Mom folds her hands across her chest and leans against the windowpane, put out by my reaction. She always makes me feel like I have hurt her feelings. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Evan,” she says and shakes her head.
The way she is studying me, I know she is wondering why I’m so damn irritable. More proof the medication isn’t treating my symptoms. Because I DO NOT HAVE A BIPOLARTHINGY. Annoyed by her bearing down on me now, I tuck my phone into my back pocket and lean back on my hands. “Sorry. Just tired.”
It is always my excuse to get her off my back. I know she thinks it is an excuse, but she doesn’t say so aloud, which I appreciate.
Mom looks back out the window before she asks, “Where does he live?”
My sarcasm is like a whip as I snicker. “Which one?”
Mom shifts only her eyes in my direction raising one eyebrow with the look that says, ‘Quit giving me shit Evan.’
I had gotten to mom and not wanting to push her over the edge at the moment, I answer, “The one with the army cap that was in front of our driveway is Gavin.”
All of a sudden, mom inquires relentlessly; like a dog with a bone. “He talked to you? Told you his name?”
I shake my head, “No his older brother Brody called out to him. Took him back home.”
Mom raises her eyebrows again and smiles like a Cheshire cat; damn I could read her every thought with the movement of those eyebrows, and damn her for the cheeky smile. “Older brother, huh?” she asks.
My cheeks get hot from the direction her questioning is taking. I quickly cover my semi-embarrassing moment. “Yes. Hell, it is not a big deal, Mom!”
Mom’s playful smile turns into a sour scowl making me resent myself for making her feel any less than what she was trying to be for me; a silly, playful mom. She moves away from the window and toward me. “I was just trying to...”
I don’t want her getting close to me now and she has that look like she is going to hug me, tell me she loves me and wants to talk like we are best mother and daughter pals. My skin crawls with annoyance as she gets closer. Just as she reaches her hand out to me, I get up and walk toward the door to escape her touch. “Shit mom, just stop trying so damn hard!”
“Hey! Watch the language!” she says, firmly.
She is only making things worse; making me worse. I lean against the door, leaving a path for her to leave. “Could you please go?”
I don’t look at her again, both pissed and ashamed by my stupid irritability, but I feel her eyes on me as she leaves.
Her voice changes, becomes soft, tender even as she stands in the middle of my room. “Evan, you don’t need to blow up. . .”
Her speaking again kindles the tension in me. “I am not blowing up! Just stop talking all right! You are making things worse than they really are!”
Pleadingly, she says, “I was just joking about your new friends.”
Every single word that comes out of her mouth is painful to hear. “I am not making friends! I was just talking to them for God’s sake!”
She is obviously not leaving, so I walk past her and open a box, pretending to unpack. I can feel her watching me, wondering if I’m going to have another mental blow up. UGH! She just needs to back the hell off!
The brief silence makes me look back and mom slips out the door without a word. I feel like shit now, but I can’t say sorry. I’ve made her feel like complete crap by sending her out of here.
Way to go Evan. Just fucking great!
When Dad gets back, we eat lunch in silence. I know mom told dad what happened because they keap looking at each other and me sideways. In their minds, I just had just had a ‘spell’ and my ‘disorder’ or ‘condition’ was rearing its ugliness once again.
THE MOVERS COME AND GO. Boxes line every hallway in the house, but it is looking more like a home with the kitchen table, living room sofa, love seat, and recliners filling the main areas of the house. Looking at the boxes, stacked two high along the walls of my bedroom, is daunting, but I was able to get the movers to place my bed and dresser where I wanted before they left.
With my earbuds on and the playlist my parents deem ‘eclectic’, at best, I start unpacking my boxes.
The closet is easiest since we left my clothes on hangers when we boxed them. The bureau in the corner was moved with my clothes still in the drawers, so I don’t have any unpacking there. I leave both walls with windows free of clutter. My bed rests against the empty wall with my night stand and my bureau against the wall with the small window.
I start on the boxes stacked next to my bed; the top one is labeled BATHROOM. I carry it into my bathroom and unpack quickly; toothbrush holder, soap dispenser, shampoo, body wash, and makeup; I haven’t really had interest in using the makeup much lately.
The next box has towels, blow-dryer, more bathroom miscellaneous. Finding the box containing my bedding, I make my bed, stand back and look at how small it looks in this room. Definitely have plenty of space to fill. Desk would be nice. The time passes quickly with Metric, Imagine Dragons and Cage the Elephant pumping through my earbuds. I’m down to three medium size boxes as I grab one of them and set it on my bed. It just says “Evan’s” across the top. Not really remembering what I have in this one, I pull off the tape and pull open the cardboard folds. I remove some of the crumpled packing paper on top and uncover last year’s high school year book. In bold letters it says Paramount High School. I remember getting it in the mail a week before we left San Francisco. I wasn’t there when they passed them out because of the life-altering mental spiral that kept me homebound for the remainder of the school year.
Casting it down and digging deeper into the box, I find my freshman and sophomore yearbooks, a stack of birthday cards from Mom, Dad, and Grandma and Grandpa, random loose pictures from my child hood, and some of the latest pictures I took with my camera laying on top of my cork memory board. Mom and I crafted it a few years ago; summer project. Seeing it again, triggers the pang of guilt for spiraling like I did with her earlier.
So, what is spiraling? It is what happens when I’m under pressure and it is hard for me to regain control of my emotions. The anger, irritation, frustration seems to come out of nowhere and is triggered by the smallest things. When it starts, there is little to nothing that will stop it. Just has to run its course. Dr. Middleton calls it a mini-manic episode, but I don’t think much of his opinion. I think it is typical of any teen my age rebelling against the authority of a probing parent. .
The thing between mom and me earlier was a mild spiral. Still, I feel bad... for two reasons actually. Bad that I said what I did, and bad that it was only more ammunition fueling my parents’ belief I have an illness warranting pharmaceuticals. They aren’t working though, the pharmaceuticals. I mean, I still spiral at varying degrees of severity; sporadically and irregularly. This one with mom today is nothing compared to the spiral that spurred that initial visit to Dr. Middleton. That went down much worse.
DON’T GET ME WRONG, IT wasn’t like BOOM, Evan has had a breakdown and it is this bipolar crap. As Dr. Know-it-all made us perfectly aware, many events in my early childhood life could have easily been indicators of my blossoming “condition”: problems focusing in school, difficulty socializing with others, daydreaming, having trouble sleeping, withdrawing socially and in class, moodiness, irritability, risk-taking behavior, and questionable sexual promiscuity. Yeah, mom went there, even though I had never had sex, ever. All the details of my life were highlighted in my file. The doctor said most kids grow out of such habits and emotions, or refrain from pursuing risk taking behavior, but I hadn’t because it was a condition with me. THAT DAMN WORD AGAIN!
I could have lied to myself and denied all the instances he was listing, but they were true. I just don’t think they mean I have an all out illness. Apparently, the symptomatic indicators started in sixth grade. I became more and more indifferent to forming friendships, hanging out with people, and socializing period. I just wanted to hang at home by myself in my room. I r
ead a lot, still do; keeps me from interacting with others which I am perfectly fine with.
I had known most of my classmates through elementary, middle, and now high school. Our community in San Francisco was compact and the kids in the neighborhood attended common schools, functions, and local restaurants. It was kind of like our own little biosphere, coexisting, cohabiting...sort of. Each passing school year,it became more and more evident my classmates and I were changing socially, picking our tribes, separating ourselves into groups: the jocks, the brainiacs, the techies, the beauty queens - just to name a few. Those that didn’t quite fit into any of the main categories of the social ladder were cast aside. I was in social purgatory at the beginning of 7th grade. I remember the year distinctly because that is the year I seemed to be shunned by all the groups I didn’t meld with or mold into. The outcasts and labeled ‘bad kids’ were the only group that showed tolerance in the slightest, offering me weed in the back lot after school, asking me to join them in tagging restroom stalls with graffiti, and vandalizing lockers during study hall. The list grew as the year carried on; skipping last period and going to the Circle K convenience store up the street for a Coke became a regular event by the end of the year. What this hodge podge category offered that no one else had was a form of acceptance, so I went with it. My grades reflected the influence and the company I had been keeping. Groundings and yelling matches became a regular occurrence in the Phillips household. They didn’t get, or just wouldn’t accept, I was alone and being with the outcasts was an improvement in my eyes at the time.
I pull a bulky object wrapped in packing paper from the box and lay it on my bed. The way it is shaped, it looks like it could be my camera. I remember her giving it to me at the start of my 8th grade year. I guess she got tired of me snagging it all the time and she might have thought it would distract me from the bad influences I was hanging with. It did work for a while actually. I joined the school newspaper that year and used it the camera to take some shots for articles. It was a small middle school paper, but it was cool. The camera came in handy during my freshman year when the Paramount High School paper needed a backup photographer. A month after I joined, their photographer decided to leave the paper due to a massive case of senioritis. I still had a few old ties with the outcasts and loners from middle school though so my mind wasn’t totally off them; specifically Josh Solomon. The guy mom assumed was the root of my sexual promiscuity, which really didn’t exist. Josh was kind of like the ring leader of all the outcasts. Anyway, he took more notice of me moving out of social purgatory and into an upper tier category of high school society with joining paper. I can’t deny I didn’t notice him too; in a physically attractive way. After school one afternoon, he was leaning against the wall of the main building smoking a cigarette. I know, that should have been my first clue to keep walking. He asked if I wanted a smoke, but I shook my head and told him I didn’t. He made a comment that I had really changed since 7th grade. I had changed physically for sure and I’m positive that is what he was referring to. Can’t say it didn’t make me feel good to be desired. Five-foot-five-inches tall and curvy (not fat curvy, just more hour-glass curvy thanks to my Mom). I had boobs, but not too much that I couldn’t resort to a modest flannel or baggy t-shirt, which is what I was wearing that day. He said I was gorgeous as he ran his hand along my arm, sending goosebumps up and down my spine. No one had ever told me or made me feel like that. He said my eyes had changed too; looked a lighter shade of brown, like honey. I was kind of shocked he noticed my eyes because he kept looking at my chest. I told him I hadn’t changed that much; basically trying to save face in front of the bad boy who was making me kind of swoony. He smiled and asked me if I would meet him at Conroy Park on Friday night. I remember nodding as he leaned in, grazed my cheek with his lips and whispered against my skin he would meet me there at seven.
Mom was ecstatic when I told her I had a semi-date with a guy from school. Her joy quickly soured when she found out the guy was Josh, AKA, trouble maker and ringleader of all things bad for Evan. She told me I was forbidden to go out with him, which only made it more appealing to me. I snuck out Friday night, told Mom and Dad I was going to walk to the convenience store and get an Slurpee.
Apparently, hot bad boy Josh was under the impression we were going to hook up while I thought we were just going to hang out. For a moment, I considered having sex with him. I mean, I was curious. Combined with being a symptomatic risk taker was like fuel to a fire. Josh reminded me of the risk taker I used to be as he kissed my neck and felt me up. It gave me a rush of adrenaline that could easily have turned into a bad addiction, until he unzipped my jeans and slipped his hand down the front of my panties. As soon as his hand touched skin, I freaked. I made a lame excuse I had to get home before my dad figured out I was gone and left him sitting there, in the dark, on a park bench. Probably the smartest thing I could have done. I am still curious about sex and what it would feel like. I still fantasize about it, but not with Josh.
I unwrap the camera carefully. It is an old school camera with film; not that digital shit. Mom and Dad wanted to buy me a digital one for my birthday last spring. I refused, both irritated and annoyed by their suggestion even though now, it made me think of myself as a total bitch. I place my camera on my dresser and continue unpacking.
After that night with Josh, I kept to myself completely; no outcast group, no social outreach, period. Sophomore year was void of almost all interaction since I was steering clear of Josh and my old ties. The good thing? It gave me a lot of time to watch what was going on around me in the social scheme of things. The more I observed the drama, the teasing, the embarrassing moments, classmates taking joy in seeing someone fall, fail, or just be themselves and being crucified for it, the more intimidated I became, resulting in more isolation. My motto: “no imprint on the social map” made me feel safe and comforted. My station in the pecking order amongst my classmates wasn’t glamorous. Being a loner means being a misfit... literally, but it secured my flying below the radar in regard to being picked on or publicly ostracized like so many others. So that is what I did, I played my loner cards right and found some peace among the masses, camouflaged in the newspaper department. It lasted well into my junior year, then came to an abrupt end.
I was settled into my role as the Paramount Press photographer. My role as a class-A loner was solidified and I was fine with it. What I didn’t realize was my involvement with the school paper and the need for me to be present at activities and events around campus for pictures would eventually make me vulnerable to the social drama. When I did finally realize, I told myself my passion for photography was bigger than the drama and I needed to suck it up. It didn’t work out so well.
Three months ago, the editor of the school paper decided to give me a editorial project. It involved interviewing some varsity dance team members and a few boys from the varsity soccer team. The piece was about how extracurriculars made them well-rounded. As you can imagine, being a loner was not conducive to interviewing classmates on the topic of extracurriculars. I tried to talk my way out of it, but the editor gave me no out. I even talked to the paper’s sponsor, Ms. Stewart. She said this exercise would be good for me; bring me out of my shell. She had no idea what it was going to do to me. I didn’t know either. I mean, I had control of every social instance I had coming my way; dodging and evading. This, I couldn’t avoid.
I had three weeks to come up with my interview questions, perform the interviews, and write my piece. The first three nights after finding out, I didn’t sleep at all; falling right into the insomnia trap. I kept thinking how I would approach the players and dance team members. What would I ask them? Would they think my questions were stupid? What would they think of me? I could picture the dance team girls reacting to me like I was alien, not of their station in the high school hierarchy. Would they just stare at me because I was so awkward? I never stood straight and I always did this thing with my head; tilting it to the side and never
making eye contact when I was nervous. Mom would say I was alway slouching and I needed to stand straight. As for the boys’ soccer team, would I stumble over my own words because of how good looking some of them were? Would they laugh at me?
On the third night of no sleep, I ran the scenarios through my head and each ended badly. That was when I experienced my first anxiety attack. I think it was one anyway. I lay in bed staring up at my ceiling fan, when I felt my throat tighten. I coughed and tried to clear it, but the feeling just lingered and I panicked. I tried to ignore it, but trying to think away the worry just made it worse. I walked over to my bathroom faucet, filled a cup with water and drank slowly, hoping it would calm me. I actually had to remember how to swallow. After a few minutes, the tightening in my throat released and my pounding heart began to slow down. I Googled the symptoms and it said it was a panic attack, but I never talked to Mom or Dad about it. The next week of school was a blur. I was always a fairly good student; As, Bs, some Cs, but, by the week before my interview deadline, I had completely gone on autopilot when it came to completing assignments. Final papers and projects for my classes were being assigned with stiff deadlines since school was ending in a few short weeks and the workload was building up. That was when things really started to snowball. I felt helpless, worthless even. I was crippled by the thought of interviewing these jocks and beauty queens, by the massive amount of class assignments I needed to catch up on, and the fact I wasn’t sleeping AT ALL now.
Ms. Stewart pulled me aside and told me how concerned she was with my performance in English, which triggered another massive wave of mind-crippling fear. I needed her off my back so I told her I was just really distracted and I would catch up before and after school if she would let me. She said she would. After the confrontation, all I wanted to do was go home, lock myself in my room, and just sleep. I couldn’t fucking sleep though, so I worked. I did assignments all night with the most intense focus I have ever had, which I thought was weird initially, but I went with it. I performed a miracle. I caught up on all my assignments in my classes in a span of two full nights of no sleep. The next few days, I flubbed my way through a few quizzes and even managed to get my interview questions together. I tried to make myself fall asleep over the next few days, but I would wake up every hour on the hour.
Dismantling Evan Page 3