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I’M GOING DOWN SWINGING

Lizzie

OCTOBER 19, 2003

T HE MOMENT I STEPPED THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR OF HOME ON S UNDAY EVENING , HAVING spent the last forty-eight hours at the hospital, I went straight to my room despite my mother’s protests to come downstairs and talk to her.

Yeah, she could go to hell—right along with my asshole dad and my traitor boyfriend.

Screw every last one of those assholes.

Slamming my bedroom door shut, I paced the room like a crazed person, earning every letter of my diagnosis.

Early-onset bipolar disorder was a term that had been thrown around since as far back as I could remember and the reason doctors had given for my catastrophic mind.

When the illness began in early childhood, like it had for me, it was extremely difficult to treat and often considered more severe, with a worse prognosis, than bipolar disorder that was not early onset.

Because the treatments available to those with adult-onset bipolar weren’t available to children, it became a matter of trial and error from the medical professionals until they found a treatment that stuck.

This was the explanation I had been given every time I found myself in front of a new doctor or was prescribed a random new drug to “cure” me.

While my mood seemed to stabilize with the last concoction of drugs they cooked up during my last hospitalization, the effectiveness had waned to the point where I was rapid cycling.

The psychiatrist on call at the hospital this weekend told my parents the extreme highs and lows I was going through, shifting quickly between manic and depressive episodes, was a result of experiencing “mixed episodes”—something common in children and teens with my illness.

I understood that.

It was my lived experience, not theirs.

I was the one who got swept up in mania before being spat back down to the hellish depths of depression.

I was the one who lost track of time and memories.

I was the one whose will weakened with every passing day.

I was the one without faith or hope for the future.

I was the one whose mind chipped away at my soul.

And I was the one who had to live like this until the day I died.

None of these assholes had a single clue of how life was for me, and no number of books, research, or college credentials could teach them, either.

Of course, Mam’s first instinct was to cry, while Dad’s was to try to admit me for inpatient treatment.

Thankfully, he didn’t get his way, and I was allowed to return home this evening, dosed to the high heavens with antipsychotics and sedatives, and a new script my father vowed to physically force into me if I even thought about fucking around.

Like I give a shit what he does .

He could try to lock me up all he wanted, but I would go down swinging.

“Liz.” Hugh’s familiar voice came from the other side of my bedroom door. “Can I come in?”

“So you can do some more spying for my parents?” I called back, halting mid-pace to glare at the closed door. “No thanks, Judas.”

I heard my boyfriend release a frustrated growl before pushing the door open and stalking into my room. “I know you’re pissed, but I need you to talk this out with me.”

“Why? Have you spent your thirty pieces of silver already?” I countered angrily, planting my hands on my hips. “Need to siphon some more of my secrets?”

“I didn’t betray you,” he snapped back, mirroring my actions. “And you’re going to see that when you’re—”

“When I’m what, Hugh?” I screamed, body blistering from anger. “Huh? When I’m what !”

“When you’re you again!” he roared, losing his cool with me. “When you’re you , Liz.”

“News flash, asshole, this is me!” I screamed back, throwing my hands in the air. “This is me, and you can take it or leave it.”

“Liz.” Hugh’s voice was calmer when he walked over and placed his hands on my shoulders. “ Look at me.”

“No, no, no,” I strangled out, shaking my head. “Don’t even think about pulling that stunt on me.”

“I’m not pulling any stunts,” he replied, voice achingly gentle when I was screaming like a banshee. “And I’m not leaving you, either.” His hands drifted up to cup my face. “Just look at me, baby.” His thumbs caressed my cheeks tenderly. “Hmm?” He stepped closer. “Come back to me…”

“Does he know all the ways I’ve had you, munchkin?”

“He’ll never have your firsts, munchkin…”

“All of those belong to me…”

“I’ll make sure Biggs knows just how big of a whore his little girlfriend is…”

“And then I’ll kill him…”

A lone tear trickled down my cheek and I leaned into his touch. “I can’t.”