The Edge

The man gets out of the truck. He's a big man, with delicate features. He has a warm smile, trustworthy eyes. He looks safe to me. He tries to coax Jax into the firetruck, but Jax is afraid to jump over those steps. Finally, he picks up Jax and gently places him in the truck.

"Hey, is that your jeep back there?" he asks, before pulling onto the highway. "You break down? Just going to leave it there?"

"Yeah."

"Okay then, let's go," he says, pulling out onto the highway. My side window is down, and the wind is blowing so fast. I feel great. I lean my head closer to the window to feel the breeze and the sunshine.

"So, you're a college student?" the fireman asks, interrupting my moment of feeling free. "How old does that make you?"

I try to think quickly: How old are you when you graduate from college? If I'm 33 now, when I graduated I was . . . I can't remember.

"Uh . . . 22?"

"Wow. You don't look 22."

I smile and turn my gaze back to the countryside speeding past us. I glance at Jax, who has his two front paws perched on the console between us.

"What're you studying there at Bethany College?" the fireman asks. "You did say Bethany, right? I've never even heard of it. What did you say you're studying?"

Long pause.

"Communications," I say finally. It's sort of the truth. My degree from Bethany College was in communications.

"So what do you want to be when you grow up?" the fireman says with a chuckle.

I look at Jax, wide-eyed in disbelief. This man just keeps talking.

"A writer."

"Really?" he says, entirely too interested. "What do you want to write about? I think it'd be a fascinating career. But not a technical writer, right? I don't know how fun that would be."

I don't respond. I give the fireman a half-smile, which is all I am capable of at the moment.

"You don't say much, do you?" he says in a sad voice.

"Mind if I smoke?"

We drive along in silence for quite some time. I light another cigarette, watch the fields and farms as we pass. I see a horse off in the distance. I sink deeper in the seat. My muscles begin to loosen, I feel sleepy and safe.

Then the fireman starts talking again.

"I have a daughter your age -- well maybe a little older. You sort of look like her, something about you reminds me of her." He waits for me to say something, but I don't.

"That's why I couldn't just leave you there on the side of the road. For a young lady, that could be awfully dangerous." I manage a brief smile.

The fireman tells me he needs to stop for gas and pulls off the interstate. We turn into a mini-mart, but it's not a 7-Eleven or Sheetz like I'm used to, and I wonder where we are. He asks if I need anything -- water, soda -- and I shake my head no. Jax wags his tail. The fireman climbs out of the truck, and I notice his cell phone sitting on the dashboard. I run after him.

"Hey!" I can't remember his name. Doug? Dan? Dave. Dave Daniels. "Hey, Dave, can I use your phone?" He nods while walking into the store.

Back in the firetruck, phone in hand, I think about whom to call. My choices are limited because without my cell phone, I don't know anybody's number; it's all programmed. I don't want to call my mom. There's my best friend from college, Jennifer, who knows me better than anyone, but she's in Boston, so she can't help me. There's Michael, my roommate. He's been in California all month, and I can't remember if he's back. Doesn't matter. He'll have his cell phone and know whom to call.

"Hi, Mikey," I say when he picks up.

"Hey, Mishy," he says, without concern. "Where are you?"

"Boston."

"You're in Boston?" he says, with such fear in his voice that it makes me laugh hysterically.

"No," I say.

"Mishy, where are you?"

I'm crying now, so hard that I can't seem to catch my breath. "I don't know," I whisper, between sobs.

"Who are you with?"

"A fireman."

There is a long pause, and for a moment, I am terrified that he has hung up the phone.

"Michele," he says softly, "can I talk to the fireman?"

I watch from the truck as Michael and Dave Daniels talk on the phone. Dave is pacing back and forth, but he doesn't look angry, or worried, for that matter. Every now and again, he even laughs. Finally, Dave closes his cell phone and looks up at me in the truck. All of a sudden I become very aware of what's happening right now. Dave comes back in the truck, and in rapid fire I tell him: "Look, my name is Michele Capots. I am 33. I live in Alexandria, Virginia. I was visiting my mother in Greensburg, Pennsylvania. It's my grandmother's birthday. I suffer from clinical depression, and some think I am bipolar. I've recently been weened off my medication, and I'm wicked confused."

Dave Daniels simply smiles.

"Can you hang in there, little lady?" For whatever reason, the question makes me laugh.

"As long as you let me smoke," I say, and this time I am smiling back at him.

We drive for some time and stop at a firehouse along the way. Dave, it turns out, demos firetrucks, so he has a job to do while I sit smoking in the cab, peering down. At one point I catch one of the other firemen looking at me, and I quickly look away. I wonder what, if anything, Dave has told them.

My friend Michael will tell me later that the drive to Inwood, W.Va., is pretty, but I won't remember. Dave indicates that this is our last stop, and I get out of the truck. The firehouse is cluttered. There are big blue-and-yellow coats on the wall, but I'm looking for a pole that the firemen slide down. Walking through the firehouse, I notice an old beat-up couch against the wall in the back. I feel like my body is about to give out, and I lie down on it. I am so tired. The couch is uncomfortable -- there is a spring poking through, the metal is cold -- but I don't care. Jax is lying on the ground right beside me. He looks tired, too, and I close my eyes.

"Is he friendly?" Two fireman have wandered over to pet the dog.

"Yes." I roll over on the couch, turning my back to them, praying for sleep.

Jax growls and lunges toward them.

I don't know how much time passes, and I don't even know if I actually fall asleep. When I open my eyes, Jax is gone, and there are only a few people in the firehouse. I wander outside, and the sun is still shining brightly. To the right, off in a field, a group of firemen are playing with Jax; it looks like they have found a ball. I sit on the ground, lean my back against the brick wall of the firehouse and light a cigarette. I wonder where I am. I wonder where Dave Daniels is. An ambulance pulls up, lights flashing, but no siren. Out of nowhere, I hear the static of a CB radio. A man speaks into it: "We have a psychiatric patient at the firehouse . . . Patient appears confused and disoriented." I look up, wondering who they are talking about.

Then Michael's maroon Land Rover pulls up, and my friend Dawn is in the car with him.

"Hey," I say, and take another drag off my cigarette. As they get out of the car, I hop in the back seat and remove my flip-flops. "Michael," I holler as they walk into the firehouse looking for Dave Daniels, "don't forget Jax."

Driving from the town of Inwood, the windows are down; there is a breeze, and I am dangling my feet out the left-hand window, which is odd, since I hate when people do that. Michael and Dawn are talking a mile a minute. Dawn has always been a motherly type friend, a worrywart. Michael, on the other hand, is the most laid-back guy I know. It usually takes a lot to rattle him, but this situation has him rattled. I catch a glance of him in the rearview mirror, and he looks nervous.

"Mishy," Dawn says, reaching into a bag filled with candy, "you want a Twizzler?"

"No!" I scream.

Dawn looks at Michael, makes a face. Michael looks like he wants to run away. And their silent exchange is the funniest thing I've seen all day. I start to laugh, deliriously, and then I can't stop. Michael starts driving faster, the countryside rolling by again. Everything is so green.

"So, Mishy," Michael begins, staring at Dawn, his eyes searching for reassurance that it's okay to talk to me. "You've had quite the adventure, haven't you?

I'm still laughing.

"You rode in a firetruck . . ." Michael says.

"And I hitchhiked," I tell them, quite proud of myself.

Three hours later, I'm on a bed. I'm not tired anymore. There's a table with a lot of utensils on it next to me, and circling me are lime-green curtains that wrap around. "Heeellllo," I holler loudly.

Dawn peeks her head in, which amuses me, and I laugh. A blond woman then appears through the same curtain, and I can't seem to determine how everyone is getting in my room. Where is the opening? The blonde is about my age. She is talking to me, asking if I know where I am. I look at Dawn, who looks scared. The blonde tells me that she's a doctor and I am at Georgetown Hospital. She wants to know if I know why I'm here. I stop paying attention. I'm trying to figure out her name. It's a long name, difficult to pronounce. "S-I-L-V . . ." I try to sound it out. Silvaw . . . I can't get it, and I become frustrated. Now she and Dawn are talking; they're standing right in front of me, and I'm watching their lips move, but I can't hear a word they're saying. My mind is moving so fast, I can't keep up. The confusion is no longer fun, but I can't stop laughing.

I am alone in the room now. It's quiet. I now know why I am here. I start sobbing loudly, the tears falling so fast I can't wipe them away quickly enough. I can't breathe. Dawn peeks her head in again.

"What is happening to me?" I whisper.

The answer comes over the next few days. I've suffered another manic episode, ignited by my lack of sleep and recent adjustment in my medication. My doctor had weened me off Depakote and Zyprexa, because I seemed to have convinced him that I wasn't bipolar. Now the official diagnosis is bipolar I, which is characterized by manic episodes and often accompanied by major depressive episodes. I spend seven days in Georgetown's psychiatric ward, smoking every hour on the hour, meeting fascinating people and participating in group therapy. The doctors there put me on a different pill -- Lithium -- to stabilize my moods, then send me to an outpatient program and eventually home. Ready to live my life.

But it isn't that easy. I still struggle to accept that I am bipolar. Whenever I have trouble falling asleep at night, if I toss and turn, I wonder: Am I about to have a manic episode? If I spend an outrageous amount of money on a pair of boots or jeans, I always have to question myself and wonder if it's a sign. Or if I lose too much weight and people say, "Michele, you're so thin," is that a red flag? The danger is always there. The question is, will I recognize the red flags for what they are, or will I ignore them?

Jax and I are on our way home for my grandma's 90th birthday party. More than 100 people are expected. I'm driving on Old Route 30, late. It's been a year since I've been on these roads, and my mind is reeling. As always, I'm excited about being back home, but this time I'm particularly uneasy.

Sanity is such a delicate place. Turn left, and it's just another morning. Turn right, and the world as you know it disappears.

Left or right?

Michele Capots is a member of the Magazine's editorial staff.