Love Machine
guest post by Lisa Marie Zapata
Guest Post by Lisa Marie Zapata. She is is a writer based out of NJ. She tweets @LMZzz and has a recently relaunched newsletter Flora, Fauna, Fire. Follow her on twitter.
If you’d like to submit your own writing for a future Guest Post, please see the post here.
It was love at first sight but my lover had become possessed by a demon. That demon manifested itself as jealousy and I’d see it flicker within my lover’s pupils during arguments. The demon laughed at my anguish while I quietly despaired.
I like to start my mornings with black, bitter coffee and contemplate life. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—I am obsessed with having the best beans but I brew them in the cheapest and most rustic way possible—by boiling a large pot of water, adding the grounds and straining the strong liquid through a muslin cloth.
When I realized I was in love, I knew I had to consult Flora, my dead grandmother at sunrise. When I brought her the news on her birthday along with a nice cup of sugary coffee, she met me with silence. There was an air of disapproval in the atmosphere but I was undeterred. Flora warned me that I was on the wrong path yet I ignored all the red flags.
The day I accepted my infatuation, I just knew I had to clean and get rid of any and all attachments to my life before my love. I collected all the gifts I’d received over the years from lovers past and the items left behind or taken in haste. Hoodies, t-shirts, trinkets —all into trash bags they went and immediately delivered to the curb. I watched as my neighbors rummaged through my personal belongings, angry that they had disturbed the garbage. It was time for it to decompose and not be repurposed.
The letters and journal needed a more terminal process. Those needed to be burned. I gathered all the papers and put them inside the largest caldero I owned. I lit one page on fire and watched the words darken then disappear. Before it was totally turned into ash, I flicked the burning paper into the caldero and watched the flames rise then lower until all the contents had been turned into a gray, fine powder. I poured a cup of water to stop the smoldering and covered it until the smoke dissipated.
I opened all the windows and noticed that memories clung to the curtains and furniture. I pulled all the linens down but had to call for reinforcements when it was time to take down the couch. My friend came over hastily when I said I needed her help. She did not expect to have to roll up her sleeves and drag a sofa bed down a couple flights of stairs. We did it quickly and she did not protest. When we returned to my apartment, I swept and mopped the empty space.
I compensated my friend with a shot of Havana Club and a lunch date. It was all a ploy to introduce her to my love and finally exorcize that demon out of him. But demons like to play. I ate too little, drank too much, and quit my job in a rage that afternoon. I played the game and lost to a demon that snickered behind my lover’s embrace.
Whenever people ask me about Bipolar Disorder, I am frank, direct, and spare no details. I am this way for two reasons: one, I believe in the destigmatization and demystification of mental health struggles and two, I like to see them squirm. The truth, whether it be about mental health or politics or whatever, makes people deeply uncomfortable. But there’s nothing comfortable about being disabled and at the mercy of the whims of an uncontrollable mind. It’s a disservice to sugarcoat that ephemeral break from reality that ebbs and flows for months until you reach the point of no return.
I used to intellectualize my delusions and hallucinations when discussing my episodes in an effort to distance myself from how I was then to how I am in the present. In other words, I wanted to make clear that I was stable. I no longer do that. If your curiosity was piqued enough to ask, then your nosiness can handle my battle of wits with a demon.
All the wackiness is inextricable from who I am and what I experienced. Whenever my ex-lover’s jealousy bubbled over, I saw the demon in his eyes and directly challenged it. Why try to make it seem that that isn’t exactly how I felt and what I saw? I know it isn’t logical or reasonable. But there was no doubt that the demon had me reacting out of character and my grandmother had to intercede on my behalf. Wouldn’t you, in my shoes, defend your love against all odds?
I recently commiserated with a fellow Bipolar over the dangers of love on twitter:
The emotion that makes ordinary people feel invincible can be deadly for those that feel invincible fairly regularly. We are radical in love. Whether it be unrequited or reciprocated, the risks of falling deeply can be disastrous. Just imagine a demon being in the mix. I was raised attending the charismatic church of the Pentecostal. I was born ready for spiritual warfare especially if it meant love was on the line.
When the meet cute with my former lover happened, I was knee deep in research for a novel that would become my Pulitzer Prize winning magnum opus—a multigenerational family epic of immigration and assimilation. I was learning about Palo Montún, an ATR (African Traditional Religion) that was outlawed in the Dominican Republic for much of the island nation’s history. As I acquired an understanding of a practice not only alien from my upbringing but also, expressly forbidden, its rituals and rhythms slowly crept into my daily habits.
My grandmother was secretly a Palera. Her death led to a desire to honor her beliefs in a way I knew would be met with disapproval. So I hid my writing and I would disappear into the library. Nobody could know what I was doing. Nobody could know that I was communing with the spirits to complete my work and praying to God that I would not be found out. Also, nobody could know that I was not sleeping in order to get this done.
The holiday season always makes me recall when I fell in love with that superstitious philosopher that called me a witch while he was possessed by a demon. It also marks what I affectionately call my craziversary—the time when I realized I was unwell and years later, the time I had to be hospitalized for returning to that unwell state of mind. It used to make me nervous to reflect on those memories. I didn’t know if it would trigger a spiral.
I no longer fear discussing what ails me. I am properly medicated and under care. That care does not preclude me from the possibility of having another episode but talking about it does bring an awareness of what markers exhibit a regression in my mental state. That awareness is invaluable for early intervention.
The beauty of Bipolar Disorder is its changeability. Not only is it different among the people that have it, it’s different every individual time. But there are patterns. The more visibility these patterns have, the better for everyone involved. Here I laid out some of my patterns—excessive cleanliness, insomnia, religiosity. It may not be the same for someone in your life but the intensity of the pattern will be consistent.
It’s tough out here in these mean streets. Let’s be good to one another. Happy New Year everyone, this was a public service announcement.