"When she visits" By Allison Goldfire
When She Visits
An ode to Bipolar disorder.
Your friend is coming. She expects you to be alert for her arrival. You're pacing the house, laying awake in the bed. You stare at the ceiling.
Your patience is thin. You've had too much coffee. Been really busting ass at work this week. You're so on edge but your partner doesn't notice you shaking your leg. He's dead asleep. You provided him with a large, delicious meal and relented to his sexual persistance.
Finally, by morning, she's arrived. You haven't seen her for so long that you decide to go shopping. It's a grand occasion.
"You need this palette," she says. "You're a makeup artist anyway-it's for work".
"This top is essential to your existence."
"These shoe are so unique! You've walked catwalks in bigger heels!"
Finally your credit card declines.
All three of them.
"Okay, I guess we're done here now," you tell her.
You head home and swallow your pills with a tall glass of Moscato.
It silences the bitterness of your medication as it dissolves.
1-2-3 different pills down the hatch.
You wait until you feel woozy to take your anti-anxiety medication.
It's a controlled substance so you take two. You want to-need to-sleep tonight. You have work tomorrow and minimally 16 voicemails to listen to of women ranting and raving about their hair, facials, nails.
You need a facial. Your hair color is boring to you and you want to challenge your talent.
You sharpen the angle on your bob and wave your magic wand.
PRESTO! Neon pink! It suits you better anyway.
You quickly dispose of your boxes and shopping bags so your partnet doesn't see.
It doesn't matter.
You always pay your bills on time. You paid off yoga teacher training last year without asking anyone for a cent! You don't do anything for yourself so you deserve to treat yourself to things.
Life is short.
The next morning your alarm blares into your face. It's too loud. The snooze button is pressed-you're exhausted.
You swallow your thyroid medication. You put on your new top and shoes.
He doesn't notice.
Open up a new palette of the four you purchased yesterday, but you're uninspired to do anything "insta-worthy".
The commute is long. Triple espresso it is.
Anything to shake this shroud of fatigue off your shoulders.
The women on the voicemail talk too fast or too slow for you. It's hard to keep up with their needs.
Time slithers slowly through the day. Much like the speed on a slug escaping the sodden earth.
"I can't cook tonight", you tell your partner when he finds you practically unconcious on the couch.
He's tired of you-you know it. You're exhausting. You swallow your pills: 1-2-3 with water tonight.
You crawl into bed by 8:30pm, leaving your partner to watch tv or grade papers alone.
You take only one Ativan tonight and pray it's enough to keep you from submissing to your partner's needs. You blame it on your endometriosis. Your inflamed intestines. It's all flaring up today. You're in pain.
Your friend's absence bears weight on you. You don't know when she'll be back.
Your friend's name is MANIA.
She always knows how to have a great time.