A Well-tempered Heart (5 page)

“Causes: schizophrenia, psychosis, psychotic depression, hallucinations.”

I quickly closed the page and shut my laptop. I did not want to have anything to do with that world. I did not have mental-health issues. My mother suffered from depression and took Prozac. My sister-in-law, too. Some of my colleagues. Not me.

I did not believe in higher powers or third eyes.

Working was out of the question at that point. I was seized by an internal unrest that kept me in its grip the whole day long. I cleaned up like a woman possessed. Washed the kitchen cupboards. Shined all of my shoes. Rotated out my old clothes.

I went for a jog in Central Park and I couldn’t stop running. My legs would not obey me. I ran three times farther than my usual route, a distance I had not thought myself capable of. I ran without pause, in spite of aching feet and a
racing heart. Something was driving me on and on. Cramps in my legs eventually compelled me to stop. I leaned against a tree on the edge of Strawberry Fields and vomited.

LATER ON THAT
night I was woken by a miserable sobbing. At first I thought it was a dream. Then I thought that Michael lay crying beside me. I turned on the light and stared at the empty half of the bed. The sobbing grew to a loud whimper. I climbed out of bed and checked whether anyone lay in front of my door or whether it might be coming from a neighboring apartment. All was quiet in the hall; inside me it was getting louder and louder.

It was going to drive me mad if I couldn’t put an end to it.

—Hello? Who are you?

The crying only worsened. It did not sound defiant or angry, more like a suffering that no words could express.

—Is that you crying? Why won’t you answer?

Nothing but that unbearable sobbing. It was harder on the heart than on the ears. It touched something inside me. I felt an anguish, a deeply suppressed grief, and I wasn’t going to be able to endure it much longer before bursting into tears myself. I turned on all the lights and blasted the radio until the music drowned out the lamentation. Pretty soon the doorbell rang. The two neighbors at the door wanted to know whether I had completely lost my mind.

That was the moment when I realized I needed help.

I WAS A
bundle of nerves when I walked into Dr. Erikson’s office shortly before eleven on Monday morning. I had been unable to concentrate on anything all weekend. With a comment or a question, the voice quickly put an end to my every attempt at work. I had hardly slept, and earlier in the morning I had admitted to Mulligan that my condition had worsened to include severe dizzy spells and stomach pains and that I was on my way to see a specialist. I found it humiliating to lie, but the truth was not an option.

Dr. Erikson was a psychiatrist. A friend of Amy’s whose younger brother suffered from a psychosis had recommended him and by chance had been able to arrange the appointment for me on short notice.

He opened the door himself. A tall, athletic man, probably five, six years older than me. His firm handshake, the quiet way he looked at me, soothed my nerves to some extent. He led me to a small room with bare white walls and two cantilever chairs, where he invited me to take a seat.
Then he took up pad and paper and asked me what brought me to him.

I told him what I had gone through the past three days. He listened attentively, taking notes and asking the occasional question.

“I can’t stand it any longer,” I concluded my account. “I really hope that you can help me.”

He looked me straight in the eye and said quietly: “I can help you, rest assured. We have an array of new antipsychotic drugs that work true miracles.”

What was intended to calm me only increased my apprehension.

“Hearing voices is not as uncommon as you might think. It can be a symptom of some physical ailment. Alzheimer’s, for instance. Parkinson’s. A brain tumor. Or it could be the manifestation of some psychic affliction. Or it might have other causes entirely. In most cases we can treat it with medication. Are you taking any kind of pills at the moment?”

“Now and then some ibuprofen for a backache, nothing else.”

“Drugs?”

“No.” I rubbed in vain at a little spot on my pants.

“Alcohol?”

“Sure, but not much.”

“How much?”

“A glass of wine with dinner. Sometimes two.”

“When was the last time you were really drunk?”

“Oh, God, it’s been forever. In college.”

He nodded quickly. “Various drugs can have a hallucinogenic affect. They are a common cause of hearing voices.”

I wondered whether he believed me.

He pondered. “Does the voice seem familiar to you?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“There are people who have lost a friend, a parent, or a partner who later hear that person’s voice.”

“I haven’t lost anyone close to me since my father died fourteen years ago.”

“In other words, there’s no individual to whom you could assign the voice?”

“No. And it doesn’t boss me around or insult me, either.”

He smiled. “I see you’ve already done some research on the subject. Do you ever have the feeling that other people can read your thoughts?”

“No.”

“Do you sometimes feel watched or followed?”

“Only by the voice.”

“Do you sometimes feel that other people can influence your thoughts?”

“Don’t they always?”

A delicate smile was his answer. He eyed me critically.

My tension mounted. I was entrusting my inner life to him, at least a part of it, and I did not have the feeling that it was in good hands. For a moment I considered cutting the session short. The thought of once again being plagued by the voice held me back. I needed his help.

“Where is the voice coming from?” I asked after a pause. “How do I get rid of it?”

He rocked thoughtfully in his chair. “To judge by your portrayal I would assume that it is merely a psychotic or near-psychotic reaction.”

“What is that? Why would it happen?”

“It varies. That sort of thing can emerge suddenly in stressful situations, during critical phases of transition. With young adults, for instance, when they move away from home. Starting a new job. Moving. The death of a family member, as I mentioned, could be a cause. Have you experienced any extraordinary strains in recent months?”

I hesitated briefly. “No.”

“Of course, I can’t rule out some form of schizophrenia at this point. But the way you describe the voice, I don’t really think it’s likely. In order to establish a clearer diagnosis I would need to know more about you and to follow the further developments. We’ll see.”

He saw the fear in my eyes and added, “But don’t worry. Even in that case, we have medication for it. Has anyone else in your family had a mental illness?”

“My mother suffers from depression.”

“Since when?”

“As long as I can remember.”

“You, too?”

“No.”

“Your siblings?”

“No.”

He nodded thoughtfully and took a few notes. “Is there, or has there been, to the best of your knowledge, anyone in your extended family who hears voices?”

“My father could hear heartbeats,” I answered spontaneously without thinking about what I was saying.

Dr. Erikson laughed. He took it for a joke.

I was not interested in letting him string me along. He had asked, and now he was going to get an answer: “He was born in Burma. His father died young, and his mother abandoned him because she was convinced that he was the cause of her misfortunes. A neighbor raised him. He was stricken blind when he was eight years old. In compensation he discovered the gift of hearing. He could distinguish birds by the beat of their wings. He knew whenever a spider was spinning a web nearby because he could hear it.” I paused to see how the doctor was reacting. He was staring at me in disbelief, quite uncertain whether I seriously meant what I was telling him. I was gratified by his confusion and continued:

“And, as I said, he was able to hear heartbeats.”

“Heartbeats?” echoed Dr. Erikson, as if attempting to ascertain whether he had heard me correctly.

“Yes. My father could recognize a person by his or her heartbeat, and he discovered that every heart sounds different, and that the tone of the heartbeat, as with a voice, was a window onto a person’s inner state. He fell in love
with a young girl because he had never before heard any sound as beautiful as the beating of her heart.”

“Very interesting,” he said with a worried expression. “Do you have other fantasies, or do you sometimes see things that others cannot see?”

“The girl’s name,” I continued, undeterred, “was Mi Mi. She was extremely beautiful but could not walk on her own because her feet were misshapen. So my father would carry her on his back. He became her legs, and she his eyes, if you understand what I mean.”

Dr. Erikson nodded. “Of course I understand what you mean, Ms. Win.”

“Later, thanks to an operation, he regained his sight but lost the gift of extraordinary hearing. Not that he became deaf, but his hearing was no longer so remarkably acute.”

“And you?” he asked carefully. “Can you also hear heartbeats?”

“Unfortunately not.”

Dr. Erikson looked at his watch, skepticism palpable on his face.

What do you want here?

The moment I had been dreading the whole time.

—Keep quiet, I commanded her.

What do you want from this man?

—Help. I want help.

You don’t need help.

—Oh, yes I do.

This man can’t help you.

—Why not?

Because he didn’t understand a word you said. He thinks that people see with their eyes. How is he supposed to help you?

—How do you know that?

It’s plain to see.

“Is something wrong?”

“What would be wrong?”

“You’ve gone pale. Your lips are quivering. Are you hearing the voice now?”

I nodded.

“What is it saying?”

“That I don’t need any help.”

A knowing smile flitted across his face. “Anything else?”

“That you cannot help me.”

“Why not? Has it revealed that to you, too?”

Tell him. He doesn’t understand you.

I thought about it briefly. “No, it hasn’t.”

“I figured as much. The voice within you feels threatened by me. It’s a typical defensive reaction.”

He’s crazy.

“Try to ignore it.”

“If it were that easy I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

“I know, but try. You need to learn how. Just let the voice talk. Don’t listen to it. Whatever it says is unimportant. It has nothing to do with you.”

He’s got no idea what he’s talking about. He’s nuts. Trust me. He’s a typical Saya Gyi.

What was a
Saya Gyi
? I thought about U Ba. I thought about Amy. My head was spinning.

“I’m going to prescribe Zyprexa,” I heard him telling me as if through a wall. “Take five milligrams later today and then the same amount every evening for the next seven days. That will help you. It can cause side effects. You’re likely to feel tired and sleepy for the first few days. You should take the rest of the week off from work. Many patients also complain of weight gain. Dizziness. Constipation. In most cases it’s temporary. No action without a reaction. But with this medication you’ll be ready for work again just after Thanksgiving, at the latest. You should come to see me again in a week. You’ll be doing much better by then. I promise.”

I had what I wanted: a first diagnosis. A prescription and a confident assurance that it would work. All the same, I left the office more stressed than when I had arrived.

THE CLERK AT
the pharmacy explained the side effects of the medication a second time, but I was too exhausted to pay close attention. Back at home I went straight to the kitchen without even taking off my coat. I filled a glass with lukewarm water, took the medicine out of my pocket, and pushed a pill out of the packaging.

Don’t take it! Leave it alone.

Try to ignore it.

It’s not going to help you.

You need to learn how. Don’t listen to it.

Don’t do it.

Whatever it says is unimportant.

I put the pill on my tongue and took a mouthful of water.

Shortly thereafter I was overcome by an infinite weariness. I lay down on my bed fully dressed and went right to sleep.

IN THE DAYS
that followed the voice continued to torment me with questions; at night she woke me with her sobbing. The lack of sleep was wearing me down. My body ached; I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I would put the newspaper down after only a few minutes. Reading a book was out of the question.