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Manic: A Memoir
Manic: A Memoir
Manic: A Memoir
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Manic: A Memoir

Rating: 4.5 out of 5 stars

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An attractive, highly successful Beverly Hills entertainment lawyer, Terri Cheney had been battling debilitating bipolar disorder for the better part of her life—and concealing a pharmacy’s worth of prescription drugs meant to stabilize her moods and make her "normal." In explosive bursts of prose that mirror the devastating mania and extreme despair of her illness, Cheney describes her roller-coaster existence with shocking honesty, giving brilliant voice to the previously unarticulated madness she endured. Brave, electrifying, poignant, and disturbing, Manic does not simply explain bipolar disorder—it takes us into its grasp and does not let go.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherHarperCollins
Release dateOct 13, 2009
ISBN9780061747281
Author

Terri Cheney

Having specialized in intellectual property and entertainment law at several prominent Los Angeles firms, Terri Cheney now devotes her talents to the cause of mental illness. She was named a member of the board of the California Bipolar Foundation and the Community Advisory Board of the UCLA Mood Disorders Research Program. She is also the founder of a weekly support group at UCLA’s Semel Institute. She lives in Los Angeles.

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Reviews for Manic

Rating: 4.254716981132075 out of 5 stars
4.5/5

106 ratings25 reviews

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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Real, raw, couldn’t put it down. Very interested to ready more of Terri’s material
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    riveting!! I really enjoyed it! The somewhat fragmented, whirlwind pace is just perfect for this subject. Keep writing, Teri: this was the first of many.

    1 person found this helpful

  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Very good. Insightfull

    1 person found this helpful

  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    If the goal was to illustrate the impact that manic depression can have on the personal decisions one makes, Terri Cheney did her job. Her stories are frightening, the telling is raw. In the end the reader is relieved that she's come to terms with the condition, found a way to tame the beast.Manic: A Memoir is a rapid read. The language isn't particularly lyrical. There's nothing captivating about it, rather straight forward and in places a bit flat, like the writing had been rushed. Repetitive. Amateurish. My struggle was with the structure, not at all written in the manner of the contemporary memoir, not a mandatory thing, but having not done so I wasn't quite prepared for the jarring nature. There's not a full arch here. There are incidents in the life of a manic depressive woman. We roll from one to the next until we get to an end that makes a declaration about alcohol and caring for oneself and there you have the revelation all rolled up. This was unsatisfying. It was Virginia Woolf who wrote about the two "I's" of a memoir, the "I" now and the "I" then. How does the "I" now, the writer "I" understand the "I" then? I didn't get the sense that Cheney much asked herself that question so that this reader wondered about her depth of understanding. This is not a valuable book for someone seeking information about manic depression. If that was Cheney's intent, she missed the mark. It was more a string of snapshots depicting what can occur when one lacks stability. For those who are living with manic depression, they already know that.

    4 people found this helpful

  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    she has been misdiagnosed. she suffers from narcissistic personality disorder... it's all about me, me, me...to the point it gets very boring.

    1 person found this helpful

  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Terri Cheney is one of my favorite authors. She shares her most personal emotions while dealing with bi-polar disorder. Having the disease myself, she confidentaly has shown that even the worst episodes can be overcome, which encourages me I am so glad she finally has stability in her life.

    3 people found this helpful

  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    The most comprehensive and home-hitting memoir about bipolar disorder that I've read. A definite read for any with the illness or friends of someone who is bipolar.

    2 people found this helpful

  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Amazing! Exactly what it feels like with every chapter. The understanding that comes from knowing yourself and accepting your disease.

    2 people found this helpful

  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Terri Cheney provides a raw, unflinching account of her mental illness, specifically the manic states of her bipolar disorder. Told in brief, non-chronological order chapters, the memoir mimics the unpredictability and jarring nature of mania, leaving the reader slightly unmoored.One of Cheney’s stated goals is to reduce the stigma of mental illness. She illustrates the lengths that those suffering from mental illness go to in order to hide their disease from colleagues, friends, and strangers. She also shows that once she shares her “secret” she finds more support and understanding than she expected. More factual information about bipolar disorder would have been nice. Placing Cheney’s illness and behavior in context and along a continuum would have been more educational. As a memoir, this book provided good insight into Cheney’s most extreme episodes and behaviors. However, readers should not assume that Cheney’s experience is typical of all manic depressives. A disclaimer to this fact would have been appreciated.

    2 people found this helpful

  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    I hate this book.

    1 person found this helpful

  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Wow!!!! This book completely grabbed me. I've know a few people in my life that I could relate this story to and it was like getting struck by a hammer. I can't begin to say I understand now what someone with this illness goes through but, this book sure helped me understand some things. I couldn't put it down and finished it in a few hours. I definitely would recommend to anyone needing a understanding of this disorder.

    1 person found this helpful

  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I need a dozen copies of this book. She captured so many of the feelings so well that everyone who loves me needs to read this. I kept nodding along going "yes, exactly! Oh thanks the gods I'm not alone!"So many of the books written about individual bipolar patients are about the extreme cases, this one is about those of us who can pass when we want to. Thank you, Terri, thank you thank you a thousand times for writing this.If you know or are a manic-depressive, please do yourself the favor of getting your hands on a copy of this book. Graspable language and honest admissions make this book a must read for the loved ones who suffer along with us, and frank descriptions of mood shifts and her own truth make this one a must read for those of us whose brain chemistry causes the suffering.I want to mark this with highlighters and make all those who care for me read it, she spoke my truth better than I've been able to in so many places.

    1 person found this helpful

  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Very interesting memoir of a woman with bipolar disorder. I've read other memoirs of depressives, but this may be the first one I've read that goes into the mindset of a person in a manic phase. Really terrifying. I've seen close up depression in its depths. While that's a dismal state, it strikes me that it doesn't come close to the insanity of a manic on a mission.

    1 person found this helpful

  • Rating: 1 out of 5 stars
    1/5
    I recently read this memoir and frankly, found it to be poorly written and confusing. There was not a continuous narrative, rather the chapters seemed to be incoherently strung together. I found it very frustrating to read, not knowing in what stage of the author's life I was placed at the beginning of each chapter. I would not recommend this to a curious reader. There are other, better, memoirs on mental illness and manic depression.

    1 person found this helpful

  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    A very gripping, in-depth look inside the life of someone suffering from manic depression. The narrative style was a bit disjointed and at times repetitive, but overall worth the read if you are interested in this subject or just curious as to what manic depression feels like. I think I would have enjoyed it a bit more if the story had been told in some type of order, but I understand why the author chose to tell the story the way she did. By the end you feel like you've read a bunch of short stories, rather than an actual cohesive memoir.

    1 person found this helpful

  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I love that Elmore Leonard spent the time he did in fictional Arizona, producing short, good and satisfying stories.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Most of these were written in the 1950s and 1960s, with the last three stories written after the late 1980s. Leonard drafts a compelling plot, and his style carries the stories along rapidly. It's interesting to see the implicit attitude towards Native Americans and characters of color generally shift; the early stories casually deploy racist tropes (which is not to argue that Leonard was racist, in fact I suspect he wasn't even early on) - but the native characters are often stereotypes, vicious degenerates or noble savages. The later stories show a much more sensitive interest in the experience of racial injustice from the perspective of the native or black American.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Join Terri Cheney in her bouts of manic-depression. Fly with her when she is manic, and flirts with the partners of her best friends; shop with her when she cleans out her savings accounts; when ever cell of her body is on fire; and then when she decends into hell and join her in her many suicide attempts or when she is suffering from malnutrition. This is the closest I ever want to come to this awful disease!
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Manic takes its readers on a journey through the treacherous bouts of mania and the bleak depths of depression. Terri Cheney is a prime example of how mental illness and tragedy can afflict even the brightest, most educated, wealthy and above all pristine looking individuals. As a powerful and respected entertainment lawyer, she represented high profile clients and mingled with A-list celebrities, all while keeping up the illusion of normalcy. For most people, there is no such thing as too much happiness. However, for Cheney, surges of happiness tend to foreshadow danger because they signify a descent into mania. The manic episodes become charged by bursts of unlimited energy which spurn sexual impropriety and complete lack of self control. Her portrayal of her experience with depression reveals her vulnerability and loneliness, leading to a number of suicide attempts, both spontaneous and planned. There is no chronological order to the book, as Cheney explains, because “life for me is not defined by time, but by mood”. While this disjointed style takes some getting used to, it is also effective in mirroring the chaotic nature of manic depression, just as Cheney had wanted. Cheney’s writing style is personal and inviting, as though she is recounting her tragic tales to a close friend. Many events in her life are quite shocking and the vivid descriptions of her suffering are sometimes hard to digest. Nonetheless, these stories are an important part of her past and a reality of those who must cope with manic depression. They remind us of how fragile human beings can be and that appearances are not always as they seem. Cheney’s pain is clearly manifested throughout the novel but the humor intertwined in her narration shows a sense of acceptance and maturity. Her ability to look back upon the most excruciating years in her life with insight and understanding is remarkable. Terri Cheney should be applauded for her courage to open up to the world about her struggle with bipolar disorder. I know I am grateful to her for letting me in.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    (3.5 stars) I'm a big fan of mental illness memoirs and other books about mental health issues, so I was excited when "Manic" came out. It looked really interesting. It was a pretty good read. It held my attention, which can be difficult sometimes, because I get distracted easily. The writing is easy rather than fantastic and sometimes I feel it is a little lacking in depth or explanation of the author's actual feelings during her emotion states. Sometimes her descriptions are a bit repetitive as well as when she describes the hair raising on her arms. I think the author is still a bit hidden in regards to her mental illness. However, I think this is a book worth reading and one I wouldn't want to miss. It is a good addition to the spectrum of mental health memoirs out there and I would ultimately recommend it.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A captivating look inside the mind of a bright and successful young woman living with manic depression. Brilliantly captures the sparkle and despair, and the places in-between where she struggles to find balance. A gritty and fascinating story, well-told and ultimately hopeful; required reading for anyone wanting to better understand this disease and the people who live with it.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Terri Cheney writes with skillful and evocative prose an unflinching, candid travelogue of her mind's landscape as her extreme bi-polar mood swings hold her life and her personal dreams hostage. In the depths of her despair, she is suicidal. But when she is manic, she says "I may think you are fascinating . . . I already know that I am fabulous." Yet as she develops a greater awareness of her illness, she learns to recognize the warning signs of when she is tipping into a more extreme phase -- and she describes the mental effort and strategems she employs to keep herself from crossing that line. If she just keeps swiveling in her chair, she can keep the torrent of manic words at bay.The author's approach of describing vignettes of her life out of chronological order was effective in conveying a sense of being adrift -- out of place, out of time -- without the usual cues and structure that we take for granted in our lives.Cheney ends on a positive note, describing a poignant moment when she makes a conscious decision to let go of alcohol -- a step toward greater mastery over her illness. The reader is left with the impression that she can better manage her illness and has found a career path better tailored to her. Like other reviewers, I found myself wanting to know more about that -- I wanted more of a sense of closure -- but perhaps that was deliberate, and indeed consistent with her overall approach, if the author continues to live in the Land of Uncertainty.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This memoir was written not in chronological order, but in brief, powerful bursts that detail the author's harrowing life with manic depression. Some of the episodes described are shocking, like her arrest and her time in a mental institution. They come alive with detail and emotion and you feel as if you are watching Terri as she goes through these experiences. You feel her pain of trying to find a relationship with a person who not only can deal with the fact that she is a manic depressive, but realizes that it is an integral part of who she is. I am amazed that someone in the depths of depression or in the height of mania could manage to retain a high powered job as a lawyer. I guess it's a testimony to the strength of her character. I would reccomend this novel to anyone who's suffered from a mental illness, known someone who's suffered, or just to someone who has felt lost in the world.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Cheney's details her struggle with manic depression through a series of non-chronological chapters. She explains at the start that this more truthfully mirrors her life as she has experienced it. It does, however, result in some repetition in the chapters that may or may not have been a result of the editing. For example, in a number of chapters, Cheney describes how acute each sense becomes during mania. The descriptions do not differ much from chapter to chapter although the situations do. That said, it's comforting to read about another person's experience of mental illness, how that intersects with social relationships and work. While each person's experiences are unique, Cheney's memoir sheds light on her experience and hopefully will help some of it's readers feel more "normal" and less alone. Manic is interesting and honest.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This is a very fast read, and Cheney offers incredibly vivid descriptions of what it is like to be in both manic and depressed states. Readers will quickly be swept up in the horror and confusion of Cheney's experiences, but overall the book lacks a certain amount of cohesion and organization. Cheney's intention in offering her experiences out of chronology and in an almost stream-of-consciousness manner seems to be to keep the reader as unbalanced as she is. This works, but unfortunately it also keeps the reader from gaining much in the way of understanding the practical fallout of the experiences she describes. For example, she describes in great detail how, under the influence of a delicious mania, she seduced her best friend's boyfriend -- but the reader doesn't get much in terms of the long-term consquences. We're left to assume that it ruined the friendship, but this is never stated outright. Similarly, I found myself repeatedly wondering how exactly Cheney supported herself after apparently going on many manic shopping sprees, enduring repeated hospitalizations, and losing (or quitting) several high-powered legal jobs. Ultimately, there is a slight impression that Cheney's life is now more under control than it once was, but there are very few details explaining how this finally came to be.Overall, I recommend it as an excellent read for someone who wants to know what it feels like to be manic-depressive, but I would not recommend it as essential reading for someone who is coping with the disease, nor would I recommend it as an informational resource.

Book preview

Manic - Terri Cheney

Preface

If you come with me on this journey, I think a word of warning is in order: manic depression is not a safe ride. It doesn’t go from point A to point B in a familiar, friendly pattern. It’s chaotic, unpredictable. You never know where you’re heading next. I wanted this book to mirror the disease, to give the reader a visceral experience. That’s why I’ve chosen to tell my life story episodically, rather than in any chronological order. It’s truer to the way I think. When I look back, I rarely remember events in terms of date or sequence. Rather, I remember what emotional state I was in. Manic? Depressed? Suicidal? Euphoric? Life for me is defined not by time, but by mood.

I’ve tried to stay as true as I can to what I remember. But mental illness creates its own vibrant reality, which is so convincing it’s sometimes hard to figure out exactly what is real and what is not. It gets even harder as time goes by, because memory is the first casualty of manic depression. When I’m manic, all I remember is the moment. When I’m depressed, all I remember is the pain. The surrounding details are lost on me.

But the illness, ironically, has impaired me far less than the treatment. I’ve long since lost track of all the psychotropic medications I’ve had to take over the years, or the nature and number of their side effects. More devastating, however, was the course of electroshock therapy (ECT) I went through in 1994. ECT can be of great help as a last-resort treatment, but it’s notorious for wiping out memory. For a while, I forgot even the simplest things: what part of town I lived in, my mother’s maiden name, what scissors were for. Some of this was eventually restored, but I still have trouble recalling past events and retaining the memories of new ones. The world has never seemed as sharp and clear as it did before the ECT.

In some cases, the events I describe can be documented by police or hospital records (although some of the hospitals no longer exist). I’ve elected to change the names of most of the people and institutions depicted, to protect their identities. The experiences I’ve written about are often difficult and private, and I prefer just to tell my own story.

Telling my story is what’s kept me alive, even when death was at its most seductive. That’s why I’ve chosen to share my personal history, although some of it is still painful to recall even through a haze of medication, mental illness, and electroshock therapy. But the disease thrives on shame, and shame thrives on silence, and I’ve been silent long enough. This book represents what I remember. This book is my truth.

Terri Cheney

Los Angeles, California

1

I didn’t tell anyone that I was going to Santa Fe to kill myself. I figured that was more information than people needed, plus it might interfere with my travel plans if anyone found out the truth. People always mean well, but they don’t understand that when you’re seriously depressed, suicidal ideation can be the only thing that keeps you alive. Just knowing there’s an out—even if it’s bloody, even if it’s permanent—makes the pain almost bearable for one more day.

Five months had passed since my father’s death from lung cancer, and the world was not a fit place to live in. As long as Daddy was still alive, it made sense to get up every morning, depressed or not. There was a war on. But the day I gave the order to titrate his morphine to a lethal dose, the fight lost all meaning for me.

So I wanted to die. I saw nothing odd about this desire, even though I was only thirty-eight years old. It seemed like a perfectly natural response, under the circumstances. I was bone-tired, terminally weary, and death sounded like a vacation to me, a holiday. A somewhere else, which is all I really wanted.

When I was offered the chance to leave L.A. to take an extended trip by myself to Santa Fe, I was ecstatic. I leased a charming little hacienda just off Canyon Road, the artsiest part of town, bursting with galleries, jazz clubs, and eccentric, cat-ridden bookstore/cafés. It was a good place to live, especially in December, when the snow fell thick and deep on the cobblestones, muffling the street noise so thoroughly that the city seemed to dance its own soft-shoe.

There was an exceptional amount of snowfall that particular December. Everything seemed a study in contrast: the fierce round desert sun, blazing while I shivered; blue-white snow shadows against thick red adobe walls; and always, everywhere I looked, the sagging spine of the old city pressing up against the sleek curves of the new. But the most striking contrast by far was me: thrilled to tears simply to be alive in such surroundings, and determined as ever to die.

I never felt so bipolar in my life.

The mania came at me in four-day spurts. Four days of not eating, not sleeping, barely sitting in one place for more than a few minutes at a time. Four days of constant shopping—and Canyon Road is all about commerce, however artsy its facade. And four days of indiscriminate, nonstop talking: first to everyone I knew on the West Coast, then to anyone still awake on the East Coast, then to Santa Fe itself, whoever would listen. The truth was, I didn’t just need to talk. I was afraid to be alone. There were things hovering in the air around me that didn’t want to be remembered: the expression on my father’s face when I told him it was stage IV cancer, already metastasized; the bewildered look in his eyes when I couldn’t take away the pain; and the way those eyes kept watching me at the end, trailing my every move, fixed on me, begging for the comfort I wasn’t able to give. I never thought I could be haunted by anything so familiar, so beloved, as my father’s eyes.

Mostly, however, I talked to men. Canyon Road has a number of extremely lively, extremely friendly bars and clubs, all of which were within walking distance of my hacienda. It wasn’t hard for a redhead with a ready smile and a feverish glow in her eyes to strike up a conversation and then continue that conversation well into the early-morning hours, at his place or mine. The only word I couldn’t seem to say was no. I ease my conscience by reminding myself that manic sex isn’t really intercourse. It’s discourse, just another way to ease the insatiable need for contact and communication. In place of words, I simply spoke with my skin.

I had long since decided that Christmas Eve would be my last day on this earth. I chose Christmas Eve precisely because it had meaning and beauty—nowhere more so than in Santa Fe, with its enchanting festival of the farolitos. Every Christmas Eve, carolers come from all over the world to stroll the lantern-lit streets until dawn. All doors are open to them, and the air is pungent with the smell of warm cider and piñon.

I wanted to die at such a moment, when the world was at its best, when I could offer up my heart to God and say, thank you, truly, for all of it. It’s not that I’m ungrateful. It’s just that I’m not capable anymore of the joy a night like this deserves. Joy is blasphemy now that Daddy’s dead; your world is simply wasted on me. And that, I think, is reason enough to die. This unwritten prayer was the only suicide note I intended to leave.

Christmas Eve dawned bright and cold, with snow in the forecast for early that afternoon. I was on the fourth day of my latest manic spree, which meant my mind was speeding so fast I had to make shorthand lists to keep up with it. I’d already carefully laid out what I was going to wear as my farewell attire: a long black cashmere dress—not to be macabre, but because cashmere would never wrinkle and black would hide any unexpected blood or vomit. I’d also laid out all the pills I’d saved up over the past year, including all the heavy-duty cancer meds my father had never lived long enough to take. They were neatly arranged in probable order of lethality, and grouped into manageable mouthfuls, approximately ten pills per swallow. Counting them one last time, I realized I had well over three hundred assorted tablets and capsules, which meant an awful lot of swallows. What I didn’t have was sufficient tequila to wash them all down. Water wasn’t an option. I needed the interaction.

So it couldn’t be helped. I pulled on my gloves, hat, and coat, grabbed my car keys off the counter, and dashed off to the nearest liquor store, praying it was open. The snow was falling just heavily enough to slow my progress, but I was in luck. Not only were they still open, but my favorite tequila, Lapiz in the cobalt blue bottle, was on sale. I bought a fifth, then turned around and bought two more. There seemed little point, after all, in economizing. The old sales clerk, who had waited on me many times that December, held out his hand and wished me a merry Christmas. I shook his hand briefly, then turned back and gave him a big hug and a kiss on both cheeks. Merry Christmas, I said, as something cold and sharp twanged inside me. I had promised myself no good-byes.

The snow was falling thick and fast by the time I got back to the hacienda. The car heater wasn’t working very well, and I was shivering so hard I could barely open my purse to get the house key. I hated being cold. Rummaging through my purse with half-numb fingers, I wondered if the body felt the grave, and if that final chill ever truly left the bones. Five frustrating minutes later, I realized the key wasn’t anywhere in my purse, nor was it in the car, nor was it lying outside in the snow. It was, quite simply, somewhere else; and I was locked out of my most desperate dream.

Fortunately, my cell phone was in the glove compartment, charged and ready. A helpful operator took pity on me and managed to find me the only local locksmith working on Christmas Eve. But it would be at least an hour, the locksmith told me, before he could make it over to Canyon Road. Better bundle up and stay warm, he said. I’ll do better than that, I thought. Uncorking the bottle of Lapiz, I took a long, deep swallow, and started singing Christmas carols alphabetically to myself.

I’d been around the alphabet three times and back again by the time the locksmith finally arrived, a good hour and a half later. I was singing at the top of my lungs by then, and didn’t hear his key tapping against the ice-encrusted window. All I saw was a pair of red-rimmed eyes under big white bushy brows through my windshield, and I was drunk enough to think of Santa Claus. Door, I said, pointing. ’s locked.

While he fiddled with one key after another, I asked him all about his work, about life in Santa Fe, about life in general. The old manic craving to know everything was fierce upon me; but luckily, I’d found a willing participant. In fact, I could barely ask my questions before he answered them, at length and in depth. It hit me that he was talking even faster than I was, and that his answers didn’t sound quite right. There was something wrong with him, something slightly but significantly off. I looked at him while he was talking and realized that he was younger than I thought. And practically toothless. A single front tooth was framed by two stragglers at the bottom. The rest of the gum was raw and black, like a thick slice of calves’ liver. And his eyes weren’t just red, they were bloody, the whites shot through with virulent streaks.

Even through the heavy haze of tequila, I heard a warning bell go off. Step back, I said to myself. Get formal. Slow it down. But we were already well into this strange rhythm: me asking, him answering, me listening hard with all of my body. I didn’t know how to stop it, and was worried about offending him. Before I could figure out what to do, his supply of keys ran out. He was stumped. The only thing left to do was break the window.

I loved the idea of smashing glass at that moment. I wanted to do it, but he refused. Wrapping his hand in a greasy old rag, he told me to stand back and close my eyes. Then he bashed the pane once, twice, and on the third blow the glass tinkled onto the tile floor. There’s nothing quite like breaking something—the law, a pane of glass, whatever—to embolden a manic mood. This calls for a drink, I said, as he unlocked and opened the door.

I laid it all out: shot glasses, lime wedges, a shaker of salt and a newly opened fifth of tequila. Since this was probably the last toast I would ever make, I wanted to say something profound, but more than that, I wanted the drink. Here’s to breaking through, I said. When we clinked our glasses, I saw a patch of blood on his shirtsleeve. You must have cut yourself on the window, I told him. Sit down, and I’ll take care of it.

It’s nothing, he said, pulling his arm away.

Sit down, I repeated. Two years of taking care of an increasingly infantile father had given me a competent, no-nonsense air of authority when it came to nursing. He sat down, started unbuttoning his cuff, then stopped.

I can’t, he said. A lady like you shouldn’t see this.

I’ve seen blood before, I said, laughing.

It’s not that.

I’m sorry, I said. Are you burned?

No, he said, squirming.

Scarred?

Not really.

I reached over and put my hand on his sleeve. Then don’t be silly. You’re bleeding all over my table.

Without looking at me, he finished unbuttoning his cuff and rolled up his sleeve, thereby exposing, from wrist to bicep, the single greatest display of pornographic tattooing I had ever seen on one man’s body.

I’m like this all over, he said. I used to do drugs. My judgment wasn’t so hot back then.

Inadvertently, his bicep flexed, sending the fat couple engraved across it into a copulating spasm. I felt my face flush red, but I couldn’t look away. It was grotesque but mesmerizing in a freakish, carnival side-show way. And strangely innocent: as devoid of sexual appeal as the Sunday funnies.

I couldn’t help myself. I burst out laughing, and told him I’d seen far worse on my travels. He didn’t respond, nor would he meet my eye. I started to clean the small cut on his upper forearm, hoping to relax him, but if anything, the contact made him more nervous. I’m so sorry, he kept saying. If I could, I’d burn them all off.

It’s okay, really. Hold still.

No, I’m hideous, he insisted. Sometimes I just want to die.

There are lots of easy ways to respond to a statement like that—superficial, cheery bits of wisdom—but the irony slowed me down. Here I was, just waiting for this poor man to leave so I could finish killing myself by midnight; and I was supposed to reassure him of the sanctity of life? I poured us both another shot of tequila.

He pushed his glass away and shook his head. I saw a tear begin to form at the corner of his eye. Toothless, tattooed freak or not, he was suffering, and I knew only too well how that felt. I turned his arm over, exposing his wrist with its dancing, fully erect horned devil. I moistened the area with tequila, sprinkled it with a little salt, then bent down and licked between the tendons. Then I tossed back the shot, slammed the glass down on the table and sucked on my lime.

That’s what I think of your silly tattoos, I said. Now have a drink. It’s Christmas Eve.

Manic intentions are always good; manic consequences, almost never. I hadn’t really meant anything sexual by my gesture. I just meant it kindly, one injured animal licking another’s wounds. But then he stood up all at once and grabbed me by the arms, pulling me close to him and kissing me full on the mouth. I tried to break loose, but his grip was too strong, his mouth too insistent. I didn’t want sex. I just wanted to talk for a minute or two, then I wanted to die. Plus his mouth tasted foul—dark and sour—and I couldn’t get rid of the image of those liverish gums. A strong wave of revulsion swept through me, part tequila, part bile. I struggled once again to get free. I felt his hold loosen, took a dizzy step backward, and heard No!—the single word No!—and I don’t know which one of us said it before the world went black.

I woke several hours later, sprawled across my bed, strangely stiff and sore and damp all over. I was alone. When I reached down to pull up the comforter, my fingers grazed my thighs and I felt a familiar cold, wet stickiness. I must have started my period, I thought, but then I smelled sweat—not a sweat I knew, but a man’s sweat. My inner thighs were throbbing, almost too sore to move, but I looked down at them. They were smeared with blood, fresh red bruises just beginning to shine through.

It really shouldn’t have mattered so much. I would be leaving this body for good, I kept telling myself, as soon as I could get up and swallow the waiting pills. But it did matter. It mattered a lot. In the same way that I wanted to leave a neat, spotless house, so I wanted a clean death. No loose, messy ends left trailing behind me, and especially no good-byes, not even to my innocence. I’d already said more than my share of good-byes.

I didn’t want to remember, and I certainly didn’t want to feel, but unbidden, unwanted, the tears started to flow. With them the memories came flooding back: the jagged edge of a broken blue bottle, waving back and forth before my eyes before it disappeared between my legs; a heavy arm straddling my windpipe; a quick shallow breath in my ear. And everywhere the little devils dancing, rippling across the surface of his skin, my skin, ours.

I looked down again at the mosaic of blood on the sheets. So much blood,

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