the bipolar person

the bipolar person was lonely most of the time and alone when they weren’t. "lonely" was a symptom of mania; surrounded by friends, but connecting with none. "alone" belonged to depression. isolating and ignoring others' efforts to reach out. alone was once the preferred way of being for the bipolar person, but the bipolar person had not felt at ease while alone for many years; they needed music, drugs, or the distraction of friends. for many years they had not felt the security that comes from having spent a necessary day of engagement with the world and its people, looking them in the eye many times, laughing and reacting, noticing things of light and color and volume, and thoroughly exhausting themself in full health as a social animal only then to return home and expand in the silence of their moderately sized one-bedroom apartment to restore. firstly, the bipolar person didn’t live alone anymore, so lately, this restoration was so fraught with overthinking that they wondered if they could still do it right. secondly, the moderately sized one-bedroom apartment had become a small—bordering on efficiency—two-bedroom. the bipolar person shared this small—bordering on efficiency—two-bedroom, complete with a homemade murphy hammock and washer/dryer in the [flexion of two upright fingers] kitchen, with their ex’s best friend. this roommate had quickly become the bipolar person’s friend, muddying the situation further as the breakup between the bipolar person and their ex soured. rituals and routines lost their profundity. they became obligatory and sad. for example, the [finger flexion] kitchen had been a sacred place for the three of them—the bipolar person, the ex, and the roommate who happened to be the ex’s best friend. they made the most incredible things in that [f.f.] kitchen. now the bipolar person agonized over remembering the meals made and eaten together: the curries, the soups, the risotto, the miso eggs, the apples and peanut butter, the skillets, the mochi. love was shared in the [f.f.] kitchen. now the bipolar person struggled to fry an egg, let alone prepare a complete meal for themself. there was little to be done for the wave of depression settling over the bipolar person except to wait out the lease. medications weren't used due to the adverse effects of selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs) on their mood. without fail, SSRIs sent the bipolar person into fits of mania that usually ended with them balled into the fetal position at the end of their bed, in hysterical fits of laughter and tears, and attempting to open their flesh with a knife or scissors or a stapler or anything, as if the skin itself were diseased and requiring removal. these breaks would come at the end of an extended episode where the bipolar person felt a great static rippling through their body, as though tiny spiders had laid eggs in their skin while they slept, and now those eggs were beginning to hatch. at times, the sensation was so intense the bipolar person swore they could see as deep as the dermis move; this movement extended from their flesh into the darkened corners of their room so ambient light and shadow would climb and dance, taunting an inner child still terrified of the dark. this inner child bared itself to the ex and roommate on more than one occasion, and the bipolar person considered death to end the shame. but ultimately, death was not an option. so the small—bordering on efficiency—two-bedroom apartment, complete with homemade murphy hammock and washer/dryer in the [f.f.] kitchen, shrank even more under the weight of self-hate, blame, and resentment.