Journalism was thrilling; I had always loved living a reality that was more fabulist than fiction, though little did I know that my life was about to become so bizarre as to be worthy of coverage in my own beloved tabloid.
Even though the memory made me smile, I added this clip to the growing trash pile—“where it belongs,” I scoffed, despite the fact that those crazy stories had meant the world to me. Though it felt necessary at the moment, this callous throwing away of years’ worth of work was completely out of character for me. I was a nostalgic pack rat, who held on to poems that I had written in fourth grade and twenty-some-odd diaries that dated back to junior high. Though there didn’t seem to be much of a connection among my bedbug scare, my forgetfulness at work, and my sudden instinct to purge my files, what I didn’t know then is that bug obsession can be a sign of psychosis. It’s a little-known problem, since those suffering from parasitosis, or Ekbom syndrome, as it’s called, are most likely to consult exterminators or dermatologists for their imaginary infestations instead of mental health professionals, and as a result they frequently go undiagnosed.1 My problem, it turns out, was far vaster than an itchy forearm and a forgotten meeting.
After hours of packing everything away to ensure a bedbug-free zone, I still didn’t feel any better. As I knelt by the black garbage bags, I was hit with a terrible ache in the pit of my stomach—that kind of free-floating dread that accompanies heartbreak or death. When I got to my feet, a sharp pain lanced my mind, like a white-hot flash of a migraine, though I had never suffered from one before. As I stumbled to the bathroom, my legs and body just wouldn’t react, and I felt as if I were slogging through quicksand. I must be getting the flu, I thought.
This might not have been the flu, though, the same way there may have been no bedbugs. But there likely was a pathogen of some sort that had invaded my body, a little germ that set everything in motion. Maybe it came from that businessman who had sneezed on me in the subway a few days before, releasing millions of virus particles onto the rest of us in that subway car? Or maybe it was in something I ate or something that slipped inside me through a tiny wound on my skin, maybe through one of those mysterious bug bites?
There my mind goes again.2
The doctors don’t actually know how it began for me. What’s clear is that if that man had sneezed on you, you’d most likely just get a cold. For me, it flipped my universe upside down and very nearly sent me to an asylum for life.
CHAPTER 2
THE GIRL IN THE BLACK LACE BRA
A few days later, the migraine, the pitch meeting, and the bedbugs all seemed like a distant memory as I awoke, relaxed and content, in my boyfriend’s bed. The night before, I had taken Stephen to meet my father and stepmother, Giselle, for the first time, in their magnificent Brooklyn Heights brownstone. It was a big step in our four-month-old relationship. Stephen had met my mom already—my parents had divorced when I was sixteen, and I had always been closer to her, so we saw her more often—but my dad can be intimidating, I know, and he and I had never had a very open relationship. (Though they’d been married for more than a year, Dad and Giselle had only recently told my brother and me about their marriage.) But it had been a warm and pleasant dinner with wine and good food. Stephen and I had left believing that the evening was a success.
Although my dad would later confess that during that first meeting, he had thought of Stephen as more of a placeholder than a long-term boyfriend, I didn’t agree at all. We’d only recently begun dating, but Stephen and I had first met six years earlier, when I was eighteen and we worked together at the same record store in Summit, New Jersey. Back then, we passed the workdays with polite banter, but the relationship never went any deeper, mainly because he is seven years my senior (an unthinkable gap for a teenager). Then one night the previous fall, we had run into each other at a mutual friend’s party at a bar in the East Village. Clinking our bottles of Sierra Nevada, we bonded over our shared dislike for shorts and our passion for Dylan’s Nashville Skyline. Stephen was alluring in that languid, stay-out-all-night kind of way: a musician with long, unkempt hair, a skinny smoker’s frame, and an encyclopedic knowledge of music. But his eyes, trusting and honest, have always been his most attractive trait. Those eyes, with nothing to hide, made me feel as if I had dated him forever.
That morning, stretched out in his bed in his enormous (by comparison) studio apartment in Jersey City, I realized I had the place to myself. Stephen had already left for band practice and would be gone for the rest of the day, leaving me free to either spend the day there or let myself out. We had exchanged keys about a month earlier. It was the first time I had taken such a step with a boyfriend, but I had no doubt it was right. We felt deeply comfortable together, generally happy, safe, and trusting. As I lay there, however, I was suddenly, unexpectedly, hit with one overpowering thought: Read his e-mails.
This irrational jealousy was wholly unlike me; I had never even been tempted to intellectually trespass like this. But without really considering what I was doing, I opened up his MacBook and began to scroll down his inbox. I sorted through months of mundane e-mails until I triumphantly unearthed a recent one from his ex-girlfriend. The subject line was “Do You Like It?” I clicked, my heart pounding furiously in my chest. She had sent him a picture of herself, posing seductively with her lips pursed, showing off a new auburn hairstyle. It didn’t look as if Stephen had ever responded. Still, I fought the urge to punch the computer or throw it across the room. Instead of stopping there, though, I indulged my fury and continued digging until I’d dredged up the correspondence that chronicled their yearlong relationship. Most of these e-mails ended with three words: “I love you.” Stephen and I hadn’t yet said that to each other. I slammed down the laptop screen, enraged, though I couldn’t say exactly why. I knew he hadn’t talked to her since we started dating, and he had done nothing inappropriate. But now I felt compelled to go look elsewhere for signs of betrayal.
I tiptoed over to his yellow IKEA dresser—and froze. What if he has cameras going? Nah. Who secretly videotapes their home while they’re away besides overzealous parents spying on new nannies? But the thought persisted: What if he’s watching me? What if this is a test? Although I was frightened by this foreign paranoia, it didn’t stop me from pulling open the drawers and rifling through his clothes, flinging them on the floor, until I found the jackpot: a cardboard box decorated with band stickers and filled with hundreds of letters and pictures, most of them from exes. There was one long framed photo-booth series with his most recent ex-girlfriend: they pouted, looked longingly at each other, laughed, and then kissed. I could see it happening right in front of me, unfolding like a child’s flipbook: I was witnessing them falling in love. Next there was a picture of the same girl in a see-through lace bra with her hands on her bony hips. Her hair was bleached blond, but it looked attractive, not whorish. Below that were the letters, a fistful of handwritten notes that went as far back as Stephen’s teens. At the top, the same girlfriend gushed about how much she missed him while she was staying in France. She misused the word their and spelled definitely as defiantely, which thrilled me so much that I laughed out loud, a kind of cackle.