CHAPTER 1
-£960.57
‘A/C 4480 30Sep. Your remaining balance overnight was £39.43. As this is near your limit, please ensure you have enough money available to cover any payments.’
Fuck. I screamed internally. There might’ve been a possibility that I screamed externally, too. I couldn’t hear myself over the agonising existential cry for help that nearing the limit of my overdraft was sending my soul into. Payday was still ten days away, and all I had in my fridge was a half tub of Flora spread and three cloves of garlic. I did have some unopened quinoa in the cupboard, so that was a titillating and nutritionally complete meal waiting to happen.
I was early for my appointment. About twenty minutes early. I have somehow always managed to be punctual for everything. Not too sure why, as no one would ever be punctual. Teachers, trains, friends one sees during a premature midlife crisis, and doctors most certainly weren’t.
The extra time would give me a solid chance to reassess my life budget for the following few days and hopefully manage the impending anxiety of either not eating for over a week, or making Sara feel sorry for me and guilt-trip her into paying for the entire bill when we’d meet up for a meal out.
It was probably going to be the latter option.
I was alone in the waiting room. A dry, beige, boring waiting room. There were three magazines on the coffee table—the March issue of Good Housekeeping, an Elle from May and some car magazine. I didn’t even try to look at that one. The chairs were incredibly uncomfortable and slightly unstable. They made a squeaking noise every time I breathed. My jeans were so tight, it hurt to cross my legs. I also had a crotch hole from where my thighs would rub onto each other. A small price to pay to look vaguely decent in a jockstrap. I didn’t fear a leg day, but I did fear my whole arse would suddenly make an appearance after a miscalculated move that could potentially rip my jeans apart. Also, thanks to my bank alerts, I was now fully aware I couldn’t replace them. Not even a pair of Primark jeans. The £9 kind.
My shoes were muddy, desperately asking to be washed, but it was just one of those things I’d forget to do until a friend would point out how disgusting they looked. To be fair, I didn’t mind looking somewhat scruffy when seeing Dr Grey, a name I found incredibly hilarious as a long-time viewer of the best medical show in existence. A more run-down me would better project the constant dread of living I was actually feeling for the majority of my waking time and compel her into feeling sorrier for me. An emotion I needed her to have in order to keep prescribing me happy little pills that would bring me happy little joy, especially when swallowed with a glass of Malbec. Or two.
‘I will be with you in five minutes!’ she said. Her head popped out of the door of her office.
Her hair was messier than usual. A busy day, for certain. There were plenty of depressed millennials in London. Or people that desperately needed validation from a professional.
I was one of them. Officially diagnosed as bipolar. And also, actually desperate. Soon unable to pay for rent and/or Netflix.
I deleted the text from the bank so I wouldn’t see it again for another few days and put my phone on silent. I was mentally prepared to tell the juicy tales of my past week with a dramatic spin.
‘Leo Cotton, please come in!’ she said.
I lit up. My new prescription was only a few cries and a slight panic attack away. My foot was tapping on the floor incessantly; my palms were sweaty. I pulled my hair back and finally stood up.
I walked inside and she was on a phone call. I sat down next to her, whilst she brought up my patient chart.
‘Well, you can tell Paul Dommett I have other patients!’ she said, in an unusually assertive way. ‘Yes, I get it’s a delicate—’
I felt like I shouldn’t have been there hearing that private conversation.
‘I’ll be there as soon as I’m free. Goodbye,’ she said, hanging up the phone. ‘Sorry, Leo.’
‘Paul Dommett? The talk show host?’ I asked with a cheeky smile.
‘It’s been a rough morning, I apologise. How are you feeling?’ she asked, with her more usual peppy tone.
‘Alright?’ I said with caution. Wouldn’t want her to think I was actually alright.
I could never get used to the fact that the office of a psychiatrist isn’t actually as glamorous or inviting as it appears on American TV. In fact, this one wasn’t much different from the room you may be diagnosed with chlamydia in. Unless you’re a Dean Street Express kind of gay. In which case this office would be by far more colourful, like a Leicester Square cocktail bar for straights, although with fewer guys covered in shame to stare at.
There was definitely shame here, but it was mostly coming from me. The guy who would check their ex-husband’s social media on the daily and their gross shiny new boyfriend’s stories on Instagram, while spilling wine all over himself and ugly crying.
I was that guy.
‘Did you get a chance to look into the material I suggested during our last session?’ she asked with the tone of a defeated schoolteacher and her slow student.
The material was stupid. The pamphlet—written entirely in Comic Sans—asked for me to change my behaviour, just like that. It was essentially a Marie Kondo guide for the aggressive bipolar to rid oneself of negative influences that may affect the precarious balance between the severely depressed and the homicidal maniac that lived within me for most of my twenties.
I actually did have a look at it. It was positive thinking crap, and I wanted no part in it.
‘I gave it a bit of a glimpse, but I find it really hard to concentrate. I can’t say these meds are working all that well. I know you said they would take time to kick in, but I can’t keep living in this bubble where even reading the Evening Standard becomes a hurdle. I’d like to write again someday,’ I said, while my voice was starting to shake.
Get it together, Leo.
‘That’s okay,’ she started writing on her pad. ‘Do you have anything planned for this evening?’ she asked with an optimistic smile.
I actually did. I had to go meet up with my ex-husband Jake to look after our dog while he’d go take his trash boyfriend to an outdoor cinema and watch some god-awful play.
Jake and I decided to adopt a dog a year after we got together, a beautiful grey and white Siberian husky named Squall Leonhart, after Final Fantasy 8’s main character. I loved Squall more than anything in the world, so it truly felt like a double break-up when I had to leave him with Jake. I’d get to see him and spend time with him when the happy pair would go on dates or holidays together.
I went from being Squall’s daddy to his unstable dog sitter; an unpaid one at that.
‘I am going to my old flat to look after Squall for a few hours,’ I said with my teeth nearly grinding to dust.
‘Oh,’ she said, struggling to stay awake.
‘It’s fine. I am actually looking forward to it. I haven’t seen the fluff ball in a while and my friend Sara is coming over with some wine, so that’s a much better evening than the one I had planned in my head.’
‘Which was what?’
‘To bathe with my toaster,’ I said with a smile.
She didn’t like that one.