My Other Self

I watched as the little girl smiled over at me in the corner of the room, her long black hair hiding half of a round, cherubish face smudged with ink. The child's name was Dakota, she was only five years old, was mommy's little angel, and often looked up to her big brother. Dakota didn't understand why her seventeen year old brother was so screwed up inside, or the reason why he would be skipping rope with her at one moment and crying in his room the next. The Bipolar Disorder felt like a game almost; one that had no rules or restrictions, a game that let me gamble with my emotions, turning into someone who would do almost anything for anyone, a grinning, singing bundle of joy that could take on the world. But, like drugs, there was always a plummeting low. The disorder would suddenly and without warning strip me of my happiness, instead leaving me with a lonely, numb feeling that tingled all over my body. It would leave me sitting all by myself like a dog left alone on the sidewalk, shivering, frightened, so depressed I didn't know if I wanted to die or kill somebody. Dakota called my disorder the "beastly bug."1

"What are you drawing, sis?" I glanced over at her smudged little face and hands, still making pictures. At least that was ONE good thing she had gotten from me: my artistic skills. 2

"I'm making a house for you and me", Dakota said in a strange whisper. "It's really pretty, Harry. It's got pink windows, pink shingles, yellow doors, and even a mailbox we made together."3

"Oh, is pink my favorite color now?" I chuckled. "Is mommy not invited?"4

"No mommies allowed", Dakota hissed, putting down her felts and markers to give me the evil eye. "She doesn't like you. This is where we can escape from everyone...this is our happy house, Harry."5

It was hard to look at my sister when she said that. Mom had been acting weird to me ever since the disorder; not listening when I spoke, not caring if I turned my stereo up too loud or went out too late. In fact, she didn't seem to care too much about anything lately. Even Dakota was ignored now, and that just wasn't fair. 6

Stroking her smooth dark hair, I smiled down at the paper with the bright pink pastel house, the lemon yellow door wide open to reveal a skinny stick-figure of me holding Dakota's hand and waving, my face consisting of two googly eyes and a clownish red smile. It was so sweet. My little sister made a face when I kissed her cheek, then lifted up her small chin with my finger to make her look at me. 7

"You going to hang it up on the fridge?"8

"If mommy says I can." Her eyes, the same beautiful grayish-blue as mine, tried to focus on anything else in the room but me. 9

"She will, Dakota. Don't let her say you can't."10

"Okay."11

"You know I love you, right? I love you more than anything."12

"I love you too", she said. 13

With a firm nod I patted her head and left the room. 14


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There was no point in socializing with mom. She just sat by the window in her old overstuffed blue couch, lifeless as a doll with her painted face and red lips frozen in a tight, disapproving frown. My father had left when I was only six months old, but she had shoeboxes crammed full of his photographs, letters, and even poetry that was so beautifully written I wondered why he never bothered to publish it. In the photos my father was a strong-featured, handsome man with thick, wavy blonde hair and staring blue eyes - an almost identical replica of me minus my skin, which was a little paler than his naturally tan complexion. Even though mom never talked about my father (she hid the pictures); I still found myself wondering what he was like, if he wanted to visit his son, his distant wife who had become a distant, icy mother, the reserved and artistic daughter, and the son who grew up to be a crazy freak. My favorite picture was the one of mom and him when they were really young, like in their twenties or whatever. It was a perfect snapshot of dad, his blonde hair neatly combed back, one muscular arm wrapped around my mother's slender shoulders, her beautiful face smiling at his. She looked excited, youthful, probably gleeful because she didn't have a baby to take care of. I folded the dusty picture in half and slipped it into my jean pocket, hunting around her bedroom for any other old, hidden artifcats of my secret past. After forty minutes of snooping around I gave up, making my way downstairs to get my knapsack and coat for school. 16

"Harry? Is that you, kid?" Mom was still in her pink silk bathrobe and slippers, sitting all by herself on the same blue couch with a coffee mug in her hands, blonde hair done up in a sleek ponytail that flowed halfway down her back. 17

"It's me." I stood in front of her, doing up the zipper of the expensive black leather jacket that had belonged to my father when he was a teenager. Not surprisingly, the jacket fit me perfectly, smelling like dust particles, stale cologne and cigarettes. 18

"You look so handsome", mom said, a smile trembling on her lips. "Is your sister upstairs?"19

"She's drawing pictures. You should see the one she just drew, it's really good."20

"Getting kind of old for that, isn't she?"21

"She's only five years old..."22

"Take your pills, I don't want you going to school babbling like an idiot; Lord knows what will happen if you get one of those mania moods during class."23

"Yeah okay, bye!"24

Of course there were pills I needed to take for the disorder, but I always crunched them up until they were dust, sprinkling them on the short, well-groomed grass of our front lawn as I walked down the windy street littered with brightly colored leaves and the occasional beer cans.25

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I think the hardest thing about Bipolar Disorder is the Mania episode. All of a sudden I was swimming through the air, kissing rainbows, imagining myself dancing with a girl I liked, spinning her around and around until she got dizzy and collapsed lovingly in my open arms. Once I took my best friend, Shelly, to the mall during a manic episode and spent almost five hundred dollars on a new wardrobe because I said I just "loved her so much." Sometimes, if I was high enough, my sex drive would be spinning like a car tire, making me so turned on I was like a walking pinball machine. Shelly had kissed me at her house once, when her parents had gone out of town for business. I had kissed her back and, stupidly, made love to her on the fold-out bed. For a first time I had been clumsy and impatient; but once I had penetrated her she had her nails digging into me, groaning my name as I thrust back and forth, the both of us almost drowning in sweat. The sex had only made things more complicated between us, including my stupid mental illness and everything else. 27

Later that day in Art Class, the mania was slowly