Another Chance at Love

I was giving a lot of thought to this afternoon's appointment. It was my first time to see a psychiatrist and the possible repercussions were bothering me. I mean, sure, I had always been sort of regarded as "off-the-wall", perhaps unconventional, maybe "eccentric" even, but no one had ever called me "crazy", at least to my face.

For instance, I had never thought of my little brother as the embodiment of world destruction. Nor did I see him as the Anti-Christ. He was a royal pain in the ass sometimes, but what little brother isn't? I had seen a psychologist to assess what he termed "suspected hypomania", and he'd arranged for this meeting with the psychiatrist just to "make sure everything is okay". At a rather exorbitant $225 an hour, you would think they could do a little bit more than that.

I did a search for hypomania on the Internet. The condition was characterized by a high energy level and euphoric mood that could last for several days and then change to irritability, intolerance and rage. Other symptoms included extroversion, loss of judgment, rapid speech/flow of ideas, an increased sex drive and a low need for sleep. It sounded like I was a prime candidate. Except for the rage part.

As far as I was concerned, none of this was a big surprise to me. I was certainly extroverted, friendly with strangers, usually in a good mood, and reasonably productive and creative. I didn't sleep a lot, and while I didn't consider myself promiscuous, I surely possessed a healthy sex drive. I was the one to whom everybody attached the word "hyperactive". Self-esteem was not a problem, and I didn't think I had any problems with the squandering of funds. In fact, I was quite frugal. And I couldn't really see any issues of judgment either, but then again, I would tend to be biased in that regard. I simply wasn't aware that my mere existence was looked upon as a pathological condition.

The modern office complex where the psychiatrist was located was in a better part of town. After I entered the building, I walked down a long carpeted hallway to a large waiting room that appeared to be the reception area for several medical offices. Checking in with the receptionist, I speculated from the style of her glasses and lines on her face that she was around 50 years old. She gave the definite impression she'd much rather be somewhere else.

I sat down across from a young woman with a ponytail, who appeared to be perfectly normal aside from the fact she was muttering "shit, piss, fuck" at random intervals. That and the slight unpredictable jerks of her head occurring each time she voiced the words. It was a little disconcerting, but just as I tried to concentrate on the pamphlet I'd picked up at the front desk, the receptionist called my name.

I stood and started to walk toward someone I assumed was a doctor who appeared at the hallway door. I only glanced at her at first. She was quite cute; about five feet six inches tall, with small-to- medium sized breasts, long slender legs, and blonde hair that went to the middle of her back. She wore a knee-length beige skirt and a light blue Oxford button-down, and was holding a clipboard. In fact, although I was unsure why, it seemed that I knew her. I had never been to this clinic before.

"Right this way, Daniel."

As she passed she seemed to study my face closely before walking in an unhurried pace down the hallway.

I took the opportunity to observe a rather stunning ass in the motion of a seductive sway, with the tight-fitting skirt serving to highlight it well, and all too soon we were at the psychiatrist's office. She opened the door for me, and I walked in as she followed casually, sitting down behind the desk. She looked more than vaguely familiar.

"I'm Dr. Lofgren. Please have a seat." She looked into my face for an extended moment, and in what seemed like an afterthought stated, "And you may call me Suzanne."

'Suzanne?' I thought, in somewhat of a daze as it came back to me. 'Suzanne Barrett?' I suddenly realized who she was. "Suzanne? I thought your name was Barrett? And I thought your hair was light brown?"

I know there was a confused tone in my voice.

"Danny? Is that really you?" she asked, a big smile on her face. "I was thinking you looked awfully familiar. I didn't recognize you with that big ol' Cheech Marin mustache. Hmmm. Small world, isn't it?"

She looked genuinely pleased to see me.

"Microscopic. And yes -- it's really me, Suzanne -- it's great to see you, considering the circumstances."

I had been quite enamored with Suzanne Barrett in my freshman year of college. We'd been enrolled in the same English 101 course at UCLA. I guess you'd call it a crush, but I was hesitant to act upon it, as she was three years older than I was. There were about 125 other people in the lecture hall, but we usually sat near each other and talked when we could. I had also helped her with a few term papers as the semester went on, and that included meetings at her place. She was a senior at the time, acquiring needed credits for her undergraduate degree. She'd mentioned that she was pre-med, but I'd been under the impression she was going into pediatrics. It was a major surprise, as I had no idea she had chosen psychiatry as a career. It had been about eight years, and I was delighted to see her, even considering the circumstances.

"Danny! It's so good to see you! I hadn't looked at the client roster before I came in today," she said and smiled. "What are you doing in Birmingham?"

She seemed to have an unspecified glow about her.

"It's really nice to see you as well, Suzanne. I'm a writer these days. Short stories, novellas, and, umm... other things."

I neglected to mention that my main source of income was from writing smut/porn/erotica under the pseudonym ''Dick Bigger''.

"I live out in the country about 60 miles south of town. Dirt road, well water, lots of trees, deer in the back yard, the whole ten yards; a good place to write." I paused. "How 'bout yourself?"

"I'm impressed, Danny. I do a little writing myself besides the technical drafts and such that I have to do for universities. I ended up in Birmingham because of a teaching job at University of Alabama that opened up, and I also have a burgeoning 'roving' practice, where I see clients all over Shelby County. So, what has it been, eight years or so?"

"I believe so."

I noticed that she was poring over the file my psychologist had prepared. I was kind of uneasy watching her read the file, for no other reason than I didn't know what it contained.

We began talking, discussing both the past and present, and she explained why her name was no longer Barrett. Apparently, she'd married an older anatomy professor at the medical school she'd attended, and had stayed with him for almost seven years. She gave a few not-so-subtle indications that the relationship hadn't been satisfying either physically or emotionally. She was in the process of coming to closure on divorce proceedings that were for the most part cordial.

"He's a wealthy older man, and I think he's grateful for the time we spent together," she told me. She gave the rather distinct impression that she wasn't financially hurting. "I began dying my hair blonde shortly after our marriage. It was something he'd requested, and I thought hair color wasn't all that big of a sacrifice. Besides," she said, "I'd always wanted to see how I'd look as a blonde."

I would have told her she didn't look bad. Not bad at all.

"Well, we've wasted enough time. Hypomanic, huh? Hypomania can be an indication of the onset of bipolar disorder. Do you think you're bipolar?"

She had a serious expression on her face, although her blue-gray eyes sparkled.

"I really don't know. I've done a little research on the 'Net after I was asked about the hypomania, and while I haven't exactly exhibited the more serious symptoms of manic depression, such as psychosis, a lot of what I saw in the descriptions of hypomania certainly apply to me.” I was trying to be honest. "And I can tell you this, Suzanne -- I'm scared shitless -- if you'll excuse my French."

"That's perfectly reasonable, Danny. While we don't know if you have it or not, I can administer a screening that might help us get a clearer idea. Any objections?"

"No, none whatsoever," I answered quietly. The fact was that I was really nervous about the evaluation. Very nervous.

"Okay; has there ever been a period of time when you were not your usual self and felt so good or so hyper other people thought you were not your normal self? Or you were you ever so hyper that it got you into trouble?"

"No, but I think I've been close." I paused, then asked, "And is it okay to call you Suzanne? I'm afraid I've been presumptuous."

I watched her jot a quick note into her notebook. At the same time, I noticed that her breasts looked as good as they had in college.

"No, Suzanne is fine. I remember those times when you helped me out with those papers in school. I consider you a friend."

I thought back to the essay I'd helped her write on ''The Oxbow Incident''.

"But tell me," she continued, "what do you mean by 'I've been close'?"

"Well, you know -- not that I felt like shooting up a post office or anything -- but I would get 'all revved up', for lack of a better term."

I watched as she made several prolonged notes on her pad. 'This isn't going well,' I thought.

"Okay. Were you so irritable that you shouted at people or started fights or arguments?"

She was reading from her notebook.

"No... I'm still kinda laidback, Suzanne."

And I think I really was. Living in a rural area tends to do that to one. I found myself thinking how sensuous her lips looked today. Always had, in fact.

"Have you felt much more self-confident than usual?" she asked in a pleasing tone. It seemed as if she knew what my response was going to be.

"Yeah... that's one of them. I just kinda thought I was being more cocky than usual."

And that's how I really felt. She was looking at me, a passive expression on her face. Again with the note-taking.

"You always were a little cocksure," she said, smiling. "Have you gotten much less sleep than usual and found you didn't really miss it?"

She looked at me intently. She knew of my sleeping habits from college.

"Guilty as charged," I said, looking into her face for some kind of an indication. Either way. "I probably sleep on the average of five or six hours a day. I thought it was merely my 'biological clock' running fast."

I really did believe that. I'd been that way my entire life. That's why I thought nothing was wrong. At that, the psychiatrist entered several entries in her notebook before looking up at me.

"Yeah, I remember those all-nighters you used to pull in college. That's not good -- as your doctor, I'd prefer you get at least eight hours per day -- I may prescribe some sleeping medication, like Ambien. How does that sound?" she asked rather cheerfully.

Too cheerfully, considering the moment, I thought.

"If you say so, Suzanne. You're the doctor, and I trust you more than I normally would any other physician."

I hated the thought of using sleeping pills to regulate my sleep. I didn't like pills much.

"I say so. Proper rest is important. Especially considering the fact you may be bipolar. Proper sleep can be a major factor in preventing manic episodes," she said, giving me a nervous glance. I was developing a very uneasy feeling. "Were you much more talkative, or did you speak faster than usual?"

She was beginning to look at me in a different manner than she had earlier. Or maybe I was simply beginning to get paranoid. This wasn't going well at all.

"Again, guilty as charged. I thought it was just my novel view on life. You know me, I've always been rather gregarious." I smiled impishly. "Is that bad?"

I watched her make a few quick strokes in her notebook before she resumed.

"Well, it's not necessarily bad in and of itself, but when a number of factors show themselves as positive, then we may have a problem." She had an ambiguous tone in her voice. I wondered who this ''we' was she was referring to. "Do thoughts race through your head -- do you have trouble slowing your mind down?"

"I've had racing thoughts. Sure thing. Again, I thought they were just inherent to me. I thought it was simply the way I was."

I really did. I had nothing to compare me or my thinking patterns to. She made a few hurried notations in her notebook.

"Are you so easily distracted by things around you that you had trouble concentrating or staying on track?"

She looked as if she already had a clue as to what I was going to say. At least that's how I read it.

"Are you sure you've never read any of my stuff?" I joked. "Yes, I do have those problems, but I thought they were merely the plague of a 'scatterbrained writer'. I have to make extensive outlines of the stories I'm going to write to be sure I stay on track, because, quite frankly, I lack the discipline to tell a story without meandering needlessly all over the place."

I heard the exasperated tone in my voice.

"Perhaps I will. I'd like to read some of your stuff, Danny." She looked at me for an extended moment. "Have you had much more energy than usual?"

She looked at me again like she knew what my response would be. This was getting uncomfortable.

"That's me. To be honest, I thought that was my particular body type. I thought I was simply 'hyper'," I watched her scribbling into her pad, "and everyone else was just less so."

"I'll agree with you on that point. When we were going to college, I actually thought you were doing methamphetamine or something when you were helping me with those term papers. You were going a mile a minute. Were you?" she asked quietly, almost as a second thought.

"Nope. Never was much of a speed man. Makes you grind your teeth and smoke like it's going out of style."

I was being honest, as I had no reason to lie. She looked at me and grinned winsomely.

"This is off topic, so don't feel compelled to answer, but do you still use marijuana?"

She'd used the word 'still' because she was aware of the fact I'd smoked reefer in college. If I recalled correctly, I had smoked a joint with her one night after we finished one of her papers for English 101.

"What's it to you?" I joked, raising my voice in a mock offended manner. "Sure, I've been known to burn one occasionally. It helps me 'take the edge off', if you will, of my normal constitution. Umm, I guess this would be irrelevant as well, but do you still use marijuana?" I asked. I lowered my voice to a near whisper.

"You're right -- it is irrelevant -- but I'll tell you anyway because I consider you a friend." She paused to look intently into my eyes. "Remember the joint we smoked after you helped me finish that paper on Orwell's '1984'?"

She'd lowered her voice as if telling a secret. Seeing me nod in accordance, she giggled and smiled broadly.

"That was the last time. And I was higher than the dickens," she told me, grinning in a child-like manner.

Suzanne went on to ask more questions; covered risk-taking, problems with overspending and similar issues. We had already spent way past my allotted hour, but since my appointment was her final case of the day, she seemed to have some leeway.

"There's a good chance you're manic-depressive, but with regular use of anti-manic medication, there's also a good chance we can prevent any severe episodes from occurring."

She prescribed a small amount of Ambien for sleep, but held off prescribing Lithium for the time being, saying she'd like to observe me a little more before committing to it. Christ, I was frightened.

"Now, don't take this personally, Danny, but I'm sorry, I can't really remain your doctor. I'll get another one assigned. She's really good. Her name is Dr. Huntsberry." She went on to explain that our prior relationship prevented her from remaining my psychiatrist.

"Yeah, I was thinking something like that might come up. We could still talk to each other privately though, couldn't we?"

I didn't want to sever the ties with the woman I had a crush on all those years. And still did. I looked at my watch. It was 7:15. She was studying my face closely, seeming to measure me.

"Sure thing, Danny. Listen, umm... now that I'm not your doctor, would you care to join me for a little dinner?" she asked in a speculative manner. "I haven't eaten all day, and I thought you might make good company."

She looked at me with a flirtatious smile on her face.

"Hell, I'd be honored, Suzanne. Hell, I'll join you for a 'big' dinner." I grinned. "I'm fairly famished, myself." Perhaps the day might not turn out to be all bad after all, I thought. "And this will be nice... on the arm of a beautiful psychiatrist."

I noted her blushing slightly when I said it.

"You flirt, you," she said and laughed nervously. "Let me get my purse, and we'll go. Did you drive?" Seeing me nod she said, "Come with me. We'll swing by and get your truck after we eat."

"After you, m'lady." I held my arm out, then followed her out the door, wondering what, if anything, she had in mind.

As we walked to her car, I noticed the gray herringbone tweed jacket she wore. I thought it looked quite fetching, especially considering the camouflage fatigue jacket I was wearing. We walked to a dark-blue 1992 Camaro, and after she entered, she unlocked the passenger side, and I got in.

"Have any preference? There are a bunch of CDs in that case."

Suzanne pointed to a CD case in her back seat, then started her car and drove toward the freeway. I looked back over the seat, then sat back and relaxed.

"No, that's okay. The radio will do just fine."

I selected a familiar FM rock station. Elvin Bishop's "Fooled Around and Fell in Love" was just beginning to play. Maybe it was the temperature in the car, but I suddenly became aware of the enticing perfume Suzanne was wearing.

"So, what have you been doing since you left UCLA? And why haven't you married? Seems a handsome charmer like yourself would have been snatched up long ago," she asked with a appealing smile.

"As far as the marriage thing goes, don't you remember the line I had when we were at school? The 'neither The Church nor State has any business in any relationship of mine' thing? I stuck by it," I said with a chortle.

"Oh yeah... your 'radical' line." She smirked and smiled broadly. "So, what have you really been doing since you left school?"

"Oh that. Sorry. I've been writing a bit," I said, still not ready to divulge I was ''Dick Bigger''. Not at the moment anyway. "Stories."

"Great. I do a little writing myself, you know."

She looked over at me quickly as we continued down the highway.

"I'd like to see what you're writing. If I recall correctly, I'd turned you into a pretty fine writer when we were at school. You were hurling adverbs and flowery adjectives around like there was no tomorrow.”

"You never know, Danny. You just might get to see some of it... soon," she said rather mysteriously.

I wondered what she meant. We arrived at the restaurant, and she pulled in and parked.

"After you, m'lady," I said with a grin as I held the door open for her.

"Fresh!" she said, smiling as we entered the eatery. "Thank you, Danny. You always were the polite one."

We sat at a corner table and talked about our days at the university as we dined on pork ribs, slaw, and beans. We fondly remembered our time we spent writing those papers, and talked and laughed about college days. There was a pleasant intellectual foreplay taking place. I found myself recalling why I'd had a crush on her as I looked into her attractive face. Beside her cute nose and piercing-green eyes, she had very sensuous-looking full lips. I think she may have noticed me glancing at them as we were speaking. We finished our meals, and afterward she had a vodka martini while I had an imported beer. As Suzanne gazed across the table into my unsuspecting eyes, her foot found a resting place between my legs, and brushed lightly along my length. My length, indeed! I responded in an instant. She flashed a seductive smile and winked at me as the waiter brought our check.