I scratch my skin off when I feel like the devil.
It’s not a rational or conscious decision; it’s just my body’s autonomous response to depression and anxiety and a big heap of what looks like Bipolar Disorder. When I’m lucid and clear-thinking, I take good care of my skin. I use a grapefruit acne scrub twice a day. I’m one of those people. It’s all futile when I scratch.
Last night, I exploded with anger for the third night in a row, reaching new lows without any accompanying highs. I yelled at the person I love, grabbed my pillow and my fuzzy blue blanket and tried to sleep on the hardwood floor at the foot of the bed.
He’s been around long enough to know how this works. I’m pretty sure he has magic powers, like a fairy godmother at a ball, but slightly more muscular. His forte, unlike a fairy godmother, is his girlfriend’s mental disorders and delusions. I wonder how many new levels of worst I’ll reach before he gives up, but for now I’m smothered in his chest, unable to pick my skin off or move my clothes out of our apartment at 3 am, as I’m prone to try to do.
Something bizarre about having Bipolar Disorder is that if I had worse fashion and less money, I’d be no more than the Schizophrenic homeless people we shield our eyes from on the streets. Crazy looks different based on money and comfort and presentation.
Maybe crazy looks different based on care, as well. I worry that I’ll never be able to have kids because their mother would be completely unrecognizable at times, incapacitated by something that feels as though its dangling just beyond her control. I told my partner that being Bipolar is so much worse than simple depression, so many crazier connotations and horrible associations. I guess I can’t pretend to be a cuter, more convenient and unobtrusive shade of mentally ill—pretending would be unfair to myself, and to him, the one who remains stuck to two different people—manic depressive and hysteric—both dressed like someone he has made the mistake of loving. He doesn’t see it as a mistake, which is the weirdest part of it all, I think.
I'm a 20 year old aspiring political journalist who very rarely writes deeply personal pieces. Part-time student, full-time Thai food enthusiast.