House of Reviews

I wrote Parts 1-5 as external narrator; for Part 6 I changed it Bebe's voice. I am enclosing Parts 1 and 6 and appreciate any thoughts.


The Bipolar Bartender at the Ups and Downs Bar and Grill

“Damnit!”, Bebe thought to herself as she wiped down the bar. Closing time was approaching, as was her angry boss. The bar's owner was still upset about the extra cases of Grey Goose and Absolut Bebe ordered a few weeks ago. What did he expect during a manic episode? She had a tremendous urge to spend then, and it was always easier when it was someone else's money. He ought to appreciate the plus side of the mania. She was extremely voluble then, always able to get the customers to order top shelf drinks, order food at the bar, order even more food at the bar and leave her an extremely generous tip. The owner made more money on those nights, as did Bebe. Bebe wished Frank would just get over it already. There must be some kind of special chill pill for bar owners. Had Maria Bello's character in “Coyote Ugly” ever taken one?

Tonight, unfortunately, was a different night. Thanks to tinkering with her meds, the mania had subsided. She felt depleted and exhausted. This would likely turn out to be one of those night where she stayed up listing all her regrets, major and minor (though not necessarily in that order). Her therapist's voice popped into her head right away--”Sleep is crucial, Bebe. Don't neglect the self-care.” It was a good point, thought Bebe. If she gave in to the insomnia and negative thinking, it would only be one more thing to add to that notorious list of regrets.

Bebe arrived home and looked around her condo with satisfaction. One positive way she had used the burst of energy during the manic episode was a massive cleaning spree. The kitchen pantry was now organized and all those old spices, the ones that hadn't been aromatic since way back when Jimmy Carter was president, were gone. Her underwear drawer only contained underwear that was clean, comfortable to wear and brightly colored enough to keep her cheerful. She had never been hospitalized, but it was reassuring to think that she would be there in fashionable underwear if it did happen down the road.

The most constructive thing to do right now, Bebe knew, was to quickly get into relaxation mode. A warm bath, comfortable pjs, cup of Tension Tamer tea, soothing music, aromatherapy candle. No pacing, no watching TV, no watching her Sex and the City DVDs (with all their struggles, she always wondered, how come Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda never got depressed. Oh, that's right, TV is not reality—but wait, what about that crap like Survivor, Pimp My Ride and Fear Factor. She longed for the days of LA Law). Most important of all, no writing that list of regrets. In the words of the late lamented Joey Ramone, that would only be the road to ruin. Or wait, did he actually write that as a song, or was it only the album title? Bebe's brain caught in the infinite tape that always looked for a way to wedge itself into her head. Song, album title, song, album title. And what about new Shimmer? Is it a floor wax, or a dessert topping? Floor wax, dessert topping, floor wax, dessert topping. Tastes great, less filling. Tastes great, less filling. Man, she just hated when these ruminations started and refused to turn off. The fate of Western Civilization does not hang in the balance here, she reminded herself. Shimmer is not a real product, she doesn't drink beer because of her meds and she hasn't been much of a Ramones fan since she discovered just how despicable Johnny Ramone really was. Careful, she warned herself, you could be stuck here forever. What does it really matter? She could always check with her 14 year old nephew. Sam was a huge Ramones fan and owned all their albums. If he didn't know the answer, he could certainly bluff his way through it.
And if he could use the maven strategy of opinion over knowledge so well, more power to him. Perhaps she could make a list tonight of people she knows whose powers of persuasion trump their accuracy. Although if she shouldn't write a list of regrets, she probably shouldn't write any kind of list. Don't encourage the obsessive behavior, pick one small thing to accomplish and do it. OK then, tonight's small accomplishment: she popped a Xanax and got into bed. Hooray for the clean sheets.

Good night room, good night moon, good night cow jumping over the moon. Oh bless you, Margaret Wise Brown, you are my own personal Morpheus, thought Bebe as she blessedly drifted off to sleep.

End of Part 1


The Bipolar Bartender at the Ups and Downs Bar and Grill

“Damnit!”, Bebe thought to herself as she wiped down the bar. Closing time was approaching, as was her angry boss. The bar's owner was still upset about the extra cases of Grey Goose and Absolut Bebe ordered a few weeks ago. What did he expect during a manic episode? She had a tremendous urge to spend then, and it was always easier when it was someone else's money. He ought to appreciate the plus side of the mania. She was extremely voluble then, always able to get the customers to order top shelf drinks, order food at the bar, order even more food at the bar and leave her an extremely generous tip. The owner made more money on those nights, as did Bebe. Bebe wished Frank would just get over it already. There must be some kind of special chill pill for bar owners. Had Maria Bello's character in “Coyote Ugly” ever taken one?

Tonight, unfortunately, was a different night. Thanks to tinkering with her meds, the mania had subsided. She felt depleted and exhausted. This would likely turn out to be one of those night where she stayed up listing all her regrets, major and minor (though not necessarily in that order). Her therapist's voice popped into her head right away--”Sleep is crucial, Bebe. Don't neglect the self-care.” It was a good point, thought Bebe. If she gave in to the insomnia and negative thinking, it would only be one more thing to add to that notorious list of regrets.

Bebe arrived home and looked around her condo with satisfaction. One positive way she had used the burst of energy during the manic episode was a massive cleaning spree. The kitchen pantry was now organized and all those old spices, the ones that hadn't been aromatic since way back when Jimmy Carter was president, were gone. Her underwear drawer only contained underwear that was clean, comfortable to wear and brightly colored enough to keep her cheerful. She had never been hospitalized, but it was reassuring to think that she would be there in fashionable underwear if it did happen down the road.

The most constructive thing to do right now, Bebe knew, was to quickly get into relaxation mode. A warm bath, comfortable pjs, cup of Tension Tamer tea, soothing music, aromatherapy candle. No pacing, no watching TV, no watching her Sex and the City DVDs (with all their struggles, she always wondered, how come Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda never got depressed. Oh, that's right, TV is not reality—but wait, what about that crap like Survivor, Pimp My Ride and Fear Factor. She longed for the days of LA Law). Most important of all, no writing that list of regrets. In the words of the late lamented Joey Ramone, that would only be the road to ruin. Or wait, did he actually write that as a song, or was it only the album title? Bebe's brain caught in the infinite tape that always looked for a way to wedge itself into her head. Song, album title, song, album title. And what about new Shimmer? Is it a floor wax, or a dessert topping? Floor wax, dessert topping, floor wax, dessert topping. Tastes great, less filling. Tastes great, less filling. Man, she just hated when these ruminations started and refused to turn off. The fate of Western Civilization does not hang in the balance here, she reminded herself. Shimmer is not a real product, she doesn't drink beer because of her meds and she hasn't been much of a Ramones fan since she discovered just how despicable Johnny Ramone really was. Careful, she warned herself, you could be stuck here forever. What does it really matter? She could always check with her 14 year old nephew. Sam was a huge Ramones fan and owned all their albums. If he didn't know the answer, he could certainly bluff his way through it.
And if he could use the maven strategy of opinion over knowledge so well, more power to him. Perhaps she could make a list tonight of people she knows whose powers of persuasion trump their accuracy. Although if she shouldn't write a list of regrets, she probably shouldn't write any kind of list. Don't encourage the obsessive behavior, pick one small thing to accomplish and do it. OK then, tonight's small accomplishment: she popped a Xanax and got into bed. Hooray for the clean sheets.

Good night room, good night moon, good night cow jumping over the moon. Oh bless you, Margaret Wise Brown, you are my own personal Morpheus, thought Bebe as she blessedly drifted off to sleep.

End of Part 1

Part 6: Bebe at the Therapist

The Bipolar Bartender at the Ups and Downs Bar and Grill

Jane, my current therapist, has an office on Lincoln Street in Newton Highlands. I'm enough of a Bostonian by now that I can eat ice cream year round, so the proximity to Ice Cream Works works out well. I usually alternate between pistachio and ginger— mint chip for those rare times that I'm in the mood for chocolate. The annoying thing about Jane's office is that she has to change offices depending on the time of day—daytime appointments are in one office, evenings it's down the hall. A small change, but disconcerting enough to a creature of habit like me. One thing I know for sure by now—we bipolars like routines, predictability and stability. Not that having a therapy session down the hall should trigger a mood shift for me, but I know it irks me more than it should.

Another plus of the Newton Highlands location—my friend Antonia lives just a few blocks away and we can sometimes meet at Baker's Best for one of their awesome pastries. Sometimes Antonia brings Connor, her reasonably cute 4-year-old. Other times, we meet when he is at Plowshares Pre-school. This is easier for me—then we can speak freely and I don't have to worry about spilling my extra hot low fat decaf cappuccino on Connor. I don't know much about ADHD, but can't a kid sit for 40 minutes without throwing a total spazz attack? Antonia always brings books and a Koosh ball; it's only minimally helpful.
“Hello, go on in—I just need to refill my water.”

This is Jane's customary greeting and I was already settled on the couch when she re-entered her office. The yellow lined pad is poised, the pen is ready, the sincere, “I'm here to help you” expression is in place. Welcome to Therapy! Today might be a personal milestone: my zillionth therapy session of my lifetime, but I have to admit that Jane is a helpful person in my life and I trust her.

“I have some pretty big news today—I'm going back to school next semester.”

“Interesting...I know you had been considering that. Tell me more.”

“I found out that UMASS-Lowell has a BA in Psychology that you can do completely on line. An adviser looked over my UW transcript and almost everything will transfer. I can finish within two years as long as I take classes over the summer too.” I was so excited about this news that I had to pause and remember to breathe. It felt great to have a specific goal and actually be making progress toward it.
“Interesting.” It's amazing that therapists can charge over $100 an hour (it's not even a full hour!) for making supportive “um, yes, go on” kinds of comments. But she's right, this is an interesting idea.

“Obviously I can't realistically schlep to Lowell several nights a week. I think I can deal with the autonomy of on-line work and my computer set-up can do the video links and that stuff.” I wouldn't call myself a technology maven, but I can always call Gary in the middle of night—or maybe not!

I had to think about that. I was crystal clear about my reason for going back to school—have a college degree so I can have a better job.
“Well, need to figure out which two classes I'll do once I start. Get the books, get the information about how to log in.”

“So you decided to take 2 classes. Is that a workable option?”
Was Jane challenging my ability to make good decisions? Jesus Christ, I did as well as I could in college. I hung on until it was clear that there was no point. But I had liked most of my classes, especially the more advanced Psychology courses. Learning about personality interests me. Ed Hallowell's book is right—people want to “only connect”. I see that all the time at the Ups and Downs. Our Happy Hour serves a valuable purpose. Sometimes big office crews come over from wherever they work in the Prudential Center. It's a hoot seeing how alcohol lubricates people in their business suits and frees them up to show a more relaxed side. Sometimes it reminds me of evenings on the terrace at the college's Memorial Union, sharing a pitcher with some friends. It actually kind of sucks that I can't drink anymore. Alcohol plus anti-depressants plus mood stabilizers plus the occasional anti-anxiety pill definitely wouldn't work in my best interests. It's not like I was a huge drinker before—I wasn't part of the Greek system at Wisconsin and when Gary and I went out it was usually to the theatre. With my tighter post-divorce budget, that obviously had to go. Sometimes I see the cheap “alternative” shows in Cambridge and no-longer-Slummerville-it's-now-truly-Somerville, or to a friend's kid school musical (the ones at Brookline High and Newton North are surprisingly good).

So the issue of taking 2 courses right away...
“I sort of want to jump right in and prove to myself that I can do it. It really bothers me how much I'm stagnating compared to Aaron and Sarah.”

Scribble, scribble, the pen raced on the yellow pad. Jane stayed quiet for a few minutes.
“Let's talk about your need to compete against your brother and sister.”

I resented the implication. “It's not so much competition. But I look at them and it's obvious to everyone how successful they are—both are in established careers, have families, are happily married. I continue my long tradition as black sheep—I'm certainly not established in a career, I shouldn't ever have kids and I couldn't stay married even though I loved Gary.”

I was getting teary and grabbed for some Kleenex. Gulped water and took a deep breath.
“Do you have to take 2 classes right away? Are there other options to consider?”

“I don't need to decide until probably mid-December. Are you saying I should only go with one class?”

By this point, I started to feel this whole UMASS idea sucked. If I had to take one class at a time so I don't pull a nutty, I'd be, oh, maybe 50 by the time I graduate. 32 years to finish college seems ridiculous. I'm by far the best bartender at the Ups and Downs and I could move up the chain eventually. Maybe the hotel bars are a nice place to work. The Westin and the Sheraton are both walking distance from my house. Actually, those bars are probably dead during the day, no real lunch crowd, and the tips would only be good at night. Argh, I can't stand how my mind loops around on itself. This session won't be over soon enough for me. I don't like having to constantly question my judgment, think about whether I'm putting myself at risk for a mood swing, get stuck in the endless mind loops.

Jane took out her red leather appointment book and we set up the next session.
“Honestly, I feel more confused than when I came in today.”
“We have a few minutes left. Let's talk about how you might handle the confusion.”
Argh—let's not! Time is up and I can meet up with Antonia; she's probably already waiting at the cafe.
Enough therapy for today. When will it be enough for this lifetime?
Over at last.

End of Part 6