Daytripping: Emotional Shopping with Manic Leanne

It was one of those mornings where my eyes snapped awake. When you’re taking enough Seroquel to tranquilize a horse, it’s a rare enough occurrence for you to take notice. At least it should be.

I rolled over and checked my messages: Lunch around 1?

The answer to lunch is always yes. Unless it involves kale, in which case I am violently ill (or about to be).

My roommate works at a social cause factory that consistently sets low target numbers for involving marginalized groups in public policy, and even more consistently misses them. They’re currently embarking on a vigorous mental health campaign that involves literally zero people with lived experience, which is only one less than the number of non-white workers in the company.

I don’t know that’s going on with me lately, but I’ve suddenly become a lot more demanding about representation, i.e. last night when I stormed into that “American Girl” doll museum and demanded to know where they were hiding the Asian dolls (then got really tearfully offended when they didn’t look like me at all).

I’m so tired of whispering about my illness while other people get care baskets for tonsillitis

I think it’s got something to do with SickNotWeak. Once you have a platform from which you can speak honestly, it’s hard to go back to the shell of a communication model you had in your past existence. I’m so tired of whispering about my illness while other people get care baskets for tonsillitis. Mental health is physical health, your brain is a part of your body, and for God’s sakes, can we stop shafting mental illness like Kylo Ren?

I met Lauren in this underground pathway in Toronto which is creatively called “The Path.” It’s a series of interconnected corridors beneath the city, separated only by Willy Wonka-sized doorways. I was still a little woozy on meds and may have whispered “alohamora” at one of them before Lauren found me and dragged me towards an open table.

“You sit, I’ll order,” she said, taking one look at my sagging mouth.

“Drugs,” I mumbled, then passed out on the table.

One thing you may not know about me is that the only sub I like is tuna, on regular bread, with lettuce and light mayo. Another thing you may not know about me is that when I’m manic, I convince myself that I like more toppings than I actually do, and wind up eating nothing at all. The only vegetable that never crosses this threshold is olives, because while I may not always have sanity, I still have a soul. Olives are the Kylo Ren of Subway.

And I was very, very, manic.

“Oh my god, they have chai tea latte kits,” I said, tugging at Lauren’s sleeve as she ordered a cup of coffee. “We love chai tea lattes. We could make them at home.”

“You don’t even make normal -”

“But this is chai tea,” I said. I turned to the barista. “How do you make this?”

“You take the mix and pour in hot milk.”

“How do you make hot milk,” I asked. The barista looked confused. “Do you microwave it, do you use a kettle? Is it on the stove?

“Yes,” she said slowly, “You use the stove.”

“What setting do you like to use?”

Lauren dragged me away. “How do you make hot milk? Really?”

I shrugged. “I think I listed several viable options.”

She sighed. “I’ve got to get back to work. Are you going to be okay getting home?”

I believe she was referring to that time I ran through the Eaton Centre like a fighter plane. That time was yesterday.

“Of course!” I beamed. “I’m even going to pick up a smoothie to make up for the lost nutrients from my abandoned sub.”

I waved cheerfully until she was out of sight, tipped the smoothie-maker $10 for no reason, and took off for the underground Winners.

I knew I had to be careful about what I bought. If there was one common pattern in my bipolar behaviour, it was my spending. When I was depressed, I wouldn’t even put a dollar towards pole dancing lessons. Manic Leanne, on the other hand, would buy a pole, snag ridiculous animal print 6-inch heels, and the first 100 private lessons upfront. This may or may not have been based off a bad Groupon experience.

If I was going to be mildly self-destructive, I was going to have to be constructive

I made a rule – the only things I could buy were new beginnings. If I was going to be mildly self-destructive, I was going to have to be constructive. That’s how I walked out 3 hours later – actually, if I’m going for complete honesty here, Lauren took an illegal second break to come drag me out of the store – with ten more things and $250 fewer dollars. It was a bittersweet reunion.

“How are you still here? Even if you spent an hour per floor, you-”

“Wait, there’s a second floor?” I said, eyes lighting up.

“YOU DIDN’T EVEN MAKE IT UPSTAIRS?”

Lauren walked me firmly to the exit and didn’t leave until I had crossed the street. I have not been invited back since.

A brief inventory for the audience: I started in the workout section, because the only thing missing from my plan to lose the 20 pounds I had gained on the afore-mentioned horse-tranquilizing Seroquel was the right pair of pants. Okay, two pairs – but you really can’t wear cropped in the winter, can you? I had also tried to buy Lauren pants by frantically snapchatting her pictures from the change room, which of course had instigated the whole forced removal thing. Add in a pair of sweatpants that didn’t really fit (but I loved the idea of them), owl pajama shorts (for a girl who only wears nightgowns), two kinds of thickening hair mousse (because the lithium’s been taking out my hair), two nail polishes (that were almost the same shade), more goddamn tea, and one manic disaster. That was me.

Earlier this month, I got into an altercation with Eggy, the Ryerson Ram mascot that doesn’t even speak. Last week, I woke up and decided that I didn’t love my boyfriend. Whatever warmth had been in my heart had disappeared overnight. I waited a few days to confirm the missing pulse, then broke up with him while sobbing hysterically into his shoulder. The next morning, he showed up at my house to make me breakfast. I also decided that I would be happier as a lesbian, and tried to hit on Lauren. It went about as well as you’d think it would.

I got home, put on my ill-fitting sweatpants and wondered how I could have prevented this – and by this, I meant me. Bipolar (at least in my case) isn’t something that is easily maintained. I am constantly making adjustments, and forcing the people around me to adjust as well. I was so tired of having to hand out emergency landing protocol to everyone I ever cared about, but it seemed to be the only way to keep my relationships intact.

I’ve always understood myself best when written across a page.

In Case of Emergency,

Please know that I love you, even if I can’t see you clearly right now. Remember what my favourite foods are because they may be the only thing I’ll eat (but don’t let me eat more than 3 bananas a day). If you must leave me, please leave behind something for me to remember you by. I like old sweaters and Pokemon cards, and I’m willing to trade. I may also rip you off completely. If I am floating too high, I won’t like anchors. It’s more time efficient for you to come along for the ride. If I have lost myself, it doesn’t matter where I belong, as long as I do. Keep records for the next time I disappear. It’s the only way I’ll know that I’ve gotten anywhere at all.

I signed my name at the bottom, and leaned back in my chair.

Time to make some hot milk.