[stylist] Bipolar Astronaut, Parts 1 and 2

[Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter]

Chelsea,

Sorry to hear about your health. Hope things are better.

Bridgit

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Chelsea Cook
via stylist
Sent: Friday, July 21, 2017 6:26 PM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Cc: Chelsea Cook <astrochem119 at gmail.com>
Subject: [stylist] Bipolar Astronaut, Parts 1 and 2

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.