Page 59 of Unscripted with Mila

He took in a deep breath. “Hollywood can handle drug abusers and alcoholics. The business is full of them. It’s almost accepted. Sex addicts are common. Fetishes run rampant. They are catered to. Hidden, usually, but still acceptable.” He was quiet for a moment, rubbing his thumb over my hand, staring down at our entwined fingers.

“What still isn’t acceptable, what is still hidden a lot, is mental illness.”

“Mental illness?” I repeated.

He looked up, shame on his face. “I’m mentally ill, Mila. I suffer from Bipolar II. The other studio I’m contracted to and MJ do everything they can to cover it up. It doesn’t go with the image they’ve created for me. The whole alpha hero sort of thing.” He swallowed. “It feels odd to say it out loud.”

“Because they make you hide it?”

“Yes. And I’m never comfortable with the subject, but I want you to know me. The real me.” He glanced down at our hands again. “It doesn’t feel wrong telling you.”

“It isn’t wrong. I think you’re incredibly brave to tell me.”

He laughed, the sound bitter. “The studio wouldn’t agree. Neither would MJ. They make me feel ashamed of it.”

“But you can’t help having a disorder,” I protested, my mind racing a hundred miles an hour.

“They don’t like it. They hide it. I’m not allowed to discuss it. It’s an ironclad rule in my contract. Just telling you could give the studio grounds to dismiss me.”

“They would rather the world think you’re an out-of-control addict?”

He nodded. “Like I said, it’s acceptable.” He shrugged. “I have three more films in the franchise I’m attached to at the other studio, and then I’m done. I’ll figure it out after.”

“Nicholas,” I said, aghast. “That is so wrong.”

“I know. I live with it every single day.”

“Do you have any help?”

“I have prescribed drugs I take. I don’t want to be this way. I don’t want to have meltdowns. Still, they happen. And when they do, the story comes out I’ve gone off the deep end again and am in rehab. The press eats it up.”

“You said Bipolar II. What is the difference?”

“I’m not manic. I have what are called hypomanic episodes.”

“Which are?”

“I get restless, irritable. My emotions run high and low, sometimes very quickly. I’m often so energetic and happy, you can’t tell I’m having an episode. Because I can’t shut down my thoughts, I talk more and I require little sleep. I get sort of wired—like too much caffeine.” He shrugged. “Because I get so involved in a character, I forget my meds. It sets off an episode, and things escalate. Sometimes I fall into a deep depression after.”

“So you go back on your meds, and things are okay again?”

He smiled ruefully. “Not quite that simple, but yes, I get straightened out. I lose myself for a while. It’s frightening, and it takes its toll. My life goes on. Such as it is. Sometimes it takes me longer to mend and find myself again. I recover from the episode. I’ll never recover from the disorder.”

“And they cover it up by saying you’re in rehab.”

“Yes.”

“Do you get counseling? See a doctor?”

“I had a therapist I saw regularly. He retired. I got someone else, and frankly, I don’t like her. She doesn’t like me either, I don’t think. We Zoom so I stay on track, but I want to find someone else. Someone I trust more.”

I leaned forward. “Then you need to find someone else. Someone you trust. You can’t do this alone, Nicholas. Mental illness is just that. An illness. Without treatment, it will fester, get worse. You have to look after you.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

“One of my friends has bipolar. She gets depressed a lot. Her parents watch over her carefully. Her partner does. She has so much support, and she still struggles at times. You’re trying to do this on your own. The people who should be protecting you, helping you, are covering it up. It’s so wrong. You need help, not to be hidden! Those bastards,” I seethed.

He blinked at my vehemence.