Hi. I’m Lance Arborman. My boyfriend’s name is Falconor Cartrella. He’s got long blonde hair and blue eyes. He wears little silver wire-frame glasses, and is quite blind without them. He was top of the honour roll at high school. He can play piano. If he wanted to, he could hack into the US government’s computer files blindfolded with both hands tied behind his back. If he wanted to. He’s got a younger sister named Tia and a even younger brother named Daren. He’s skinny, pretty, and smart, a deadly combination. He’s also a chronic bipolar.

Now you might not know what that is. I’ll tell you. You’ve probably heard of clinical depression, suicidal people who hate themselves, more or less. People can get rid of clinical depression with drugs and therapy.

I only wish it was so easy with bipolar disorder.

Think clinical depression. Think desperately wanting to kill yourself, think hopelessness and self-hate. Now think something called mania. Think super-adreniline rush, or the most hyper you’ve ever been. Think thoughts moving so fast, you can’t keep up with them. Think not being able to sit still for more than a tenth of a second.

Now think switching from one to the other in as little as sixty seconds, as many as twenty times per day.

You’ve got bipolar disorder. You’ve got Falconor.

Most of the time, he’s depressive. He’s gone for days without a manic period. He likes to self-mutalate. He wants to die. He’s almost constantly crying. He’s very self-conscious. He doesn’t want to be around people. He gets upset very easily. He’s extremely clingy. He doesn’t want to move or do anything except sit around and mope.

But when he’s manic, he’s no easier to handle. He bounces off the walls all but literally. He talks so fast it’s almost impossible to understand him. He tends to do stupid things without thinking. He’s very social. He’s very confident. He doesn’t have a care in the world. He wants to do more than you can do in two days in two minutes. He has absolutely no attention span.

When he’s depressive, he’ll literally cry over spilt milk. He’ll burst into tears at random moments. He’ll sneak off on me and cut his arms to ribbons with whatever sharp object he can find. He’ll turn around all the mirrors in our condo. He’ll go back to his buliemic habits. He’ll freak out if I try to leave him, not that I do willingly. He’ll hide under something, like the bed or a blanket or in one of the cabinets, if he gets too overwhelmed.

I usually try to cheer him up. I’ll do something stupid, like try and play peek-a-boo with him or do a striptease to The Spice Girls. The former usually just annoys him, but the latter always makes him laugh. If I have to lure him out of somewhere, or if he’s too upset to even talk to me, strawberries always work. I always keep a suppply on hand, because for some reason they’ll help no matter what.

He’s also prone to temper tantrums. If I try and make him do something he doesn’t want to do, or if he wants to do something but I won’t let him, he’ll cross his arms and stomp his feet and scream at me and cry. He’s hit me before, too. But I never lose my temper. I let him rage until he can’t any more and sits down, hugs his knees and pouts. Then I’ll go over and hug him and kiss him, and all of his fight’s gone and he’ll do what needs to be done.

If he has a slip-up, if he cuts or pukes himself or uses drugs like he used to, I never get angry. I look him in the eye and tell him that I’m disappointed in him, and that I know it’s hard, but it hurts me to see him doing things like that. This makes him cry. I hate making him cry, but sometimes I have to.

When he’s manic, he’ll bounce around. He’ll go on and on about nothing, and everything’s on super speed. He’ll want to go out and talk to people. He’ll cross the road without waiting for the light to change or even looking. He’ll say things he’d never dream of saying normally.

On top of that, he’s got anxiety disorder. If he gets overwhelmed, frightened, or frustrated, he’ll have a panic attack. Sometimes for no reason at all. He’ll have one because it’s too noisy, or there’s too many people around. Things like heights, enclosed spaces like a subway car, or spiders often trigger them. He’ll suddenly stop dead and go all tense, and usually sink to the ground. His breathing and heartbeat are hyperfast, he’s terrified and feels sick. He’ll clutch whatever’s nearby, whether it’s me, a soft toy, a notebook or bag that’s in his hands, or his own knees.

All in all, I can’t leave him alone for more than five seconds.

He’s also not physically developed. And yes, I mean he’s seventeen and hasn’t hit puberty. He has a little kid’s body, which is not the greatest on his already non-exsistant ego and self-confidence. He’s very naieve though, and he does know his body is supposed to look a bit more like mine, and that this means there’s something wrong with him, but he doesn’t know why. He can’t get aroused, I doubt he even knows what that means, so he sees nothing wrong with climbing all over me. I do. Self-pleasuring has become a way of life for me. Even when he gets through puberty, I won’t force him into anything. I’ll wait until he’s ready. I’ll remain loyal. I wouldn’t dream of cheating on him.

With Falconor you never know what’ll happen next. Every moment is a new challenge. But I don’t know.

I think that’s why I love him so much.