Page 89 of Score
“Verity,” my agent, Sheila, says, her tone patient, with a clear hint ofGet your ass up, even over speakerphone. “We’ve talked about this. Your career isn’t just what you put on the page. It’s also keeping your name in front of the right people. This screening is a great networking opportunity.”
“I hate networking.” I sit up in bed and rest my shoulders against the headboard, glaring at the phone on the duvet beside me. “I don’t feel like peopling.”
Truth be told, I haven’t had to be on set much this week, and what started with one day skipping morning yoga, because it was so hard to get out of bed, turned intothreedays without exercise, balanced meals, and—as I give myself an investigative sniff—showers. If Sheila knew I’ve barely left the bed this week, she’d probably be here banging down my door.
Very few in the industry know I have bipolar, but it’s not something I could keep from my agent, not when more than once she’s had to make excuses for me when the pendulum of my moods swung too sharply in one direction or the other. Her job is to help my career, and a lie would hinder that. So she had to know the truth: that at any given moment I’m capable of a euphoria so fragile it could crumble under the slightest pressure. It could be dragged with a whimper into depression. It might, in a flash, render me as likely to laugh as I am to wail.
“You hate networking, yes, my sweet girl,” Sheila says in that reasonable voice she uses to coax me out of caves. “But you do like Desiree. Attend the screening for her, if not for the potential opportunities it presents foryou.”
I sigh and struggle to keep focused on the conversation. I’ve been asleepmost of the day, but try telling my heavy eyelids that. She’s right, though. Desiree and I met at USC, two of only a few Black women in our program. After years of slogging away in mid-level writers’ rooms, she finally sold a script for her first big feature.
“I’ll go,” I say, sliding down until my back sinks into the mattress and I can pull the pillow over my head.
“Now that we have that settled,” Sheila says, satisfaction clear in her voice, “how’s the pitch for the studio coming along?”
I moan like she’s stretching me out on a torture rack.
“That well, huh?” Sheila deadpans. “How can I help?”
“None of their mandates really fit what I’m best at,” I whine from under my pillow. “They want something propulsive and suspenseful and dramatic and woman-focused. And I’m only good at two of those. Being a woman and being dramatic, in case you needed me to clarify.”
“You’ll figure it out. Writers dream of an overall deal like this one. Play your cards right, and this could be a huge leap forward in your career. You might end up the showrunner on this.”
“I know,” I whisper. “And I’m not ungrateful.”
I’m numb and sad and barely existing in a doldrum.
I can’t say those things aloud to Sheila, but that is the truth. I’m not sure how to explain it to someone who has never had to drag herself from under a boulder merely to accomplish basic hygiene, much less create a dynamic fictional world that people would pay to watch when you feel like roadkill every day.
“Verity, you have to make the most of this opportunity.” Sheila pauses, and her voice is gentle, careful when she speaks again. “Seems like every fall we have this conversation at least once, but you always push through.”
I go still beneath my comforter, glad for the artificial darkness hiding me from the truth. I don’t reply, but I close my eyes against the tears stinging the corners. Just when things stabilize, something changes. Changes in my brain chemistry, the universe, barometric pressure, the moon cycle… who the hell knows? But the perfectly balanced remedy we found for my bifurcated brain tips off the scale, and I’m in bed for twelve hours,convinced I’ll never write again. Why does it take all of this for me toexist? Is everyone this exhausted from simply living?
But Sheila’s right. Certain times of year are harder than others. It sneaks up on me sometimes. Especially with two projects going—developing the show for United and working onDessi—my routines are more important than ever if I expect to remain stable. Exercise, regular sleep, eating balanced meals. I haven’t gone to a pottery class in a while. It’s one of the hobbies that grounds me when my mind would spin in a thousand different directions, or rouse me when I feel like… well, like this. I’m miserable in this bed, but DBT tells me what to do—opposite action.
Identify the emotion: sadness.
What is it telling me to do? Isolate. Stay here alone in the dark.
So I need to do the opposite: get my ass up, and get out.Dosomething andkeepdoing something until I start to feel better. Meds alone don’t win this battle. My decisions do, too, and I’m deciding to get up.
“Verity?” Sheila presses on speaker. “You still there?”
“Yup.” I push the comforter off and throw my legs over the side of the bed, letting my feet hit the floor. “I’ll be there.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” she says, and signs off.
My limbs feel like heavy logs, and my movements are wooden, but I force one foot in front of the other until I reach the bathroom and face myself in the mirror.
“Hey, girl,” I say, pushing one side of my mouth into as much of a grin as I can manage. “You know what to do.”
I run cold water and bend, splashing my face. A startled gasp bursts past my lips as the icy water hits my skin. I’ll let it do its work, hopefully triggering serotonin, dopamine—anything in my body that can start working to make me feel better. I splash a few more times and then stand to face the mirror again, blinking through the droplets at the girl with a familiar determined glint in her eye.
“I can’t depend on chance,” I tell the mirror, reciting one of the affirmations I learned in the group where Tessa and I met. “But I can make choices. I’m responsible for myself and must create the best life I can.”
Tessa and I have reminded each other of these so often, for a moment I could swear she’s right here with me, and it gives me the courage I need to get out the door. Stability is a blessing, and one that is not always promised to me. I won’t take it for granted but will make the most of every day I have where my mind is clear.
“You made it!” Desiree screeches at the small reception following the screening of her new movie. “Oh, my God. It’s good to see you.”
