Salty raindrops dripped from the end of Rachel’s nose as she walked. It was a little less than two and a half miles from Walter Kline High School to her house. Usually she enjoyed the long trek. It was the only time she had that was her own. No teachers constantly telling her to be quiet and no parents to either yell at her or ignore her completely. Today was different, though. She was definitely not enjoying her walk.
The rain fell hard on Rachel’s head but she knew trying to shield herself would be a waste of energy. Even the thick coat she swiped from the school’s lost and found was drenched. Her light colored jeans had become a completely darker shade of blue. Silently, she prayed that her homework wasn’t ruined as it sat in her soaked messenger bag.
Rachel suddenly stopped and her face twisted into a grimace as her shoe sank into a deep puddle. That’s when her anger was triggered. She could only think about her mother laying on the couch not caring that her daughter was walking home in a thunderstorm. It wasn’t the first time her mother had failed to even attempt acting like a decent, caring mother.
Lightning flashed and thunder cracked making her jump. With her head down, she told herself, just a little farther, almost there. Her pace quickened with every step until she reached almost a jog. Finally, she turned a corner onto her street. She ran as fast as she could without slipping on the rain-covered cement. As she reached the front porch, she stopped and stared at the doorknob.
Standing there in the cold was better than going through that front door. Rachel had never felt normal. She always thought there was just something different, something wrong. Depression ruled most of her life. She felt like an outcast everywhere she went. Even her family didn’t understand her. That lack of understanding led to frustration and harsh treatment.
Taking a deep breath Rachel turn the knob and walked into the house.
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The next morning she woke up already anxious to get out of the house. The night before had been a typical evening with one positive side. Her parents didn’t yell at her even once. They were too busy screaming at each other. After getting dressed in record time, Rachel grabbed a package of pop tarts and ran out the front door. She wasn’t in a hurry. School didn’t start until eight a. m. It was only six thirty. She spent the extra time relaxing on a bench in the school courtyard.
“Rachel!”
Rachel jerked awake. Her best friend, Gretchen, had sunk onto the bench beside her. Readjusting her ponytail, she sat up and groggily looked at her friend. Gretchen wore a sarcastic smirk, finding great entertainment in finding her friend passed out on a school bench. Rachel rolled her eyes at her.
“What time is it?”
“ ’Bout seven forty-five. I figured you wouldn’t want to still be sleeping on this bench when the rest of us left on the bus.” Gretchen’s smirk widened into a big toothy grin.
“Oh, right. Thanks.”
Thirty minutes later Rachel sat next to Gretchen waiting for the school bus to take them on their field trip. It took an hour and a half after they left to arrive at the art museum. The class piled off the bus and gathered in the entryway of the museum. Instead of a guided tour, their art teacher told the students to choose a partner and explore the galleries on their own. Their assignment was to choose three paintings and write about the style and techniques used to create them.
Rachel and Gretchen instantly paired up and headed down the hallway to their right. The hall opened up into a large, bright, and open gallery. They began to browse the paintings barely paying attention to them. Their conversation seemed more interesting to them than old paintings.
“So then, I told Steve to get lost. I mean, I’m not going to waste my time studying with a guy who has no interest in actually getting a better grade,” Gretchen complained.
“You’re so right. He must be interested in doing something other than studying,” Rachel winked at her.
“Um…EW!”
Rachel laughed,” Don’t be so-“
Gretchen turned to see why Rachel had suddenly stopped. She stood frozen in front of two Van Gogh paintings, The Starry Night and Starry Night Over the Rone. Her eyes were locked on The Starry Night. Stepping closer and without touching it, Rachel traced the swirls in the sky with her fingers.
“Do you see this?” Rachel asked not taking her eyes off the piece.
“Um…sure…it’s…um…pretty.” Gretchen looked at her with a confused expression.
Rachel finally pulled her eyes away long enough to give Gretchen an intense look. “You don’t understand. I know how he was feeling when he painted this.” She turned again to examine the painting. “These swirls are the chaos of his thoughts. He painted the wind like that to show his feeling that he was moving through existence too quickly. This tree is like there is something inside of him that is a large and ugly part of him that only shows when he feels chaotic. The whole painting is his expression of the chaos within him.”
Gretchen’s eyes grew wide as she listened to her friend describe the painting. “How do you know that? I mean, how would you know if that’s what he was really feeling? That’s just your interpretation of it.”
Rachel turned back to face her again. “I don’t know how I know, but I know that’s what he felt like.” Then she looked to the right and saw Starry Night Over the Rone. With a nod of her head she motion toward the painting. “That one he painted when he felt calm, almost serene. Look how peaceful the water is. It has people in it, too. He didn’t feel as alone.”
Gretchen’s expression was even more confused. ”When did you get all insightful?”
“Honestly I don’t know.” Rachel smiled and shrugged. As they walked away she stole one last glimpse of the paintings before they turned down a different hallway.
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Later that night Rachel sat on the edge of her bed, head in her hands. Her mind raced in search of some meaning behind why she felt such a strong connection to the two paintings. Something about them touched her. She saw herself in the chaotic swirls. Did this painter, Van Gogh, feel the same as she felt? Life was a constant up and down, chaos and calm. She shook her head as she stood and walked to the computer on her rickety old desk.
After a long moment sitting in the chair, Rachel pulled up the search engine and entered the name “Van Gogh.” She didn’t have to search very hard for what she was looking for. The second website link was “Van Gogh: His Life and Times.” The page it sent her to was only a few paragraphs long.
The page described his struggle with mania and depression. Mania? Something deep inside stirred. Her fear of being “crazy” had followed her for as far back as she could remember. The feeling that she was different. That her mind didn’t work the same way as everyone else’s. Rachel forced herself to keep reading.
She read halfway through the last paragraph and it felt as if her heart froze. In 1890 Van Gogh was found dead. He had shot himself “for the good of all.” How many times had she thought everyone would just be better of if she was dead? Tears slid down her cheeks. Right then she knew without a doubt, whatever was wrong with Vincent Van Gogh so many years ago was wrong with her too.
The next words she typed into the search box were “mania and depression”. Almost every resulting link had the words “Manic Depression” or “Bipolar” in the title. Without opening any of the links she typed in “Van Gogh” and “bipolar.” Site after site discussing Van Gogh’s Bipolar Disorder filled her computer screen. Her breathing came faster and her hands started to shake.
This time she simply typed in “bipolar.” For hours she read about the disorder, about herself. Slowly a calm she wouldn’t have expected filled her. She was relieved. Now she knew. She finally knew what was wrong with her and there was something she could do about it.
The next day she made an appointment with a psychiatrist. He was a kind man probably in his sixties. After listening to Rachel describe herself, they way she felt, and how she thought, the doctor nodded his head and agreed with her self-diagnoses. She took a deep breath as he handed her the small slips of paper with different medications written on them.
She didn’t leave the clinic right away. She sat quietly in her car for what seemed like a very long time. With one more deep breath she cranked the engine and pulled out of the lot. As she drove to the pharmacy she told herself that everything was going to be better now. And it was. Vincent Van Gogh quite possibly had saved her life.
