Sullivan and the Lies He Heard

On Wednesday morning, however, a change happened. He found, as he made breakfast, that there were no red-striped spiders in his peripheral vision. He thought about mentioning this to Doe, but changed his mind. It was a little early. He'd give it a few hours and see if this change held.

The change held--the spider hallucinations were gone.

He told Doe about it as she dropped in from her woodshop for lunch. It got her grinning, grabbing him, and planting a huge kiss on him. "Anything else yet?"

She's a pretender. She doesn't really love you.

Sullivan heaved a sigh. "No. Nothing else yet."

On schedule at 2:00pm. that afternoon, Dr Tate phoned to check up on how he was doing. Sullivan reported the only change so far.

"It's a positive sign," the doctor replied. "But it's still early so we'll see. Like I said, call anytime if you need it. If not, I'll see you on Saturday."

The next change came on Friday. He didn't notice it immediately. It wasn't until he and Doe were cleaning up after dinner, that he realized he hadn't heard the command voice all day. He usually heard it several times a day. Now? Nothing, for the entire day.

Objectively, this was great. Those commands had been the most debilitating part of it. Now the voice was silenced, he should experience a flood of grateful relief.

He should. But, for some reason, he didn't. Oh, he was glad it was gone. He was glad for sure. Yet he found that he wasn't experiencing the gladness as an emotion.

He glanced at Doe, who was beside him rinsing glasses. "One of the voices is gone."

She stopped her task. "Really?"

"Yeah." He smiled but, curiously, doing so required effort.

"Which one? The sinister one that...?"

"Yeah."

Her eyes lit up. Her lips curved. She rushed into his arms, wet hands and all. Knocked back by her embrace as water sprayed his shirt, Sullivan laughed a little. It should have been a big, gut laugh. But it wasn't. He'd only laughed to please her.

He spent the rest of the evening wondering why he wasn't feeling the joy he ought to be. Maybe because the change was so new. Maybe the joy would come as a delayed reaction. Until then, he'd fake it for Doe's sake.

The joy didn't come that night or the next day, which was when they went to White Plains for the session with Dr Tate.

The doctor was optimistic about the subsiding hallucinations, advising Sullivan to keep taking the meds and maintain his healthy lifestyle habits. A next appointment was scheduled for the 19th, with the same invitation to call anytime.

Sullivan, at the wheel as they returned to Green Island, was thoughtful. The hallucinations were subsiding, so why the hell was he having to fake feeling happy?

"What do you think of September?" Doe asked, breaking into these thoughts.

He gave her a sideways glance, smiled a little. "I think it's a level-headed month. It's never picked a fight with me."

"Very funny. I mean, what do you think of September for our wedding? That's six months from now. Not a lot of time in wedding-planning terms, but there should be some nice venues still available since the summer rush would be chilling out by then. And it'd be great to have it on the anniversary of our original wedding."

This was the very first time she was putting out a concrete plan for their wedding. She was finally giving him what he'd wanted for years.

Sullivan waited for the rush of happiness. This should bring it on if anything could. But it didn't come. There was only a vague sense of satisfaction.

Now, it occurred to him to worry.

If some real positive feeling didn't come soon, he'd raise the issue to Dr Tate at the next appointment. For now, he pretended for Doe. No point worrying her when she was so happy.

He forced a grin. "I like that. A lot." They reached a stop light, so he kissed her. "Already got someplace in mind?"

"Not a specific venue, but I was thinking about the Finger Lakes. That way it could be an outdoor thing if we want."

"Sounds great to me. Maybe we'll put up a couple marquees in case the weather acts up. Or we can find a place with a lake and a gazebo."

Doe's eyes brightened at this. "I like that idea. We could have the ceremony in a gazebo with guest chairs facing the lake. I'll look into that, make some calls to book viewings."

"Get on it. The sooner the better if it's only six months. Soon as we book the venue, we'll call Liam, Beck and Rocky."

"And we need to make a list of everyone else we're inviting. I've got about ten people from my apprenticeship program, and their plus-ones. You've got old friends from your Fire Engineering Institution."

"Yeah. And everyone at the Fire Station in Astoria. Then there's Tate and Rouanet now. They might want to come."

"Shit. I didn't realize there'd be this many people to think about when we don't even have family." Doe laughed; free, lighthearted, sweet. "This is too much for me already. We're going to need Beck's help with the guest list. Maybe I'll just toss that duty to her since she can't live without organizing shit. And we've got to lay down the budget."

This discussion carried them through the long drive, the short boat ride, and the hand-in-hand stroll from the pier. By the time they were unlocking their front door, they'd decided on the upper budget limit and arrived at an approximate number of guests.

Showing enthusiasm took a concerted effort, but he made that effort for her. Successfully, judging by her continued happy mood.

There'd been no major visual hallucinations since he started the medication--such as the burning bed, the flooding kitchen, or that time a moving hole opened up in the wall. Over the next few days, the paranoid voice also went silent. It didn't quit cold turkey like the sinister one. Rather, it spoke less and less, until it died away.

Yet joy never came. In fact, as the psychotic symptoms dwindled, so did his normal emotional reactions to things going on around him. He simply felt...less.

He showed normal reactions for Doe's sake of course, but none of it was genuine.

His excitement wasn't genuine when she announced on the 17th that she'd found a possible lakefront venue in Geneva and had agreed to a viewing the next day. His anger wasn't genuine when, as they were driving to Geneva, he gave the finger to an asshole who cut him off at a lane he was trying to enter. His amusement wasn't genuine as he laughed at the jokes that the friendly Events Coordinator cracked during the venue tour.

They stopped at a gas station on their way back. While he pumped gas, Doe breezed in to grab some snacks. These included a bag of wholewheat bites.

She was smiling and shaking her head as she settled back in the passenger seat. "Can you believe these idiots?" She showed him the bag. "They write on a bag of wholewheat bites: 'this product may contain traces of wheat'."

For the first time, Sullivan dropped the ball on the appropriate response. Instead of chuckling and joining her to lament the hopelessness of manufacturers and consumers alike, he replied with an uninterested "hmm."

He didn't realize he'd slipped up until she frowned at him. "You okay?"

Shit, he thought. He moved his facial muscles into a smile. "Yeah. Just tired all of a sudden, I guess."

"Then hand 'em over." Doe held out her palm.

Bound by his lie, Sullivan was forced to toss the car keys into her waiting palm. They switched seats and she drove the rest of the way to Green Island. For the rest of that evening, he was careful not to slip up again.

The next day was Saturday the 19th, the last check-up with Dr Tate before Sullivan resumed work on Monday. Dr Tate listened to what they both had to report, and did another symptom assessment test. The result was that Sullivan was "transitioning from active psychosis into remission."

Doe was pleased, Dr Tate equally so. The next appointment was set for the 29th, as Dr Tate would be out of town next Saturday, and they parted with warm handshakes.

Going contrary to his initial intention, Sullivan didn't tell Dr Tate about the apathy he was experiencing. He hid it as best he could. This was for a very simple reason.

Although he wasn't feeling joyful at no longer being psychotic, he was logically aware of his liberty. His headspace was his own again. Uncluttered. He no longer needed to fight, virtually every moment, to hold on to a thread of what was real. He no longer needed to battle to believe in facts. A monumental weight was off him.

If he told Dr Tate about the apathy, it was possible he'd try switching up his meds. And if that happened...would the psychosis return to torture him?

He wasn't ready for that. Not now when he'd just gotten himself back. He'd wait and see. He could deal with the apathy for now. He'd keep feigning the correct emotions, and maybe they'd eventually return.

'Faking it' wasn't easy in every regard, as he soon found. In bed that night, Doe was in a frisky mood. He tried his best to reciprocate but couldn't get into it. Her wearing that killer nightshirt didn't work. Her kissing him and rubbing up against him didn't work.

Eventually, he was forced to smile apologetically and say: "Guess I'm more tired than I thought."

"Think it might be the meds?"

"Maybe. If it is, I'll just get used to it. Sorry."

"It's fine." Doe kissed him goodnight, shifted to her side of the bed, and they went to sleep.

The next night, he pre-emptively distracted her from sex. As soon as they got in bed together, he brought up something he'd been considering since the diagnosis.

"Been thinking I should get a vasectomy. It's safer that way, now we know the score and that we're going to foster."

This strategy worked--the ensuing discussion killed sex for that night. An hour later, they had decided he would get snipped sometime in the coming months so she could finally get off the pill. Another hour later, they were asleep.

On Monday morning, he returned to work.

***

His apathy proved a non-issue at work. He'd always been indifferent towards customers anyway. They were people he didn't know personally and didn't owe emotional responses to. All he needed to do was be polite and carry out his job.

Work was fine. It was at home, with the woman who knew him too fucking well, that he carefully watched his step.

All his energies went into not letting her find out what was going on. He even managed sex twice that week. While she was in the shower, he stroked himself to hardness, got his head in the game, and literally pounced on her as she stepped out. She was delighted, but she couldn't have an idea of the effort it cost him.

The hope that he'd get his emotions back, soon dwindled. Rather, he got so apathetic that he lost the will to pretend. Even for her sake. By Friday, it was all he could do to act like he gave a shit about anything.

At her suggestion, they went for an after-dinner walk to the pier. There, with his arm around her and the Worm Moon shining on them, he squared with things.

There was no doubt now--his meds were suppressing his normal emotions along with the abnormal symptoms. His emotions probably wouldn't return for as long as he was taking the meds.

He essentially faced a choice of insanity or apathy.

"I spoke with the Events Coordinator," Doe said, her head on his shoulder. "The venue in Geneva is booked for us for our wedding day."

Sullivan looked into her face, tinted with rose and suffused with moonlight. But there was no stirring within him. He felt no admiration, no lust, no affection.

No love.

He looked away again. "Okay," he replied, the indifference obvious even to his ears.

Doe raised her head from his shoulder. "What do you mean 'okay'? We both agreed we want the place. I've paid the deposit. You can't change your mind about it now."

"The venue's fine."

Now she really looked at him. It was the way she'd sometimes looked at him back when he was symptomatic. She hadn't had a reason to look at him that way for a while. "What's going on with you?"

If he could feel anything, he'd be feeling irritated that she thought he was suddenly psychotic again. As it was, he just shrugged. "I'm still sane, Doe. That's not how it works."

"I know. But you're acting like something's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong. I said the venue's fine."

Again, Doe studied him. She didn't argue more, and they soon started home. Neither of them initiated sex that night. They just kissed goodnight and shifted to their sides of the bed.

From the next day, her old watchfulness returned. She eyed him during breakfast, probably trying to be subtle. He noticed but didn't care enough to be annoyed about it.

At midmorning, she left the house to go wedding dress shopping. She'd be meeting their friend Beck, her matron-of-honor, at a bridal boutique in Albany.

"Should be back sometime late in the afternoon," Doe said at the door. "We're getting lunch so that'll take some time."

"Okay," he replied.

She touched his cheek. "I love you."

He studied her face dispassionately. Right now, his honest response would be, "I don't love you." But there was no reason to be actively cruel, so he chose silence.

Doe stood there, obviously waiting for him to say 'I love you too'. When he didn't, hurt filled her eyes. He saw it and knew he should feel guilty for putting it there. But he didn't. She pulled her hand away, stepped out the door and walked off without another word.

Against his expectations, she didn't rip him a new one when she got home. She was pensive, but there was no reproach. Their exchanges were few and mundane. Sunday passed in that way, as did Monday.

It was on Tuesday, during the session with Dr Tate, that she spoke up. They were hardly seated before she said point-blank to the doctor, "You need to take him off the ziprasidone."

Surprise showed on Dr Tate's face. "Why?"

"I was listening and taking notes when you listed the possible side effects. Pretty sure none of them were that he was going to turn into a robot."

Dr Tate turned to Sullivan. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

Sullivan shrugged. "The meds are doing what they're meant to."

Doe's eyes shot to him. Now she looked pissed. "They're not meant to strip you of your personality. And you damn well know you should have told me what was going on without my having to figure it out myself."

Sullivan returned her angry glare with a cavalier look.

Dr Tate spoke calmly. "Sullivan. Tell me in your own words what's going on. You led me to think the medication is working fine for you. Isn't that the case anymore?"

"It's doing what it's meant to. I don't have much in the way of emotions, but it's doing what it's meant to."

"Perhaps I didn't make something clear initially. When I ask you how a treatment is working for you, I don't just mean how well it's managing the psychosis. I also mean how it's impacting your general quality of life. That's the aim--balancing everything to achieve adequate remission where you enjoy a good quality of life. If ziprasidone isn't providing that, we need to discuss changing the dose or trying another antipsychotic. Several of my other patients do well on ziprasidone, but these things are individual. Another drug might work better for you on the whole."

"I'd rather not mess with what's working. I'll stick with this drug and dosage. I prefer sanity, thanks."

Doe broke in again. "But you're not yourself anymore," she snapped. She turned to the doctor. "Change his meds."

Dr Tate sighed. "With all kindness Doe, you are not my patient. Your husband is. I sympathize with your concerns but I need to put him first. It's my job to recognize that he's the best judge of his own wellbeing. Unless there's imminent risk, it's his wishes that inform my treatment plan."

"The best judge of his own wellbeing? You can see he isn't acting like himself!"

"That may be, but he's a rational adult and perfectly capable of making this decision. I'd rather we try him on a different drug, but if he's decided that this one satisfies his aims for quality of life, neither you nor I have a right to pressure him to go another way."

"Look, I like you Dr Tate, but this is fucking ridiculous. We both see this drug isn't working for him. Look at him! You're his psychiatrist. I'm his wife. It's our job to help him when he doesn't realize he needs it."

"I understand your position. Please understand mine. No medical doctor is within their rights to force a patient, except under very specific circumstances. This is not such a circumstance."

Sullivan, who'd been watching their argument, put an end to it by asking Dr Tate a question he already knew the answer to. "If I switch to different meds, can you guarantee it'll stop all the symptoms without affecting my emotions?"

"I can't guarantee anything. I can only use my knowledge to make treatment plans for the best outcome, then adjust those plans based on your feedback."

Bullseye. The answer he knew he'd get.

"Then my meds stay as they are," he replied.

Dr Tate submitted to this. Doe did not.

His wife demonstrated her displeasure by giving him the ice routine throughout the journey home. This freeze-out held for the next several days. If it was her way of getting him to knuckle under, she was vastly underestimating how little he gave a shit. Eventually, she seemed to realize this and switched to persuasion.

"You know we can't go on like this, don't you?" Doe asked.

It was the Saturday morning that marked the second day of April. She was sitting up, her back against the headboard. He lay on his back, clear-eyed from a good night's sleep, staring at the ceiling. He didn't answer her.

"Things between us are worse than before you started any treatment. We don't have a relationship right now."

Sullivan had nothing to say.

"We've got decades of marriage ahead of us. How's that going to work when you're a shell of a person?"

When he still didn't answer, she jerked across the bed, took his jaw in her hand and snapped his head towards hers. The move was not gentle. It made him meet her eyes.

"Don't fucking ignore me when I'm talking to you."

Sullivan brushed her hand away and lay back the way he'd been before.

"I liked you better when you were a fucking nutjob. At least you were human."

Her eyes sent out a clear challenge as she said that. Oh, so she was baiting him now? That was the strategy? To annoy him into feeling something.

"No retort?" she sneered.

He looked away, no retort.

When she spoke again, she'd dropped the baiting tactic. "Sullivan," she whispered, eyes wide in appeal. "Please."

Please what? he wondered. Please stop taking the meds and become a 'fucking nutjob' once more? Did she have any idea how excruciating that had been?

"I dealt with everything else you threw at me," Doe continued. "This I just can't handle. There's no point being with you when you're not you. All it does is hurt. Just let Dr Tate try some other drug. I know it's a dare, but take it."

"No," he replied simply.

"But I can't do this. I won't do this. Do you know why I stayed through everything else? It wasn't because I love you, although I do. It's because I knew that underneath it all, you loved me. Now, not so much. I won't stay where I'm not loved, Sullivan. That was my whole childhood and I swore I'd never put myself through it again if I could help it. Pick up your phone right now, call Dr Tate, and tell him you're ready to switch meds. Or I'll leave you."

Here it was. The great fear. Mere weeks ago, this threat couldn't have failed to make him fall in line. But now...

He shrugged. "Go whenever you want. Door's right there."

Doe glared at him, then with stiff movements, she got out of bed and went into the bathroom. The shower began to run. She stepped out 10 minutes later, not looking at him as she got dressed in her fancy jeans and a nice blouse. Taking her purse, she walked out the door.