not fear of being here."
>
> Someone watches over me like a hawk.  What do they think I'll do, try to
> escape or just stop existing in this chair? I briefly contemplated escape,
> but knew it would get me nowhere with Byte, let alone the hospital staff,
> watching.  After awhile, someone brings me roast beef and carrots and
> potatoes, and I peck at Byte's insistence.
>
> I am wheeled to another examining room.  "Just be truthful," Byte urges
> before the next examiner enters.
>
> More questions.  I will be transferred to the psych ward at Jupiter Station
> after all.  On the cycler, I remember a dinner of orange chicken and rice
> with some nameless vegetable (maybe green beans or snow peas?) and eat
> everything, finally hungry... and safe.  The stress starts to abate.
>
> "That's the most you've eaten in a long time!" Byte comments proudly.  She
> has tried to make my favorite foods to convince me to eat, but it hasn't
> worked past a few bites.
>
> I shrug self-consciously.  "Thanks."
>
> A new nurse comes in, wanting to document my body.  I strip, knowing my
> dignity is in some faraway place that is not here.  Then I say the painful
> good-bye to Byte, and follow the nurse to a bed, where I collapse and hope
> to put this day into the recesses of memory.
>
>
> I am  harshly awoken at six AM  for vitals.  Damn, the world again.  Then a
> fasting blood draw.  I still do not like physical pain.  I'm sharply
> reminded of this fact by the needle's contact with skin.  After breakfast,
> which is another mentally charged battle  of me not eating the
> nasty-tasting fake eggs and the staff urging me to, I join the other
> patients  for my first therapy group session.
>
> "Today we will focus on depression," the African group leader says.
>
> Great, my depressive mind thinks.  Just what you need, a lecture on what
> you've been hiding  all this time.
>
> But there is no hiding here, even from the scariest topic.  "Many people
> with depression contemplate suicide," the counselor continues. (He really
> gets to the point!)  "I want to tell you a story about what happened to a
> man on the Golden Gate Bridge."
>
> Even more wonderful! My depression loves this guy!
>
> "He was very close to ending his life." (Who isn't, in here?) "The
> telephone did not stop him.  What did, was a fellow man on the bridge who
> gave him a smile.  Just a big, hearty, all-American smile." He ends on a
> positive note.  A smile, really? Can just a smile save a life? (Yeah,
> right, my depression answers cynically).
>
> Then the implications set in, and I start shaking.  Is this  me, is this
> who I've become? Is this what the disease comes down to, simply an
> imbalance in brain chemistry? Am I not a human being?
>
> "Are you okay?" I realize there are concerned people around me.  "It's
> okay, you're safe here."
>
> "I had a friend--" is all I can choke out.  Then, "Yes, I'm fine."
>
> I must compose myself and be strong, I think as I settle in for my
> afternoon nap and that blessed of all escapes, sleepful oblivion.  I must
> keep up this role of the good suicidal patient.  After all, depression has
> taught me over the past four months how to be a worthy Broadway  actor.
>
>
> ***
>
> Jupiter Station Psychiatric Facility: October 2036
>
> My new reality.  Doctors and nurses.  Needles and deceptions, delusions and
> manipulations.  Anything to get medication to stop the sirens.  ANYTHING!
>
> How did I, the happiest, most excitable cadet in the Fleet, get to this point?
>
> That was easy.  I'll list the facts.  Actually, no I won't, I'm too
> exhausted.  They're in my chart.  Go look up my whole history later if you
> want for your bedtime reading.  Right now, there are more pressing matters,
> like if I can actually finish this ginormous amount of calories they want
> me to consume this morning.
>
> "You need to eat," a compassionate voice beside me says.  He's trying, he
> really is.
>
> "I don't want it." I push the food away. My stomach turns over at the
> thought: disgusting.
>
> I got here last night.  When will they start putting meds into me? What
> will those drugs do? Will they work or make me feel worse? Could I possibly
> feel any worse? Excitement and apathy and fear all mix together; this is
> totally unknown territory.
>
> "How are we feeling today?"
>
> "Depressed."
>
> There is a window in this room that looks out over magnificent Jupiter, but
> I don't notice.
>
> I slump in the chair.  Doctor woke me from a nap.  I've been dreading and
> wishing for this moment for months.  Actually avoiding it since I got here;
> that means the road to leaving for the scary unknown has opened.
>
> "When did you start feeling this way?"
>
> "July."
>
> "How's your sleep?"
>
>  "Fourteen hours."
>
> "How's your apet-tite?" He's Asian and I can barely understand him.
> Pressure not helping.
>
> "Not great.  Eating very little."
>
> "Let's see if you can remember these three terms: James brown, John Smith,
> San Francisco golden Gate Bridge."
>
> It is hard, but I repeat back with no trouble. this disease has not taken
> my best quality  away! Never mind that he said one of my favorite places!
> Never mind also that I empathized with the people who ended their lives
> below it...
>
> "Can you count backwards from 100 by sevens?" Back to the scary examiner.
> He's probing now. The questions are getting tricky.
>
> "One hundred...  ninety-three...  eighty-something..." I falter.  I am
> failing miserably.  I hate failing!
>
> "I notice you are having trouble answering.  Is that because of  depression
> or something else?"
>
> "I don't know." Barely audible. As my heart rate goes up, but I keep that
> in the chest where it belongs, boom boom. An admission.  I am smart; I
> never have trouble communicating or expressing! What the hell is up?
>
> "I see." Scribble, scribble, click, click.
>
> "Let's start you on  Mirtazipine, or Remeron.  It will help you get some
> good sleep here on the unit, and improve your eating.  Is that agreeable?"
>
> My heart leaps for the first time in weeks.  An antidepressant, magic!
> "Yes!" The door has opened a crack to let sunlight filter through...
>
> "Good.  You are free to go."
>
> That afternoon, I take my first pill.  That evening, I gorge myself on
> every kilocalorie they provide.  It is not exactly happy, but it is not
> empty...  it will suffice.
>
>
> Next day. different doctor. This one is a white guy; I hate to stereotype,
> but I feel instantly more comfortable and at ease. I sit up straight in the
> chair.
>
> "How are you feeling today?"
>
> "A little better. I'm eating again! I think that pill is starting to work."
>
> "Good. Your body seems to be tolerating the medication. You also seem to be
> communicating better."
>
> I actually smile.
>
>
>
>
> ----------
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