Fluent Essays

The Dark Side of Innocence: Growing Up Bipolar by Terri Cheney book analysis attached below are the instruction Approx. 4 pages 1 Sharon Boyd-Jackson, Ph.D. Psy-3540-03 Abnormal Psychology Semester Project: Book Analysis Assignment DUE DATE: October 23, 2020 DESCRIPTION: This project involves an analysis and critique of your assigned choice of either of two novels: ‘Manic” by Terri Cheney. 1- “The Dark Side of Innocence” or 2- “Manic: A Memoir”…SEE ASSIGNED BOOK CHOICE LIST TO MAKE CERTAIN YOU ARE PURCHASING AND READING THE CORRECT BOOK TEXT INFORMATION: Cheney, Teri (2011). The dark side of innocence: Growing up bipolar. Atria Books: A division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. New York, NY: HarperCollins Publisher. ISBN: 9781439176214 {E-Book – ISBN 978-1-4391- 7625-2}*You can purchase this in the bookstore, any Barnes & Nobles or order online Cheney, Teri (2009). Manic: A memoir. New York, NY: HarperCollins Publisher. *You can purchase this at any Barnes & Nobles or order online. IF YOUR NAME IS NOT ON THE ASSIGNED BOOK CHOICE LIST YOU MUST CONTACT ME BEFORE PURCHING A BOOK. INSTRUCTIONS: You will read and analyze one of the two the novels above once you have been assigned by the instructor. Both novels relate to the description of the same person’s experience of what it is like to cope with bipolar disorder. However, one relates to Terri Cheney’s childhood and the other relates to her adulthood. The overall story in each novel exemplifies the importance of the assignment and can increase your understanding of mental illness and personal struggles one may encounter. In general, your paper will highlight how the symptoms of bipolar disorder are expressed in the main character’s behavior and your reaction to her experiences. You will include the following in your critique: o Describe behavior that relate to at least two different bipolar symptoms identified from the DSM-V). Then describe how you think each symptom is expressed in one or two instances of her behavior. 20% (approx. ¾ page). One of the symptoms must relate to signs of mania. o Who do you think was the most influential in Terri’s life? Why and how (Choose only two different individuals who were most influential to discuss)? 25% (approx. 1 page). This must relate to live persons. o If she received treatment was it helpful? Why? Why not? If she did not receive treatment, then why not? 15% (approx. ½ page) you must fully answer this question. Be thoughtful. o What do you think is Terri’s character strengths and what are her weaknesses? (Do not use behaviors caused by her illness…for example- the “black beast” or “suicide” cannot be considered a weakness) 20% (approx. ½ page) o What did you find most interesting and/or educational about this book? In other words, what did you learn? 15% (Approx. ½ page) o Identify at least two questions that may have come to mind as you read this book…You may try to come up with possible answers to your questions but it is not necessary to answer them. 5% Paper Format:  The paper should be typed, double-spaced and approximately three and one-half to five pages, maximum in length. You may be penalized for not abiding to page length (DO NOT USE QUOTES). Please create a cover page for this paper. You will submit your paper to turnitin.com. You will receive instructions for turnitin.com at a later date. the dark side of innocence Also by Terri Cheney Manic: A Memoir ATRIA BOOKS A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com To the best of my ability, I have re-created events, locales, people, and organizations from my memories of them. In order to maintain the anonymity of others, in some instances I have changed the names of individuals and places, and the details of events. I have also changed some identifying characteristics, such as physical descriptions, occupations, and places of residence. Copyright © 2011 by Terri Cheney All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020. First Atria Books hardcover edition March 2011 ATRIA BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. Manufactured in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available. http://www.simonandschuster.com/ http://www.simonspeakers.com/ ISBN 978-1-4391-7621-4 ISBN 978-1-4391-7625-2 (ebook) To my mother the dark side of innocence Introduction There’s a beast out there, and it’s preying on children. I didn’t know this when I was growing up. I only knew that there was something very, very wrong with me. It wasn’t until 1994, when I was thirty-four years old, that I finally found the right name for it: bipolar disorder. After years of secretly struggling with the disease, I wrote a book about my experience. Manic: A Memoir was published in 2008. It describes my life as a Beverly Hills entertainment attorney—outwardly successful, representing the likes of Michael Jackson, Quincy Jones, and major motion picture studios. But behind the carefully poised façade was a string of bloody suicide attempts, nights in jail, repeated hospitalizations, and ruined relationships. When I was depressed, I was completely paralyzed, literally hiding out under my desk. But when I was manic, I made up for the lost time with dazzling productivity, charisma, and boundless energy. I told no one about my illness back then—not my friends, my family, my coworkers; no one except my doctors. With the publication of Manic, of course, the whole world was going to be privy to my secret. I rationalized this by telling myself that no one was really going to care. Who could possibly be interested in my messy, chaotic blur of a life? I was wrong. To my everlasting surprise, Manic hit the New York Times best-seller list a month after its release. As of this writing, it is in its tenth printing, has been translated into eight foreign languages, and was even optioned by HBO for a television series, the ultimate stamp of pop culture approval. Don’t misunderstand me: I love my book, I think it’s a very good book, and I worked seven long years on it. But I also know that its success has little to do with my writing. The time has finally come for awareness: the world seems to have a rampant curiosity about bipolar disorder. Almost without exception, everyone I’ve talked to either knows or knows of someone with this disease (or has it themselves). I was completely unprepared for the torrent of emails I received: the outpouring of gratitude, the baring of souls. But what moved me the most, what I kept coming back to over and over again, were the emails from parents of bipolar children. They were heartrending, passionate, and unapologetically hungry for information. Why were their children acting like this? Did I understand the symptoms? Did I know of a cure? The love was palpable, as was the desperation. In many of these emails, and in the numerous interviews, readings, and lectures I’ve given since, the same question kept popping up, without fail: How old was I when I realized that something was seriously wrong with me? I remember the first time I answered this question. It was during a live radio show, and I was nervous. My mind flashed immediately to a prolonged bout of depression I suffered when I was sixteen years old. “Sixteen,” I quickly replied. New authors get a little glib with repetition, and “sixteen” soon became my stock answer. But deep down, I knew that wasn’t right. My early childhood wasn’t just a strange one; it was a sick one, and there was more to the story than I was willing to tell. Then in May of ’08, shortly after my book came out, I visited New York City for a reading. I was in a downtown subway station when I spotted a bright red Newsweek banner and, in bold type, the cover story: “Growing Up Bipolar.” I devoured that article. I was shocked to learn that at least eight hundred thousand children in the United States have been diagnosed as bipolar. (I’ve since seen estimates of over a million.) I would later learn from a New York Times Magazine cover article that there has been a fortyfold increase in the diagnosis in recent years—a whopping 4,000 percent increase since the mid-1990s, according to National Public Radio. The very next day, I was sitting in my editor’s office, discussing what to write next. My editor looks like a Pre-Raphaelite angel, which is disconcerting enough. But then out of the blue, just like that, she said, “What about your childhood?” I froze. “What about it?” “Lots of people seem curious. You don’t mention it much in Manic, you know.” There’s a very good reason for that: I wanted people to buy the book. Difficult as it was for me to imagine anyone caring about the exploits of my bipolar adulthood, I found it even harder to conceive of anyone being interested in my morass of a childhood. At least when I was an adult, I had a name for what was wrong with me: manic depression. It’s easier to make sense of things—even very disturbing things like sexual acting out and suicidality—when there’s a big, fat label slapped on top. But as a child, I knew nothing. I had no diagnosis. All I had was a vague and gnawing awareness that I was different from other children, and that different was not good. Different must be kept hidden. “I don’t think I can remember back that far,” I said, glancing away from Sarah’s eyes to the concrete block of a building across the way. It was part evasion, part truth. Memory has always been a tricky business with me, especially since the twelve rounds of electroshock therapy I went through in 1994. I write what I remember as honestly and accurately as I can. But I’m never quite sure that what I remember is what other people see as “true.” Mental illness has its own lens. “That’s exactly what you said about Manic, and yet you managed.” Sarah paused, and the silence drew me back in to her. “I think you should try.” I left her office that afternoon convinced that I would send a polite but discouraging email in a couple of days. But she got me thinking, which is what a good editor is supposed to do. And thinking. And eventually, jotting down glimpses of the past. I pored over what mementos I still have of my childhood: some photos, early writings, a cherished keepsake or two. I plagued my mother and brother with questions (my father, unfortunately, died in 1997): Did this really happen? Did I really do that? Fragments gradually became paragraphs, images evolved into scenes. Once I started to remember, windows that I thought were welded shut flew open. I may not have recalled the exact dialogue spoken at the dinner table, but I couldn’t forget the feelings. I was seven years old all over again, and frankly, it was terrifying. Childhood bipolar disorder is a lot like adult bipolar disorder in that it’s a never-ending battle of cycling moods: up, down, in between, and all across the emotional spectrum. Mania brings euphoria, agitation, grandiosity, recklessness. You feel invulnerable, ecstatic, as if you could move the world without a lever. And yet, surprisingly, mania is not that much fun. Your senses are too acute; other people think and move too slowly for your pleasure. You blithely bulldoze over them in search of the next sensation. Depression is more familiar to most people. It’s not just the blues, it’s so much worse: a bleakness beyond reason. There is no light, there is no hope, there is only this moment of inarticulate despair that you know at your core will last forever. When I’m depressed, I simply can’t move. It’s an effort to blink, to breathe, even to cry. The only thing that really soothes me, strangely enough, is suicidal ideation. There are other mood states in between mania and depression: hypomania, for example, which is that glorious period that sometimes precedes mania. You’re charming, creative, and energetic, without mania’s impaired judgment. You seem to cast a magic spell wherever you go: other people are drawn to you, and you’re absolutely fascinated by everything and anything they have to say. It’s the best part of being bipolar. But there’s also the bizarre “mixed state,” where the worst of depression and mania collide. You feel utterly despondent but possessed by a tremendous, surging energy. I know I’m in a mixed state when all I want to do is shatter glass. Not surprisingly, it’s the state in which the most suicides occur. If this sounds overwhelming, it is. But so much more is known about adult bipolar disorder than about its incarnation in childhood. From what I’ve discovered in my research, there are significant differences. In adulthood, over the course of years, and with the luxury of perspective, patterns eventually emerge. In my case, for example, I’ve learned that now I will usually experience three days of mania followed by four days of depression, and varying periods of relative normalcy in between. This is what’s known as “rapid cycling,” and it’s unusual because the majority of people spend weeks or months in a particular mood state before switching to another. In children, however, moods often fluctuate like humming birds’ wings. One minute they’re up, the next they’re down, and there seems to be no clear delineation between the two phases. Rapid cycling is far more common in children than in adults, and of course, it’s much more difficult to treat: like chasing a comet’s tail. Mixed states are also more common in children, which wrings my heart because they are so agonizing. And there seems to be a qualitative difference in the experience of mania: agitation, irritability, and anger are more pronounced in childhood mania than the classic adult euphoria. But many manic traits, unfortunately, remain the same. For example, many parents report that their bipolar children are strangely hypersexual. They exhibit an awareness of and preoccupation with sex that belies their essential innocence. This was certainly true in my case. I can hear the skeptical reader now: children are naturally moody. Teenagers are even worse. Given the inherent volatility of childhood and the volcanic eruptions of adolescence, how can you tell when it’s bipolar disorder? It’s a very good question. Early-onset bipolar disorder is notoriously difficult to diagnose, even by the most seasoned professionals. It mimics many other conditions, like attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), oppositional defiant disorder, or plain old unipolar depression. While it’s extremely hard to discern a pattern of cycling moods in what looks and feels like chaos, it’s clear that parents and doctors must at least be cognizant of the possibility of bipolar disorder—if only to rule it out. Treatment for other conditions (stimulants and antidepressants, for example) may seriously exacerbate bipolar symptoms. I don’t intend this book to be a primer on early-onset bipolar disorder, nor do I profess to be an expert on the disease. I can’t tell you if your child is bipolar. I can only offer my own experience. Looking back at my childhood and comparing it with the madness I wrote about in Manic, it seems clear to me that the seeds of insanity were already planted at a very early age. But how much of this book is about growing up bipolar, and how much is just about growing up? I can’t answer this question. I don’t think anyone can. So I’m putting my story down for all the parents who have asked me, so plaintively, “What was your own childhood like?” Maybe there will be clues in here; maybe even some answers. I suspect that at most there may be recognition, and I hope that will translate to this knowledge: if you are the parent of a bipolar child or if you are bipolar yourself, you are not alone. Terri Cheney Los Angeles, California 1 A little boy died When he was seven. He went straight up To Heaven. —My version of a nursery rhyme, age seven Killing yourself at any age is a seriously tricky business. But when I was seven, the odds felt insurmountable. My resources were so limited, after all. We lived in a one-story house, so there was nowhere to jump. The cabinet where the good silver was kept—the one with the knives that could make a nice, clean slice—was locked, and my mother had the key. We did have a swimming pool in our backyard, but who was going to teach me how to drown? I’d only just learned how to dog paddle. It all started two nights before my seventh birthday, after a fight with my brother, Zach. I was a delicate-looking thing, pale as porcelain, with long red hair that flowed down to the middle of my back. Zach was ten, and big for his age. I didn’t care. “You’re sitting in my chair,” I said. Zach didn’t stop eating. “So?” he mumbled. “Move.” “You move.” I could hear my voice growing shrill. “Move.” “No, you move.” My mother intervened. “Honey, let Zach sit next to his dad for a change. You come sit next to me.” She patted the empty chair to her right. Except for fancy occasions like Thanksgiving, we always had our meals at the L-shaped kitchen counter. My father would sit at the head; I’d sit next to him; then my mother; then Zach. I don’t know who had assigned these places, but that was how it had always been. I felt my hand tighten into a fist. I could just go back to my room. I wasn’t that hungry anyway. But something deep inside me kept me standing there, transfixed. That something was so familiar, so real and omnipotent, I’d given it a name: the Black Beast. I tried to negotiate. “Not now,” I argued. “Now,” the Black Beast insisted. My fingers clenched tighter, so hard that my nails gouged into my palms. Daddy hadn’t come home from work yet, so his chair was empty. There was still time to fix this, if indeed it needed fixing. You could never tell with Zach. Of everyone in my family, I felt that he was the only one really keeping track of things. At ten, he could already see straight through me. He knew I was not adorable. I gave him fair warning. “Zach, I swear, if you don’t move now, you’re gonna be sorry.” He ignored me and reached for a tortilla chip, his hand passing right in front of me. Big mistake. I grabbed the nearest fork and stabbed, hard, into his flesh. There was a moment’s bloody satisfaction, like when you bite into a good, rare piece of steak and the juices flood through your mouth. The fork stood up straight from the back of Zach’s hand. I’d skewered him like a bullfighter. My mother swore and ran to get the first aid kit while Zach screamed. Thank God she was a registered nurse and knew exactly what to do. I don’t remember much of what followed—just that I was sent to my room, where I waited in terror for my father to come home. It was the night of December 5, 1966. It was a good time to live in suburban Southern California. Building was booming, but you could still drive a mile or two out of town and picnic in orange groves. The smog was bad, but it produced brilliant sunsets. Out in the real world—the grown-up world I only caught whiffs of now and then—trouble was brewing: in four years, words like “Kent State” and “Cambodia” would enter the national consciousness. The Beatles would break up, Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix would die. But in Ontario, the little corner of the world where I lived, some forty- odd miles east of LA, none of that seemed to matter. Euclid Avenue, the eucalyptus-lined main street of town, was named one of the seven most beautiful avenues in the United States, and a good Sunday still consisted of church and a stroll beneath the trees. No one knew then that a blight was about to kill them all off, one after the other. In 1966, all was green and thriving. Things weren’t exactly perfect at 1555 North Elm Court, but you couldn’t tell from the outside. The garage was freshly painted, the pink geraniums my mother had planted on a whim were blooming, and a brand- new fire-engine red Dodge Comet stood in the driveway, waiting for us to hop in. But come around midnight, and you might hear a different story: voices brittle as icicles, aiming for the heart. I could hear them through my bedroom door, although I couldn’t quite make out the words. Something about money, usually; and sometimes, when the frost was particularly thick, the single word Rebecca. On those nights, I fully expected to wake up and find all the pink geraniums withered and dead. But to my surprise, they continued to bloom, and the neighbors looked on us as a fine family. And so we were. Zach was tall for his age and strapping, with a shock of red hair even more vibrant than my own. My mother and father were both handsome people, trim and photogenic. In the few pictures I possess of us, we look like a Kodak commercial: smiling, smiling, smiling. I remember hating being photographed as a child, and perhaps that accounts for my awkward grin. But even I could look angelic when I chose. “There’s something wrong with her.” My mother’s normally cool, firm voice quavered. She was either on the edge of tears or extremely angry, I couldn’t tell which. I pressed my ear up against the crack in the den door, trying to listen harder. “There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s only seven. Besides, she’s number one in her class.” My father’s Kansas twang was followed by a crackle; no doubt a page of the Daily Report being turned. “Put that goddamned paper down and listen to me. You call what she did to Zach tonight normal?” Another crackle, then silence. “She won’t do anything like that again. I’ll make her give me her word.” My mother laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “She’d say anything to get you to forgive her. I mean it, Jack, I’m worried. One minute she’s sweet as pie, the next she’s a little fiend. And all those days she claims she’s sick when she really isn’t—” “That’s just to stay out of school. All kids do that.” “Not for weeks at a time. I tell you, something’s wrong with her.” I heard the sound of a cup or a fist banging down on the table. “Nothing’s wrong with my baby. Christ, she’s number one in her class.” “You already said that.” “Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” There was a moment’s silence, and then my mother began to cry. She rarely cried, except when she was so frustrated she couldn’t find the words to express herself. “You always take her side,” she said. “There are no sides here,” my father said, his voice softening. “It’s just us.” “I don’t know how to handle her anymore. And it’s not fair to Zach.” My mother was openly sobbing now. “Shhh,” my father said. “If there’s a problem, I’ll fix it. You know I always do.” I was glad I was only eavesdropping. I couldn’t have stood the sight of my mother’s tears. I crept back to bed, deeply ashamed of whatever was so clearly “wrong” with me. Wrong with me, wrong with me. I knew my mother was right, of course; I’d always known I was different from other kids. I just didn’t realize how much it showed. How was my father going to “fix it”? What would they do to me if they ever found out how bizarre I really was? It wouldn’t just be a matter of being grounded then. They’d take me away and lock me up somewhere, and I’d never see my daddy again. I’d have to be more careful. “Careful,” I whispered into my pillow. My father stood in my bedroom doorway. There was a crease on his forehead that I’d never seen before. “Why did you do it?” he asked. “He made me do it,” I said with as much bravado as I could muster. How could I begin to explain what I didn’t understand myself? My father couldn’t possibly know, because I couldn’t possibly tell him, that “he” did not refer to Zach. “He” was the Black Beast, the monster that ruled over me and manipulated my moods. The Black Beast didn’t live under my bed or in the closet, like a proper childhood monster should. He lived inside my heart and head, leaving little room for hope or joy or any emotion lighter than sorrow. Sometimes he weighed a zillion trillion tons, and it was all I could do just to breathe. But then at other times, the Black Beast switched my mood in exactly the opposite direction. I’d be agitated, irritable, giddy, and silly, all in quick succession. One minute the prick of a tag on the back of my sweater would make me writhe and scream; the next I’d be roaring with laughter at my own private jokes and pirouetting down the aisles of the supermarket. Those were “Disneyland days,” as my father called them, and although life in an amusement park can be exhausting, I still preferred them to the days in the dark. Most children have a secret friend. But I never considered the Black Beast my friend. He was bigger than any mere childhood whim: he was a living, breathing creature that inhabited my body. I couldn’t just stuff him away in the toy chest and sit on the lid. We fought constantly. I didn’t always want to do or say or feel the things that he commanded, because they often got me into trouble. But he was stronger than I was, and very persuasive. I’d originally named him “Black Beauty,” after one of my favorite bedtime stories, in an attempt to make him seem more like a pet. It didn’t work. When the Black Beast wanted his way with me, there was simply no stopping him. I didn’t dare tell my father about this—or anyone else, for that matter. I thought that no one could possibly want a child possessed by a beast. So I cried that night instead: big, gulping sobs, bigger than my mother’s, because I needed my father’s allegiance more than she did. She was so attractive, she could get any man she wanted. I was a scrawny almost- seven-year-old, and there was nowhere else to turn. I shook off the covers and held out my arms. “I’m so sorry, Daddy,” I said. He came over and sat on the edge of my bed. “Do you promise never to do anything like that again?” I nodded, crying harder. Daddy looked around and picked up Toto from the foot of my bed. Toto was the tattered stuffed dog I’d had since I was three, my constant ally, my dearest friend. “Swear on Toto,” he said. “I swear,” I said. The sobs were coming so thick and fast by then that I could barely get the words out. And then at last—at last—my father took me in his arms and pressed me to his chest. My breathing slowed down instantly, the throbbing in my neck and temples eased. But just as my tears began to subside and I felt the universe slip back into its proper orbit, he held me out at arm’s length and shook his head. “You know, I’m very disappointed in you,” he said. “I want you to lie here and think about that for a while.” Then he got up and went back to the den. I clutched Toto and thought about it. Thought about it, hard. There were really only two avenues open to me: 1. I could win back my father’s love, or 2. I could die. Don’t ask me how I knew about suicide at such a tender age. The Black Beast knew all sorts of things that were better left unknown. I was fascinated by death; always had been. The nuns thought it was wonderful that I studied my catechism so intently, but the truth was, to me the Bible was just a great grisly story. The same was true of fairy tales: I wolfed them down. Not the saccharine Disney versions, but the unexpurgated Grimms, with their sawed-off heels and lopped-off heads and altogether dark and nasty vision. It satisfied something deep and hungry inside me to know that there was a way out of this life. At the moment, though, it seemed easier just to try to win back Daddy’s love. I’d done it before—I knew how. Winning back my father’s love meant getting an A-plus at something. Not an A, mind you. Mere As were for ordinary folk who didn’t have that extra special something it took to rise above the pack. My father made it clear to me: every A-plus earned crisp dollar bills, while straight As merited only pocket change. I applied desperate logic. It seemed to me that all my father really lived for was my outstanding progress in school. He never talked much about his work as a real estate developer; he had no hobbies that I knew of; and when he came home, my mother greeted him with warmed-over argument. But he’d sit for hours in his brown leather chair, listening to me talk about my latest achievement, his face intent and a proud-to-bursting smile lighting his eyes. Nothing my mother said could disturb him then. “Jack, the gas bill’s overdue.” “Jack, your meat loaf’s getting cold.” “Jack, did you hear me? I’m talking to you.” So I figured I must be the reason he kept coming home. Narcissistic? Perhaps. But there must have been some truth to it. No doubt he loved my mother and Zach, but he seemed to love those A-pluses best of all. I don’t know what they meant to him; I only knew the light in his eyes. But how to get the A-plus? I looked over at the blank sheet of construction paper lying on my desk—my latest homework assignment— and shuddered. How could I possibly ace it? Everything was wrong, all wrong. The paper wasn’t supposed to be white, it was supposed to be manila and marked across with thin blue lines so that I could print neatly between them. That was how it had always been; that was how it was supposed to be. I’d told my parents about my dilemma, calmly as I could, and they’d searched the local stationery stores for lined manila paper, with no luck. Finally, my mother wound up buying the offending blank white paper, and for a moment I considered blaming her for my predicament. But deep down I knew it wasn’t her fault—it was mine. I was the one who had claimed to be too sick to go to school for the seventh day running, so I wasn’t there to pick up the special paper that went along with the assignment. All my mother knew was what she had heard over the phone from Sister Mary Bernadette: write a story about yourself and draw a picture to illustrate it. But how could I tell a proper story without the little blue lines? My handwriting wasn’t anywhere near good enough yet; it would sprawl all over the page. The result would be . . . catastrophe. I’d get a C—maybe even a C-minus. No. Never. Death first. It never occurred to me that my thoughts might be a little extreme. I knew what I knew: I had to stay the head of my class. That was what held the fabric of my existence together: I had to be the best. The smartest, the most promising, the one to keep an eye on, the one to come home for. So there was really no other option left. If an A-plus was impossible, I’d simply have to die. A shiver of fear ran through my body. I knew what death looked like, from having come across my pet mouse Jitsy last year, lying stiff and motionless in her cage. Her little red eyes were closed. I poked her and tried to shake her awake. When she didn’t respond, I ran to find my father. “It’s not that kind of sleep,” he explained, gingerly picking her up by her tail and laying her in a shoe box. “Jitsy won’t be waking up.” I was only five then, and I didn’t …