We don't need to talk about Kanye. (I do, though.)

I think that maybe what scares me about Kanye West - what maybe compels me to attempt to make sense of what appears to be a 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 po memoir about her bipolarou'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 to 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 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.

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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?

(COMMENT, BELOW)

Previously:
• 03/16/22 Am I leaving Spotify? That question is dumb
• 03/10/21 A story about some words I can't say
• 03/01/21 Invisalign at 42. Here's why. (It's about more than teeth.)
• 02/17/21 Meet my dad --- the Grim Reaper's publicist