Lipgloss and Lamictal: A Bipolar Blog

“Ugh,” Nate said, slumping back in his chair. “There is nothing worse than melodrama tinged by improbability. You can’t believe how badly this sucks.”
Nate was writing. He was always trying to write. I stirred my paintbrush in the murky water and watched a yellow and brown flower bloom. He pointed at my picture.
“What’s that supposed to be?”
“A portrait,” I said. “We had to pick one person in class to paint. I can’t get the shape of his head right. His looks like a pear sort of, but rounder. It’s strangely attractive.”
Nate caught my eye and searched my face, like he was wearing one of those head lamps and crawling through a tunnel.   I focused on squirting paint onto the palette.

“I love you,” Nate said, gently. I nodded.
I painted a large red x through the painting, frustrated. 

 It was a Saturday night in April when I first met Nate. The library had become home throughout most of the spring semester. It beat lying in bed navigating through yet another anxiety attack.  The library proctor was always the same woman — fair skin, a more pronounced mustache than you might expect on a woman, and a box of Junior Mints in her hand. She’d count and recount the mints all night, stopping only to scratch at her massive wig, which was usually mounted backwards. Oddly enough, she was the reason I met Nate. It’s not often a complete stranger throws himself into the open chair across from you, lays his head on his ink-stained backpack, and kicks you under the table.
“Can I help you?” I said, staring at him, his garish clothes, and the equations written all over his hands. “Do you mind?”
The intrusion was the last thing I wanted; I had mentally sketched a box around myself before I left the house, willing my mind to make it real. I had been practicing this visualization with my therapist for weeks; she wanted me to leave the house more often, and offered the box concept to help me feel safe. Its efficacy was still open for debate. Obviously, this guy hadn’t noticed it. He sent his backpack sailing down the table, sat up and looked at me.
“It’s Sasquatch,” he said, raising his eyebrows up and down, grinning, and tipping his head towards the proctor. She was unaware, scratching her wig and chewing on a mint. I’d reached a new low. I was being hit on by a stranger wearing a purple satin vest and plagued by a facial twitch.
I started to pack my art history book into my bag. The book wouldn’t fit and his eyebrows were flying up and down like drunken birds, so I hastily grabbed the book and stood to leave. An open box of 48 tampons fell out of my bag.
“Aha!” he said. “I knew there was a reason I couldn’t make you laugh.”   

I had become so reckless in my life, so confused and self-destructive that I went to bed with him that night. Or tried to. The entire arrangement felt awkward. He ended up naked and pale on the floor twice, his limbs splayed like a starfish. His body glowed blue and red from the Burger King sign in the parking lot. My apartment looked right over the drive through. I was so used to hearing “Would you like to Biggie size that?” that I didn’t mind the constant flow of customers. In fact, the rhythm of the transactions soothed me: car pulls in, idles at the menu, voice comes on, order is given, car pulls forth, cash register opens and closes, bags are given, thank you is said (usually), and car drives on. If it’s kids, the wheels screech onto Rindge Drive and disappear with a few screams of intended rebellion.  Now, they annoy me.

Otherwise, I’d just usually hear the distant siren of a police car or the echo of a subway train. Noise didn’t bother me; it kept me feeling a part of things — not just an awkward, fringe-member of society but a legitimate, card-carrying member of the human race. But, Nate was hardly lulled by noise. Each time the speaker crackled, he’d startle and roll off the bed. “Don’t you get hungry smelling grease and salt all night?” he asked. “Man, my munchies would be driving me wild.”
On top of everything he’s a druggie, I thought. Great. 
“High metabolism,” he said, standing up, patting his completely hairless chest. “Get a load of this physique!” He flexed by the window, grinning, glowing under a salty halo.  

 The second time we tried was more successful. And the third, and every time after that. That summer we took an impromptu road trip to get away from Boston and stood on the lip of the Grand Canyon, scanning its vast theater. I felt in awe of the beauty in a way I didn’t expect.  Nate’s long arms slipped around my waist, and his hands moved up for a quick grope. No way was he about to feel me up next to the bus load of blue haired ladies assembling under the Visitor’s sign.  
“It’s a never-ending orifice,” he whispered into my ear. “It’s turning me on a little.”
“Stop it,” I said, laughing, swatting his hands away. 

The smell of the drive through was too much for him to handle; so, at the end of the semester I moved into his place. His roommate packed to go home on the same day I moved in, and he needed someone to pick up half the rent. I figured I’d give it a whirl — the worst that could happen to me was institutionalization, which could happen with or without Nate. His plan was to spend the entire summer developing as some sort of artist. I saw the next three months as the last step on the line before I gave into medication. My sister was on Lithium and Klonopin. My mother on Paxil and Xanax. Dad took Buspar, and the rest of the extended family all ran similar residential pharmacies. I had spent years seeking shelter from the family psychiatric storm. My anxiety, however, was becoming relentless; everywhere I went I was feeling exposed and jumpy. I was always watching over my shoulder and worrying about bumping into strangers, though I never did. I was convinced that at any time I’d become the new mugging statistic - or worse.  At night, I explored bright red, bloody landscapes with murderers and woke covered in sweat. I always felt like I was running from something or someone, but to others, my pursuer was invisible.  I confided some of it to Nate, but not the full scope of my particular brand of crazy. Sometimes he’d just laugh, and accuse me of reading too much Sylvia Plath or Anne Sexton. It was getting harder though, to always say I was OK when he asked. Something was going to have to give; he either had to know the truth or I had to walk away. I couldn’t be an actress on top of crazy, though most of Hollywood does it quite well.

In June, Nate told me he was going to write a book.
“What about?” I asked, doubtful.
“Us,” he said. ”It’s the perfect college love story, right?”
I said nothing.

Three days later, I woke at 5:00 AM. His back was to me. The room was just blooming with blue light. I couldn’t help but notice Nate’s ears, the way they were pointed, Spocklike. I never kissed him early because his breath in the morning was a mixture of coffee and tuna with a tinge of cat. Everything was tinged with cat; he had three, all named after various bathroom functions — Wee Wee, Poop and BB (for Big Bum). The apartment was a mess; his roomate left behind a tub filled with grime and a burned-out bong.  I got up to paint and unscrewed five tubes of oils. My easel was in the kitchen, underneath the Elvis clock with swinging legs. I tried to paint, but ended up weeping, wiping my end of dripping nose with the tip of my paintbrush. I noticed the eggplant vest slung over the chair and wonder how I ended up with a guy who wears a pirate vest and lives in an apartment smelling of cat pee.  Heck, it’s a miracle that I was even with a guy at all in the state I was in. I stood by the window, opened it, wondering how to throw SOS signals. Did I need help? It wasn’t supposed to be like this, I thought. I’d always been the strong one in the long line of family damage. But the symptoms were picking up speed like when you pedal a bike to the crescent of a hill, and then you experience the bliss of the freefall down the other side. Except there was no bliss here. Only fear of speeding up again.
Suddenly, Nate was beside me, his bedhead taking the shape of a tidal wave. His arms were warm and pulled me in. “Did you know the tip of your nose is purple?” he chided, kissing the top of my head.  He wiped a lone tear off my face with his thumb. Everything felt backwards. Hadn’t I been making progress, letting some of my walls down? I had even stopped utilizing the therapy-box technique with Nate. Wasn’t trust and vulnerability supposed to feel like progress? I felt cross-eyed and defeated.
“Are you having a thing with the pear head guy?” he asked.
“Ha, ha… funny,” I said. “I’m really struggling Nate. I can barely sit in class anymore. I’m terrified I’m losing it.”“
Shhh,” he said, after a brief pause. “It’s OK. We’ll get your meds right, whatever we have to do we will do. I’m not going anywhere…”

The sun struck the satin on Nate’s vest and threw a purple patch onto the wall. I hated that damn vest, but Nate, I was learning I could get used to. He gently kissed my hair, then my ear. ” So, you’re a nut job like the rest of your family, I’m OK with that. I’m not exactly normal, you know?”
I smiled at him, half listening, but I was thinking about what I wanted to paint next. In my mind, a white canvas opened up, unfurling like a giant flag. In the painting there would be a sky swelling with rain, a couple in love, red and yellow tiki lights, and perhaps a drive through somewhere. Things suddenly seemed more vivid. I was starving.
“I’m hungry,” I smiled, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “How ’bout an early morning run to BK?”
Nate danced me around the kitchen table and bent me into a sweeping gesture he’d caught on Dancing With the Stars or some horrible reality dance show.

“Sure,” he grinned, gently leading me back to bed. ”So…would you like to Biggie size that?”