Allison Strong
The Radioactive Patient
It’s bad enough standing in line at Starbucks, but you know you’re depressed when you go to the DMV and everyone seems to be smiling and laughing. This was my level of depression in the summer of 2018 and it had been a year since I felt right. (This was not the first time I’d had a long-term setback in the management of my bipolar disorder).
One day it occurred to me to go out and get some fresh air. I live in a 16-story condo in Florida. I’ve been here for twenty-two years but it’s still not unusual for me to ride the elevator with people I’ve never met before.
On this morning, I got in the elevator with an elderly lady who was holding a toddler’s hand. The child was buried in her guardian’s skirts.
“Where are you from?” I asked, completely unfiltered, because these days it borders on impolite to ask that. You know, tribalism, America first nationalism and all that.
The lady looked me in the eyes and said, “Persia.”
Oh, she’s Iranian, I thought, wondering if she missed her country of origin. I also wondered how long she’d been here, but suppressed my natural curiosity.
“Are you going up or down?” I asked.
“We are going to the beach. Nice day.” Then the lady smiled, a smile that reached her eyes. A small thing, for sure, but it made me feel a little bit better about the day.. What I didn’t know at the time was that my brain was beginning to bounce back from an eon of subpar serotonin levels. Part of this might have been a change in my antidepressant, but I believe every little thing helps when it comes to getting through a bipolar life.
Today I know there’s room for everyone in the elevator.
After all, everyone’s going somewhere.