Piper Daniels is the beautiful Seattle writer who often puts on a smile even when she’s feeling abnormally strange. She’s generous and kind even though she may be feeling manic. Often, she alludes to having very difficult days and even more difficult nights, which is why The Monarch wanted to ask her to share some of her experience, and write about a single day that reflects the trauma she finds herself going through. 

Jake Uitti: Can you explain one of your recent difficult days?

Piper Daniels: The difference between a good day and a bad day—I want to tell you all about it, but first I want to say that I’m afraid.  There are half-truths and lies I’ve stacked delicately between us so you’ll think I’m a nice girl, a normal girl you could have a laugh and a whiskey with.  And I am that girl, really I am.  It’s just that I am also this other, slightly scarier girl who sees, hears, and feels things that aren’t really there.

Thursday, June 19^th.  12:01 a.m.  I’m standing in front of the mirror trying to decide whether my hair has developed an unintentional and rather unfortunate hombre.  I’m thinking about two deadlines and two crucial meetings, all scheduled for Friday.  My roommates, usually awake well into the evening, have gone to bed, and for a while the house is silent except for the way it settles into itself.  I’m brushing my teeth when I hear the heavy footsteps of several men gathering at the front door.  I listen to their low, murmuring voices.  Smell of their Kools cigarettes comes wafting through an open window.  But for my heart, the world is very still.  Next thing I know, the front door is being kicked in.  I hear it splinter into pieces, which are kicked down the hall by the angry men rushing toward me.  I run to my bedroom, lock the door, and listen on the other side to the home invaders breathing and my toothbrush, which is vibrating against the bathroom floor.

The first thing I do is I look at my dog, Omar, who’s sleeping like a person—head on the pillow, tiny body tucked beneath the covers, little black lips quivering from inside some puppy dream.  Nights like these, he serves as a barometer of reality for me.  Omar is a rescue dog, anxious and hyper-alert, so chances are if he’s not barking, the men in the hallway are only in my head.

Perhaps this sounds nonchalant, but hallucinations have become nearly as routine as brushing my teeth.  I’m bipolar one, my lithium levels are off, and I haven’t slept in three days.  I’m lucid enough to know this is a hallucination.  I’ll have to visit my psychiatrist first thing in the morning, but there are seven hours between then and now.  I gather Omar into my arms and we hide in the closet behind a curtain of maxi dresses.  This isn’t real I repeat to myself—a simple but effective mantra that helps the hours pass.

At 7:30 a.m. I drive to my psychiatrist who gives me an injection of haldol, a powerful antipsychotic.  I lie in a darkened examination room, counting the minutes till I can drive myself home.  There are only three people (till now) who know about my hallucinations, and I text them a photo of drugged and drooping me.  Haldol doll, they text back teasingly.  Hal-doll face.  I get better at dealing with psychosis, they get better at cheering me up.

Back home, it’s late in the evening, and all I want is to sleep in front of the television, but I have exactly seven hours to meet both those deadlines.  It won’t be my best work, but I’ll do whatever it takes to keep writing for a living.  There was a time something like this would’ve ruined my week and made me believe that I, too, was ruined in some fundamental way.  This time, after deadlines were met and meetings were over, I cried because each time this happens, I’m a little less afraid.  I am learning how to do better with what I’ve got—this is the best any of us can do—and each day, my life becomes just a little more beautiful than I ever thought possible.  In fact, the only thing that could make me happier is if, after reading this, you would still have a whiskey with me.