Everything Here Is Beautiful by Mira T. Lee

Author:Mira T. Lee
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2018-01-16T05:00:00+00:00

The only p-doc I ever liked was my first, Dr. Hassan, a young Iranian woman with a British accent. “Stress,” she said. “Stress and drugs are the riskiest triggers. You should learn to watch for the signs.” Signs? “Prodromal symptoms. The ones that forecast a break.”

She focused on wellness: daily routines, proper nutrition, exercise, sleep and self-care. I never got to bed early, but I ate mostly organic, took brisk walks, practiced yoga and tai-chi. And then I met Yonah and fell in love.

His essence? Something big. Bulletproof, with the presence of a rhinoceros, yet still unassuming, slightly comical, like a duck.

“Hey you,” he said, that first time we met. “I am owner of this store. I give you present, you stop eating from my bulk food aisle.” He handed me a small, hexagonal-shaped box tied clumsily with red ribbon. It was filled with macadamias.

“For one week I see you sampling my nuts. You are embarrassed now?” he said, but he said it laughing, because Yoni, only his heart is bigger than his mouth. We played chess, drank wine. I barely even noticed his injured arm; the rest of him was too alive.

Shortly after we met, my mother died. That day at her funeral, he stood beside me, I knew he was my angel. “Why are you crying?” I said, watching him wipe his eyes. “Why you are not crying?” he said. “Your mother is dead. You are daughter with no mother. I love you. Of course I cry.”

We got married. Divinely blessed, my thoughts popped like firecrackers, my heart swelled with happiness, my body exuded a magnetic energy. I was an aura of love, a goddess in heat, and people sought out my company to tell me their stories, even virtual strangers: Mrs. Sato, the quiet divorcée (who carried a gun as well as a Pomeranian in her handbag), preferred Indian men and anal sex; Juan Carlos, the Colombian guitarist who rehearsed in the basement, had lymphoma, but refused to let his bandmates know; Mr. Takahara, the multimillionaire developer, invited me to his private island in the Bahamas (an impulse purchase he’d made the previous winter) to ghostwrite his autobiography. I was the hub of the neighborhood.

“Hypomania,” said Dr. Hassan, “is characterized by a pervasive elevated state, euphoria, increased creativity and productivity.” Well, what person in their right mind would want to switch that off? I had every intention of staying that way forever.

I didn’t catch it in time.

The glossy sheen faded. One night I became convinced Yonah was broadcasting my life to Israel via the security monitors in our bedroom. I felt devastated, betrayed, and the world’s troubles draped over me like a heavy tarp. Mr. Takahara was falling into bankruptcy. Juan Carlos needed me to cleanse his body’s qi. Mrs. Sato beckoned to me with each tilt of her chin—I was a geisha girl, to join in her multicultural orgies. I retreated. Suspicious, irritable, overwhelmed.

“What’s wrong?” asked Yonah.

I couldn’t say. The words had fallen out again. And in a rush, the voices came.

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