Maybe you’re just feeling better,” my psychiatrist said, “because something good has happened in your life.” He was the only psychiatrist who was open on a Saturday and covered by my insurance plan, provided by a job I couldn’t stand.
I pondered this as I stared out the window on a dull, gray February afternoon in Queens. The monotony of my desk job hadn’t changed in the nearly two years I’d been there, except that I was barely making deadlines because I couldn’t focus. My personal life was the same—still solid with my long-term boyfriend, but nothing particularly life-changing going on. I saw my friends regularly, and my family was good. Which is to say: Things were fine, but nothing that great was happening—at least, nothing to elicit days’ worth of feeling euphoric, barely sleeping, being hyper-creative, and starting a million projects I knew in the back of my mind were never going to get done. I would later find out that this was a form of mania. My psychiatrist at the time, however, didn’t believe me when I explained the symptoms.