the bipolar person

The bipolar person was lonely most of the time and alone when they weren’t. Lonely was a symptom of mania; alone belonged to depression. The bipolar person had not felt at ease while alone for many years; they needed music, drugs, or the distraction of friends. For 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 then to return home and expand in the silence of their moderately sized one-bedroom apartment to restore. The bipolar person didn’t live alone anymore. And lately, this restoration was so fraught with overthinking and condemnation that they wondered if they could still do it right. 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 murphy hammock and washer/dryer in the [flexion of two upright fingers to indicate the presence of scrutiny] kitchen, with their ex’s best friend. This person quickly became the bipolar person’s friend, muddying the situation further, as the breakup between the bipolar person and their ex soured. 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. The bipolar person agonized over remembering the meals made and eaten together: the curries, the soups, the sweet potatoes, the risotto, the rice and beans, the miso eggs, the pomegranates, the apples and peanut butter, the skillets, the mochi. Love was shared in the [f.f.] kitchen, and the bipolar person now 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 it out. Medications did not seem like an option for treatment 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 on the end of their bed, in hysterical fits of laughter and tears, and attempting to open their flesh with a knife or a razor or scissors or a stapler or anything they could get their hands on 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 as though tiny spiders had laid large nests of eggs all over their body, and 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 shadows 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. After being so exposed, they felt there was no way to redeem themself in their own eyes. The bipolar person knew well enough at this point that other people would forgive all sorts of behaviors, and even if they wouldn’t, the only thing that mattered was whether or not the bipolar person could forgive themself. The answer was almost always a resounding no, but ultimately death was not an option. So the small –– bordering on efficiency –– two-bedroom apartment complete with murphy hammock and washer/dryer in the [f.f.] kitchen shrank under the weight of self-hate, blame, and resentment.