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advantageous, but (obviously) on a much smaller scale. Like Kanye,
I’ve mined it for content. The various misfunctionings of my brain
are for sale. Two thousand bucks for 1,000 cringey and funny and
warm and relatable words about something my anxiety made me
do? Sure. I’ll have a draft in tomorrow. People have called me brave
for sharing what I share, the way I share it. But I’m just a realist. And
by realist, I mean capitalist. I don’t want to be broke again, and this is
the best way for me to prevent that from happening.
Like Kanye — or at least how he rapped on “Yikes” — I feel as
though my disorder is my superpower. It enables me to see and feel
and communicate things in a way that’s distinct enough for my voice
to be my voice. And despite the trauma it’s caused me, I wouldn’t
want to not have it. I don’t know who I’d be without it. I feel like I’m
making it sound like a crutch. And it’s been that sometimes. Other
times it’s been a collar. But mostly now it’s a cruise missile.
Unlike Kanye, I have guardrails. Legitimate fears of the very real
possibility of not being able to provide for my family. Kanye has
none, and that terrifies Ikpi. She returned to this point several times
in our conversation, as if this is all that we need to be talking about.
“He’s a billionaire. A legit billionaire. All the things that are supposed
to happen when you hit rock bottom and decide to live better — a
loss of resources, a loss of friends — just ain’t going to happen to him.
He’s too big. And has no incentive to change. No one who could hold
him accountable. I just don’t see a good end here.”
“How bad?” I asked.
“The worst.”
This is what I keep coming back to, too. How am I so different? I
think I have a handle on what’s happening in my brain. But what if I
don’t? What if it’s getting worse? What if it gets worse while my
writing gets better? I’ve already lost friends because of this thing, and
that hasn’t made me want to not have it. What if I lose family? Would
that be enough? I’ve never taken any medication for it, except weed
(sometimes), whiskey (mostly) and esomeprazole (everyday) to keep
the acid reflux it exacerbates from being unbearable. Because I fear
what would happen to me if I did. What I would lose if I did. But
what will happen to me if I don’t?I
think that maybe what scares me about Kanye West — what
maybe compels me to attempt to make sense of his years-long,
hyper-public manic episode — is what scares me about me.
“I don’t want to be thrown away,” said Bassey Ikpi, author of “I’m
Telling the Truth but I’m Lying,” a memoir about her bipolar
disorder, during a conversation last month. “I see Kanye and realize
how easily that could be me.” And I think that’s it.
Bipolar disorder, as Ikpi explained, can be ugly in a way that
many other mental illnesses just ain’t. “There is a respectability
politic with mental health. You’re only allowed to have a mental
illness in public if it makes you sad or makes people feel bad for you.
You’re only allowed to have a mental illness in public if people
already like you.” She continued, “I will concede that Kanye is an
a--hole. But what we’re seeing isn’t regular a--hole behavior. This is
an a--hole in an extended manic episode. This doesn’t excuse his
behavior. But it does give a reason for it.”
I have social anxiety, which is one of those un-ugly disorders. It
was once much more prominent in my life than it is now. I used to
decide to just not do important things — things I actually wanted to
do — because of how unsettled my anxiety would make me feel. Like
a prisoner in my own skin. And also like I needed to find somewhere
in my skin to hide. And then there was also the kinetic disorientation
of feeling this way while Black and male. Why didn’t I feel as cool and
gregarious as the world told me Black men were supposed to be? Felt
like things were double, triple wrong with me.
It’s much better now. Much more manageable. I’m much more
comfortable, and this comfort is at least partially a function of
repetition. Muscle memory. Knowing what my triggers are, and how
to alleviate or avoid them.
This is easily understood. Because who hasn’t felt anxious when
entering an uncomfortable or unfamiliar space? Or when on a job
interview or a first date? And easy to understand means easy to
empathize with. Anxiety is just a way our brains help to keep us alive,
a mostly positive byproduct of engineering and evolution. For people
like me, that function is a little more hyperactive.
Like Kanye, my mental health has been professionally
We don’t need
to talk about
Kanye. (I do,
though.)
illustration: monique wray