That evening when I go down to work dinner, I see it. The contract that’s taped up behind the counter has been crossed out with a huge red “X” with the words Contract Fulfilled scrawled along the side. As if he thought it would make it more official, my dad has added his chop mark in red ink at the bottom.
“What the heck is this?” I say, holding the paper up so Will can read it. “We haven’t hit thirty percent yet.”
As Will takes the paper from me, our fingers brush, and I feel a Pavlovian sense of guilt that we’ve touched. It doesn’t seem real that my father’s honoring our contract. Will looks at the paper and smiles. “Well, last week’s number was up to twenty-eight percent, and if you round up…”
“When has my father ever rounded up when it was in someone else’s favor?” I demand. “Plus, what about item number two? I didn’t get the scholarship.”
Will looks shifty. There’s no other word to describe it. “Well, have you checked your e-mail lately?”
I boot up my laptop, and my eyes widen as I find another message from the college in my mailbox.
The subject line is: “Congratulations on your scholarship offer.”
I give Will the hairy eyeball. “Is there something shady going on, like your dad suddenly decided to donate to the college so they could create a new grant?”
“No,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I may have stopped by the JBP administration office yesterday to plead your case, but when I did, one of the interns let it slip that they’d just accepted you after all. I’ll bet one of the people they originally offered the scholarship to had something else lined up.” Will pauses and grins. “What’s really interesting, though, is that when I went to the office I ran into another one of your references who was there to update your application.”
“Who, Mrs. Morgan?”
“No,” Will says, looking up through his eyelashes. “Your dad.”
“What?” I practically shriek in horror. “That’s even worse!”
“Calm down.” Will laughs. “He wasn’t trying to bribe them or anything. He just wanted to drop off a letter of support with A-Plus’s new numbers.”
“What?” I say weakly. “It doesn’t seem right.”
“Okay. I see what you’re getting at,” Will says, sighing. “If you would rather be in breach of your contract—if you don’t really want to date me—I guess you can reply to the college saying that you want to turn down the scholarship…”
“Fine, fine.” I laugh. “Shut up!”
“… and you can go up and berate your dad for rounding up to thirty percent, and also tell your brother that he doesn’t have to study for his final anymore.…”
Seriously, this kid. There is, of course, only one thing I can do to shut him up: I kiss him.
His kiss feels like home, I think, even as I realize that it’s the tropiest “Kiss” trope of all. But you know what? It’s the truth.
I decide to own it.
This Is My Brain on Drugs
JOCELYN + WILL
We sit and we stare at the bottles in front of us. Both of them are full. Both are in our names. Both are unopened.
They’re unopened because we worry that taking them will make us look weak (to ourselves, to our families, to our friends). But still, we have the bottles, and that alone seems like a Herculean effort. We went to doctors. We asked for help, and accepted it, partly for ourselves, but mostly for each other, because we’re scared of what will happen if we keep going the way we are.
We’ve only known each other for months; still, somehow, together we’re strong enough to know that needing help isn’t weakness.
We don’t know what the future brings, whether the medications in these bottles will ever be taken (and if they are, if they’ll work).
We don’t know if there will ever be a time when we don’t feel insecure or anxious in some way, or whether we’ll ever be able to trust our brains not to sabotage us.
All we know is that we’re willing to listen. We’re willing to talk.
We haven’t made our happy ending yet, but we promise we’ll try. We promise.
Author’s Note
If I were to describe my relationship status with antidepressants, it would be: “It’s complicated.”
Like many people who are aware of the stigma surrounding medications for mental illness, I turned to antidepressants as a last resort, only after months of sadness, fatigue, and loss of interest in things I had previously been passionate about. I was in college and had started seeing a therapist, but it wasn’t helping. I desperately wanted to feel better. Even so, when my doctor first mentioned drugs, I almost didn’t take them. Aside from the possible side effects, it felt like taking medications was tantamount to admitting that I couldn’t handle things academically and socially.
In the end, my desire to feel better overpowered my shame.
The first pill I took left me with awful withdrawal headaches when I forgot a dose, so my psychiatrist switched me to a medication with a longer half-life, which ended up working well.
However, at that point in my life, I wasn’t ready for a relationship with a pharmaceutical. In a classic “it’s not you, it’s me” breakup, I stopped taking meds a few months after I started feeling less sad. I told myself that I didn’t want to become dependent on the meds, but really, it was that I couldn’t help worrying that being on drugs made me weak.
For almost a year, I did okay. I graduated and started a new job in a new city. I didn’t seek out a new therapist, partly because I seemed to be handling the ups and downs of my new life just fine, but mostly because therapy costs a lot of money and I was just getting used to the idea of disposable income.
Then, I had a down period that didn’t end.
I remember walking to work one day, crossing a busy intersection, and thinking that it wouldn’t be a bad thing if a car ran a red light and put me out of my misery.
Going on pills a second time was a lot like getting back together with an ex. It was a known quantity. My boyfriend at the time was also on drugs for anxiety, which made it doubly easy for me to restart; he was the first person in my life who freely admitted to being on psychiatric meds.
The funny thing is, even with a partner to help normalize mental illness, I still couldn’t get off my medications fast enough. This time, I told myself that the side effects weren’t worth it.
Two years later, after a long, slow decline during which I stubbornly told myself that I was doing fine, I finally acknowledged the severity of my unhappiness and restarted meds again.
I tried one more time to quit antidepressants after my internship year. I figured the worst part of residency was over (wrong). The fourth time I came back to medications, my psychiatrist told me that I might need to be on them for the rest of my life. “Your brain just needs the serotonin,” she said. And her matter-of-factness, combined with a burgeoning number of friends who had confided in me that they, too, were struggling and were taking medications, made me come to peace with the inevitable: Antidepressants and I were more than likely married for life.
What scares me most about how long it took for me to come to terms with needing medications is that I’m a doctor. I’ve read the literature. I know how prevalent depression and suicide are, and I’m aware of the medical guidelines that overwhelmingly support the responsible use of antidepressants. Sometimes I wonder: Why did it take me ten years to realize that taking medications does not make me a freak?
Part of the answer, of course, is that the medical community isn’t immune to the stigmatization of mental illness. I’ve seen countless doctors and nurses throw out casual comments about how a patient is “crazy,” or how a struggling physician is “going off his rocker.” The biggest compliment you can give a surgery resident is to tell them that they’ve done “strong work”; implicit in this statement is that they’re not just physically strong, but mentally so. When I cried during residency, I knew it was viewed by my colleagues not as a sign of compassion, but of weakness
.
Another part of my struggle is cultural. I, like Jocelyn, was raised by immigrants from Asia. Mental illness was a subject of scandal. My grandmother spoke in hushed tones of a cousin, a girl, who died by suicide as a teenager. Making this tragedy even worse is that her father, my grand-uncle, was a psychiatrist.
In a culture where hard work and determination are considered panaceas for any ailment of the spirit, the silence regarding mental illness can be crushing. Studies show that Asian Americans are three times less likely to seek out mental health care than whites; when they do seek help, they’re more likely to drop out of treatment. They’re also more likely to consider and attempt suicide.
I’ve often felt that because I’ve never actively tried to harm myself that my depression wasn’t severe. It wasn’t until I was in my thirties that I first understood the concept of “passive” suicidal ideation, namely insidious thoughts like, Things would be easier if I were dead or, It would be a relief if I just didn’t wake up in the morning. A lot of people have the misconception that people with passive suicidal thoughts aren’t at the same risk for self-harm. In fact, recent studies have suggested that passive suicidal thoughts are just as important a clinical marker for suicide risk as having a plan to kill oneself.
If you have ever had suicidal thoughts, there are many hotlines staffed with people ready to help you through tough times:
• Crisis Text Line (Text HOME to 741741 from anywhere in the USA or to 686868 from anywhere in Canada, at any time)
• National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (Call 1-800-273-8255 from anywhere in the USA, at any time)
• The Trevor Project (Call 1-866-488-7386 from anywhere in the USA, at any time)
• For suicide hotlines by country: International Association for Suicide Prevention (https://www.iasp.info/resources/Crisis_Centres/)
Many people, however, hesitate to reach out to crisis resources, deeming their troubles to be “not that bad.” Depression, like any other thing in life, is a spectrum. For those in the wide gray area between wellness and crisis, there are a number of “warmlines” and other services:
• Mental Health America has free online screening tools to assess your mental health as well as links to many resources (https://screening.mentalhealthamerica.net/screening-tools)
• Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration has a national helpline to guide you through treatment options (1-800-662-4357) as well as numerous other online resources (https://www.findtreatment.samhsa.gov/)
• The Anxiety and Depression Association of America (https://adaa.org) has high-quality information on mental illness topics, an online community, and a section with hundreds of personal stories of hope from community members
Finally, when people from diverse backgrounds seek out mental health care, they often struggle to find therapists who can relate to their unique cultural backgrounds. Resources like the Psychology Today website (www.psychologytoday.com) can help—the site is one of the most comprehensive directories of therapists and psychiatrists in the United States and Canada, searchable by a number of filters, including cultural sensitivity training and languages spoken.
At the lowest points in my depression, the loneliness seemed impenetrable. The purpose of this book is to break my own decades-long silence and show you that, if you feel the same way, you’re not alone.
You are not broken.
There is no shame in being who you are.
When you are ready to speak your truth, there will be people to listen.
Acknowledgments
Just over a year ago, the fake news running through my brain had headlines like, “You’ll never write another book,” “Stick to medicine, you talentless hack.” There were months at a time when I couldn’t bear to see the Scrivener icon on my desktop.
You wouldn’t be holding this book in your hand if it weren’t for the steady faith of my agent, Jessica Regel, and my two oldest critique partners, Abigail Hing Wen and Sonya Mukherjee. The instant I had anything remotely resembling an idea for a novel, they were there to cheer me on and shepherd me through the drafting process.
Just as important in the long gestation of this book are the gift of time and room service provided by the Writers for Young Readers Residency at the Betsy Hotel in Miami; my gratitude goes out to the Deborah Plutzik-Briggs, Jonathan and Lesley Plutzik, and Pablo Cartaya. The Madcap Retreats Writing Cross-Culturally Workshop spearheaded by Natalie C. Parker, Tessa Gratton, and Dhonielle Clayton provided me with the mental space and courage to tackle writing both Jocelyn’s story (informed as it is by my own) and Will’s, which required much more research to do it justice.
A huge thank-you to Winnie Adams, Edidiong Ikpe-Ekpo, and Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani, who opened up their networks to me. Immense gratitude to Rich Oyelewu, Uzoamaka Nwoye, Bassey Ikpi, Ngozi Onuohah, Toyin Erinle, Uduak Osom, and Ngozi, Sean, and Isaac Enelamah for answering my many questions and inviting me into their homes both real and virtual. I will forever be grateful to D.K. Uzoukwu and Regina Richardson for taking the time to read early drafts. All errors or misrepresentation that remain are mine alone.
Thank you to Corrie Wang and Jackie Lin for providing me insight into the day-to-day operations of restaurants and pop-up eateries. My mother, Justina Huang, provided indispensable advice about Mandarin phrases that the Wus may have used. Nothing but heart eyes for Lyn Miller-Lachmann, Rachel Simon, Marieke Nijkamp, Kelly Loy Gilbert, and Kacen Callender for their wisdom and expert reads. Kacen, of course, also gets special mention for writing the e-mail that made me finally think, “Yes, I can do this again.” I consider them my first Fairy Godparent.
I can’t imagine a more perfect editorial team for this book than Alvina Ling, Nikki Garcia, and Ruqayyah Daud, whose insightful editorial comments pushed this novel to new heights and whose palpable enthusiasm kept me going through the revision process.
Cookies and jiaozi to the whole brilliant and hardworking Little, Brown Books for Young Readers team, including Marisa Finkelstein, Bill Grace, Karina Granda (whose cover I simply adore), Valerie Wong (whose fantastic cover reveal was the stuff of dreams), Katharine McAnarney, Michelle Campbell, and Victoria Stapleton. Particular thanks to the true superhero of this entire process: my copy editor, Kerianne Okie Steinberg, whose eagle eyes proved to be such an antidote to my sleep-deprived ones.
I remain grateful for the author friends who have made feel less alone during the solitary journey of publication. Mackenzie Lee, Natasha Sinel Cohen, Marcy Beller Paul, Amy Garvey, Anna-Marie McLemore, Mary McCoy, Becky Albertalli, Kathy Kottaras, Katherine Locke, Jerry and Eileen Spinelli, and Randy Ribay—thank you so much for your friendship. Group hug to the Fearless Fifteeners and Philly Kidlit Low Groggery crew led by Alex London.
Over a decade ago, when I started writing for young people, the industry was a different place. It’s very possible that if it weren’t for We Need Diverse Books I would have never even attempted to write this book, with its complicated intersectionality. When I think back to the earliest days of WNDB, I know that the intensity of emotion and activism is something that I might never again experience. To Ellen Oh, Stacey Lee, Sona Charaipotra, Miranda Paul, Lamar Giles, Mike Jung, Aisha Saeed, Meg Medina, Kristy Shen and Bryce Leung, Caroline Richmond, Jennifer Baker, Marieke, and Dhonielle—thank you for the difference you’ve made in my life, and in the lives of so many others.
Many thanks to my colleagues at UCCC for bearing with me when patients have had to be rescheduled or I’m running late because I’m being pulled in seventeen different directions. I couldn’t have done this if I didn’t feel supported in my day job, and I’m so grateful for all your cheerleading.
When I’m spiraling, when my mental news cycle gets the best of me, I call Libby Copeland, Nina Morgenlander, Pam Demnicki, Bridget McCabe, An-Lon Chen, and Eliza Auerbach. Someday they’ll bill me for the therapy they’ve rendered, but until then…
People often ask me how I’m able to balance my medical career, writing, a
nd raising two kids. The truth is, I don’t do it alone. I would never be able to do what I do without my extended family: my brothers James and Eric; my parents and step-parents; and my in-laws, Marcia, Larry, Elena, and Julie; as well as the Pierces, Deppens, Harmons, Fiorentinos, and Kotarskis.
Then there’s Joe. My best friend, my first reader, and the best co-parent anyone could ever ask for. Thank you for knowing exactly how much pharmaceutical-grade hot chocolate I put in my morning coffee, for not rolling your eyes too hard when I load the dishwasher improperly, and for dealing with all the feline indiscretions that have so recently permeated our life. Our kids are so lucky to have you for a father.
And O and G: Thank you for your understanding when I can’t go on IKEA trips because I’m on deadline, for being my hot pack on cold nights, and for filling my life with shenanigans and laughter. Most of all, thank you for being the people who I write for. I know you haven’t read None of the Above yet, but this book? This one is for you.
Finally, I must thank every reader, bookseller, teacher, and librarian who asked me, “So, what’s your next book going to be?” I hated it every single time someone brought it up, but I’m glad they did.
Here it is.
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This Is My Brain in Love Page 29