At The Office Of My Son’s Psychiatrist

it begins with family history
a gentle inquiry into the lives
of my parents grandparents brothers and sister
my ex-husband has come and gone already
telling the story of his side

any thyroid disease drug abuse alcoholism
suicide successful or failed
I wonder which is which

eating disorders depression trouble with anger
unstable moods
I shake out the genetic map like a long unused tablecloth
spilling deserted desiccated crumbs
I share them with this young man, this bearded stranger
I tell my father’s rage
my mother’s silence
my own profound depression beginning at thirteen
a history of migraines ·
suicide contemplated but never completed
the most recent episode still raw like a rusty hacksaw blade
chosen bits of the stories of my life

you were a moody child?
Sarah Bernhardt my mother called me
with a penchant for high drama at dinner
loud tears and slammed doors

genetic history is a useful predictor of risk factors
he smiles and says
I think you are
bipolar

the word thumps to the carpet between us
rolls gently in my mouth a metallic musical word a poet’s word
bipolar
he is naming me this pretty word
his fingers steepled below his chin
I think you should be evaluated
he is naming but not knowing me

you have a classic history all the indicators
he leans back
I think but do not say
of course I am depressed because
I know this analytical young man
with his well polished loafers
my son’s-not my-psychiatrist
he’s thinking drugs to stabilize my mood, my life
to close off the San Andreas fault of feelings
to level like a condemned building a thing of no use
he means to help with this lie of better
better living through chemistry
better not the lows so deep and dark
better not the highs so bright so frightening to those
who don’t know them who won’t or can’t embrace them
better to be calm and dull and stupid
he means well but his means would kill me

let me ask you
I listen carefully balance my need to be safe
against my son’s need for me to be known
genetic history may be a useful predictor of risk factors
I listen carefully and I do not lie

do your eyes ever play tricks on you
I ask what does he mean
do you ever see things that aren’t there
as I think how to answer this, he goes on
things out of the corner of your eye and you turn
and nothing is there
I resist the temptation to say Are you nuts? for this is
what he does think, that I am nuts
of course I see things
I see poetry everywhere-even here-in this office
and the auras I see are where I see them
no I say and this is true

do you ever hear things – things that aren’t really there
in a crowd do you ever think someone is calling you but they aren’t
or you hear the phone or the doorbell when they don’t ring
of course I hear Mommie in a crowd
and think the voice is calling me
that’s not what he means
he means the voices
I consider-for nearly a heartbeat-telling him
about the characters
who live and breathe and walk with me
the ones who tell me their stories when I am quiet enough
to hear them over the chaos of my exterior life
I almost tell him of course I hear voices voices
of people more real to me than him
but he is asking am I delusional
I answer the only way I can
I hear only things that are real

I am not your patient
sensitive to the universe not moody
awake not bipolar
human not nuts
but because I am first a mother
because telling these truths will not be useful and
to help this earnest young man in tweed help my son
I quiet the voices

for now
I listen carefully and do not lie
but neither do I tell