Dr. Cruz shuffled in late to the waiting room after squeezing every last drop of time out of a preceding appointment with another patient. I sighed heavily, tossed the magazine onto the table, and rose from the chair.
She led me down the dark corridor to her office. She kept the lights off and the window shades open, allowing the natural light of the day to shine through. I sat down on the brown sofa, mushy and saggy enough to make me feel like I was sinking further down with each second that passed. I watched her prepare — she pulled up my record in the EMR (Electronic Medical Record). When she was finished, she turned to face me, tilting her head downward.
Dr. Cruz and I are about the same height when standing, while I am a couple of years older than she. But when she is on her chair and I am on the couch, she is exalted while I am minimized, which is a reason for why I don’t always look forward to our yearly appointments, that and the twenty-five dollars that I have to proffer every time I show up to the behavioral health clinic. I would have been happier sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair that kept me at her eye level.
I handed her the completed questionnaire, and then we entered into a discussion about the usual topics.
“How is the job?” she asked.
“Pretty good,” I said. “I got promoted a couple of months ago. So it looks like I won’t have to threaten them with leaving.”
“Oh my god! Congratulations. That is so fabulous!”
“Thank you. It sure has been a long time coming.”
“What about the medications? Are you experiencing any serious side effects?”
“Not really. The Olanzapine gets me sleepy when I take it, and I’m kind of drowsy in the morning.”
“And then you take the Fluoxetine and you get that pick-up that you need.”
“Yeah, I do,” I said.
My mind is a rolling pin that is being smacked back and forth by two different medications. One side is covered in fog and the other side is clear. Foggy. Clear. Foggy. Clear.
“How are you doing socially?” she asked.
I sighed. “I get along with the people at work pretty well. I’m hanging out with friends a lot more.”
And then came the question that I didn’t know that I’d been dreading.
“Is there anyone special in your life? A significant other that you are close too?”
I folded my arms and fell back onto the couch. “No, not right now.”
“What about a prospective someone?”
What the hell?
I shrugged. “Not really. I’m just looking around.”
I wasn’t looking to get into a serious relationship with a woman. Because there was always the chance that a relationship will fail. And I was quite aware of my history with failed relationships. The end of the relationship would be the precipitating factor for my descent into a severe depressive episode. It’s happened twice. The first incident took place in December, 2003, and ended with me spending a month in the local hospital — two weeks in psych and two weeks in the hospital major. After another breakup during the summer of 2012, I was sick for the next eight months.
“Good,” she said. “I think it’s something that you’re ready for. If you want it.”
I work at a majority female hospital and attend Turbo Kickboxing and Body Pump group X courses. I have met many women, and have cultivated friendships and acquaintances with a significant percentage of them. Many of the women that I’ve come to know over the past few years are pretty amazing individuals. I’ve gotten to know therapists, fitness instructors, business executives, accountants, social workers, medical doctors, teachers, homemakers, nurses, entrepreneurs, and others.
Did my therapist think that I have enough to offer a woman of substance? Yes, she did. I told her that I would exert more effort in this area, but with some self-imposed caveats. I would not invest too much emotion in the relationship. I would not expect anyone to make a commitment after a certain period of time and I would not put anyone on too high a pedestal. I would not be needy. My primary objective would be to enjoy the time being spent with good friends.
“I am completely fine with that,” she said. “This is exciting. You’re getting better and better!”
I would leave Dr. Cruz’s office with a mission on my mind: I was going to date regularly again.
Sadie
Sadie is an attractive mother of two teenagers. We started seeing each other a few weeks after she’d quit her job as a customer service agent at the hospital. Our dates consisted of conversations over lunch and dinner at a variety of fine eateries around Denver, Colorado.
I very much admired Sadie. She’d resigned from the hospital to pursue her dream of creating a marijuana enterprise. As one of the few black women in Colorado who was working toward achieving a foothold in the legalized cannabis industry, Sadie was a kind of pioneer in the state, with an overarching goal of creating a platform to address the inequities that make it more difficult for members of traditionally marginalized populations to take advantage of these new opportunities.
Our relationship reached its apex when Sadie and I traveled to Glenwood Springs, Colorado for a weekend. We spent Saturday and Sunday getting high, taking dips in geothermic heated pools, and sampling the rides at the adventure park. We had a great time together traversing through the mountain town, but there wasn’t a spark. Sadie wouldn’t allow it. After we returned from our vacation, we continued dating until the day I texted her with plans for an outing and she didn’t reply. I waited a few days for a message before letting it go. I’d been “ghosted”, but I was fine with it. It was clear that the relationship had run its course.
Danyelle
I met Danyelle, also a mother of two teenagers, during a Turbo Kick Boxing class in January 2015. The two of us spent three years building a friendship before taking in a show at the Improv Comedy Club and Diner.
Danyelle and I would continue to see each other in the ensuing months. We frequented some of the best restaurants in town on the weekends, followed by a trip to the movie theatre. During an outing, I felt comfortable enough with Danyelle to tell her about my struggles with mental health. She wasn’t repelled by the news of my illness. In fact, I became fairly certain that Danyelle was extremely interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with me despite my troubles. I seriously thought about taking the plunge.
Danyelle was a beautiful and successful executive at a leading financial services company. Her skin was caramel colored and smooth. Her hair was as dark as crow feathers, wavy, and lush. Her eyes sparkled. While we were eating dinner at the La Sandia’s Mexican restaurant, I reached across the table and touched her right arm and gasped. Her skin was as soft and supple as anything I’d ever touched in my entire life. When I took my hand away, finger indentations were left on the spot where they’d been. Flawless skin. The type of skin that should be caressed and cherished by a significant other every single day of the week.
It’s too bad that she doesn’t want to have any more children.
I often imagined having a child with Danyelle, creating a family of five — two stepchildren and one biological. But Danyelle didn’t share my dream. She wanted a serious relationship with a man who didn’t want any children. Because Danyelle had spent the last eighteen years of her life raising two children on her own while swimming amongst the great white sharks that populate the financial services industry. And now her son was matriculating into the local college and her daughter was engaged to be married to a military man. She’d done a wonderful job raising independent children who were on their way to becoming productive adults. Danyelle wanted to enjoy the rest of her life, free of the stress that comes with raising a child in this world. I understood her concerns. And Danyelle intuitively understood that I couldn’t continue to pursue this relationship.
Danyelle and I remain friends to this day.
Sandra
I met Sandra in 2008, as we were both enrolled as graduate students in the Initial Professional Teacher Program at the local university. After we graduated from the program and received our teaching certifications, Sandra and I were hired at the same high needs elementary school in my old neighborhood on the east side of town.
It didn’t take long for Sandra to prove to the other educators that she was one of the best and most dedicated teachers in the school. I would also categorize myself as dedicated — I was often awake until 2:30 in the morning grading papers and creating lesson plans — , but I wasn’t as talented as Sandra. The other educators — especially the principal — in the building noticed the divergence between Sandra and I. It wasn’t a humungous difference since my students did learn and eclipse grade levels during the school year. The principal — she hated me for reasons that she could not accurately substantiate — did all that she could to amplify these discrepancies whenever she was in my presence.
There were teachers who believed in my potential as an educator. However, it was Sandra who was the most vocal and unyielding in her support. She easily could have abandoned me as she angled for more productive relationships with our peers. But she didn’t, and I was grateful. Sandra’s stout friendship kept a nearly unendurable first year of teaching from spiraling out of control.
I was able to get my license renewed at the end of the school year; however, my antagonistic bent toward the principal led to my resigning.
Sandra and I kept in touch up through the initiation of courtships with the other women. She and I have a lot in common. We enjoy the same movies and television shows, enjoy reading books, eating in restaurants, and we are both educators — I teach inclusion courses with my employer and Sandra teaches English Language Learners at the elementary school. Plus, Sandra and I are both sensitives (individuals living with a mental illness).
Can two people with a mental illness coexist in a relationship?
I turned to Google to find out, and the results were mixed. I read testimonials from writers who insisted that two sensitives can thrive as a romantic couple. And I’ve read others who say to be very wary. My family members are skeptical, some are more so than others.
If there are babies, will the illness be passed down to them?
As the recent summer flew by, I felt an increasing need to hear Sandra’s thoughts on the matter. Could she envision a future with me? When the time came for us to meet at my favorite spot for food and drink, I told myself that I would broach the subject.
September 7, 2019
Sandra rounded the street corner. Her wavy, red hair — I love a woman’s hair — hung over thin shoulders. She wore a sleeveless bright orange dress this time, allowing the half-dozen tattoos on her arms to reign free. She smiled at me as she approached, and I was once again torn as to how best to express my admiration for her appearance. I wanted to tell her that she was beautiful in the way that would make her nervous, but I decided on offering her a compliment that was vanilla. There were a few feet of distance separating us when I said, “Well, don’t look very nice today Sandra.”
I was dressed in what I call my utility wardrobe, a blue untucked short-sleeve shirt and beige khakis — these are the clothes that I feel most comfortable wearing. I was leaning back against my gray Elantra, anticipating Sandra’s eventual embrace, hoping that she was impressed by my appearance too.
“You look very handsome yourself, Mr. Eze,” she said as she extended her two pale arms forward in my direction.
She relayed the compliment as someone would to a trusted friend. So, I decided that I was not going to jeopardize the friendship by bring up the prospect of us coupling on this day.
The Atomic Cowboy was busy on that Saturday afternoon. Customers that could not fit inside the restaurant were milling about the entry way. Patrons were required to wait for up to forty-five minutes before being seated. Sandra and I talked until I received the notice of an open table.
Have you ever been to the Atomic Cowboy? If you are ever in the Denver area, I would recommend that you visit. Though somewhat tucked in between adjacent buildings that line the street upon which the restaurant is located, the Atomic Cowboy is a distinctive enough structure for those with a discerning eye. The outer visage is composed of beige bricks and huge tinted windows that face south Denver. It is situated along an up and coming section of west Colfax Avenue, a few blocks west from the hospital where I work. When you’re driving or walking down Colfax, look for the sign with the crisscrossed fluorescent rolling pins located above the equally fluorescent “A” and “C”.
Atomic Cowboy has become a gathering place for Denver’s upper and professional classes, but it also prides itself on being a welcoming environment for people of all religions, sexual orientations, races, creeds, and colors. As a person of color who struggles with mental illness, the explicit message of welcome is extremely important. The Denver Biscuit Company occupies the same space, serving brunch dishes within the walls.
Sandra and I were seated at the bar, next to young college-aged couple. The two of us, along with everyone else in attendance, had come to partake of the Denver Biscuit Company’s nationally recognized biscuits plates.
Why are the biscuits at the Denver Biscuit Factory so well renowned?
I can’t speak to the preferences of strangers since every human being is allowed to approach their experience in a way that befits him/her. But I am going to give you my reasons for why I love the food. The biscuits are these two humongous fluffy pieces of doughy heaven that are served with meat, sauces, gravy, and cheese sandwiched in between. The tops are then slathered with delicious accoutrements like syrup, butter and whip cream. The concoction is lanced by a long wooden stick that connects the sandwich’s components.
Sandra and I chose to satiate our appetites with the Lola, a huge biscuit with a piece of fried chicken and a strip of bacon in between. Hot maple syrup overflows every inch of the biscuit sandwich before the remainders settle onto the dish upon which the biscuit has been served.
I remembered reading a review of the restaurant, in which the writer gushed about the experience of eating a biscuit from the Denver Biscuit Factory. It imbued his body with a warmth that could sustain him through a brutal snow storm. My take on the experience is different from the reviewer. I know that each bite adds to the debauchment of my taste buds and the clogging of my arteries, which makes me more gleeful since I’m breaking the rules imposed on me by my physician. I occasionally wash down bites with some fruity delicious alcohol, compounding the number of calories that my body is processing.
Our bartender and server, a charming blond man who has been trained to be cognizant of the imperative to seat waiting customers, gently nudges. How are you guys doing? Are you guys doing all right? Sandra and I continued to eat at our own pace, savoring each and every morsel of food. Once we’d finally consumed the entirety of our dish and the bartender whisked our plates away, we turned to each other. I smiled at her while raising my glass into the air. “Can we make a toast?” I asked.
Sandra smiled back at me and hoisted her glass in the air until it was level with mine. “Let’s do.”
“We met at the university eleven years ago,” I said. “And in that time, you have become my longest and best friend.”
Sandra’s bottom lip quivered and her eyes watered. “You’re mine too.”
“I also want to congratulate the both of us for surviving our illnesses. Knock on wood.” I rapped my knuckles on the bar three times with my free hand. “We’ve been able to build stable lives for ourselves in spite of our circumstances. To stability and the enduring friendship of two formerly lost souls.”
“To stability and the enduring friendship of two formerly lost souls!” she exclaimed. We clinked our glasses and gulped down the remaining portion of our beverages.
This would be enough, for now.
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