Susannah Cahalan - Brain on Fire - My Month of Madness

“She’ll take the chicken sandwich,” Stephen said, after it was clear I was incapable of making such a momentous decision. “And I’ll have the reuben.”

When the food came, I could focus only on the greasy french dressing congealing on Stephen’s corned beef sandwich. I looked down at my own sandwich despairingly; nothing could convince me to put it to my lips.

“It’s too… grizzly,” I told Stephen.

“But you didn’t try it. If you don’t eat this, there’s nothing but gefilte fish and chicken livers at home,” he joked, trying to lighten the mood by pointing out Allen’s strange eating habits. Stephen finished his reuben, but I left the chicken sandwich untouched.

As we walked to the car, two conflicting urges struck me: I needed either to break up with Stephen here and now or profess my love to him for the first time. It could go either way; both impulses were equally intense.

“Stephen, I really need to talk to you.” He looked at me oddly. I stammered, growing red before conjuring up the courage to speak, although I still didn’t know what was going to come out of my mouth. He too was half-expecting me to break up with him at that moment. “I just. I just. I really love you. I don’t know. I love you.”

Tenderly he grasped my hands in his own. “I love you, too. You just have to relax.” It was not how either of us had hoped this exchange would happen; it was not the kind of memory you recalled to your grandchildren, but there it was. We were in love.

Later that night, Stephen noticed that I had begun to steadily smack my lips together as if I was sucking on a candy. I licked my lips so often that my mom started to apply globs of Vaseline to keep them from cracking open and bleeding. Sometimes I would trail off midsentence, staring off into space for several minutes before continuing my conversation. During these moments, the paranoid aggression receded into a childlike state. These times were the most unnerving for everyone, since I’d been pigheadedly self-sufficient, even as a toddler. We didn’t know it then, but these too were complex partials, the more subtle types of seizures that create those repetitive mouth movements and that foggy consciousness. I was getting worse by the day, by the hour even, but no one knew what to do.

At 3:38 a.m., on March 21, as Stephen snored away upstairs, I wrote again in my computer diary:

Okay there’s no place to start but you have to, ok? And don’t be all “wow I didn’t spell check this.”

I had the urge to baby stephen instead of allow him to baby me. I’ve been letting my parents baby me for too long.

you have a mothering instinct (you held him in your arms). you felt you have untangled your mind when you are around him. you found your phone and remembered.

talking to my father makes me feel more with it. my mom babies me way too much because she blames herself for the way I am. But she shouldn’t. She’s been a great mother. And she should know that.

who gives a shit what anyone things about me. I’m going to

Stephen: he keeps you sane. He’s also very smart. Don’t let how humble he is fool you, okay? You got this crossroads because of him and you should be forever grateful for that. So be kind to him.

Reading these entries now is like peering into a stranger’s stream of consciousness. I don’t recognize the person on the other end of the screen as me. Though she urgently attempts to communicate some deep, dark part of herself in her writing, she remains incomprehensible even to myself.

On Saturday morning, my mom tried to get me to return to Dr. Bailey’s for the EEG. I had had two identifiable seizures and had developed an increasing number of worrying symptoms in the past week alone, and my family needed answers.

“Absolutely not,” I grumbled, stamping my feet like a two-year-old. “I’m fine. I don’t need this.”

Allen walked outside to start the car as Stephen and my mother pleaded with me.

“Nope. Not going. Nope,” I replied.

“We have to go. Please, just come,” my mom said.

“Let me talk to her for a second,” Stephen said to my mom, leading me outside. “Your mom is only trying to help you, and you’re making her very upset. Will you please just come?”

I thought this over for a moment. I loved my mom. Fine. Yes. I would go. Then a moment later—No! I couldn’t possibly leave. After a half hour more of persuading, I finally got into the backseat of the car beside Stephen. As we drove out of our driveway and onto the street, Allen began to speak. I could hear him distinctly, though he wasn’t moving his lips.

You’re a slut. I think Stephen should know.

My whole body shook with anger, and I leaned threateningly toward the driver’s seat. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” Allen said, sounding both surprised and exhausted.

That was the last straw. Swiftly, I unbuckled my seat beat, yanked open the car door, and prepared to jump out of the car headfirst. Stephen grabbed the back of my shirt in mid-leap, saving me from launching myself out of the vehicle. Allen slammed on the brakes.

“Susannah, what the hell are you doing?” my mom screamed.

“Susannah,” Stephen said in a level tone, a timbre I had never before heard from him. “That is not okay.”

Obedient again, I closed the door and crossed my arms. But hearing the click of the child’s lock sent me into panic mode again. I flung myself against the locked door and screamed, “Let me out! Let me out!” over and over, until I was too exhausted to yell anymore, then rested my head against Stephen’s shoulder and momentarily nodded off.

When I opened my eyes again, we had exited the Holland Tunnel and were entering Chinatown, with its sidewalk fish, swarms of tourists, and fake designer bag salesmen. The whole sordid scene disgusted me.

“I want coffee. Get me coffee. Now. I’m hungry. Feed me,” I demanded, insufferably.

“Can’t you wait until we get uptown?” my mom asked.

“No. Now.” It suddenly seemed like the most important thing in the world.

Allen took a sharp turn, almost hitting a parked car, and took West Broadway to the Square Diner, one of the last authentic train car diners in New York City. Allen couldn’t figure out how to unlock the child’s lock, so I climbed over Stephen to get out of his door, hoping to disappear before any of them could catch up. Stephen suspected as much and followed me. Since I couldn’t get away, I sauntered into the diner in search of coffee and an egg sandwich. It was Sunday morning, so the line to eat was long, but I wouldn’t wait. I barbarously nudged an elderly lady out of my way and, spotting an open booth, sat down. I shouted obnoxiously to no one in particular, “I want coffee!”

Stephen took the seat opposite mine. “We can’t stay. Can’t you just get it to go?”

Ignoring him, I snapped my fingers, and the waitress arrived. “A coffee and egg sandwich.”

“To go,” Stephen added. He was mortified, rightly, by my behavior. I could be willful, but he had never seen me be rude.

Luckily the man behind the counter, who had been listening in on the exchange, called out, “I’ve got it.” He turned his back to us and cooked the eggs. A minute later, he delivered a steaming cup of coffee and a cheese-covered egg sandwich in a brown paper bag. I swaggered out of the diner. The paper coffee cup was so hot that it burned my skin, but I didn’t care. I made things happen. I was powerful. When I snapped my fingers, people jumped. If I couldn’t understand what was making me feel this way, at least I could control the people around me. I threw the egg sandwich, uneaten, on the car floor.