“Money, its a gas.
Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash.
New car, caviar, four star daydream,
Think Ill buy me a football team…”
– Pink Floyd
One of the bad things about being a privileged kid with bipolar disorder is that the spending sprees that are one of the classic symptoms of the disease don’t really get you into trouble. Yeah, you might get a talking-to, and the ‘rents might even go so far as to take away a credit card, but there’s never any real damage done to your peripheral life. However, you’re definitely doing a number on your psyche, building up lots of regret and guilt and memories to be replayed over and over (and OVER) about all the stupid shit you bought and how it didn’t even begin to fill the cavernous pit that holds your soul hostage. Add risky sex and drug abuse to the broth and you’ve got yourself one hell of a complex with aeons of therapy in your future (paying shrink bills doesn’t give quite the same frisson of delight). My husband loves to use as a warning to others the time I was in full-blown rapid cycling mode and went to Manolo Blahnik and spent $3600 on crocodile shoes. For three pairs. They were half price. I still have them, and the $400 pair of Versace patent leather zebra-printed cockroach-killer stilettos that never made it out of the bedroom even once. I really should stick them on Ebay and be done with it; the Versaces and two pair of the Manolos are pretty uncomfortable, good just for sitting and looking pretty. I’d keep the kitten-heel loafers though. They make me feel like a million bucks. Or at least, they used to make me think I felt like a million bucks. I’ve pretty much ended my mammoth spending sprees, although I’m hard pressed to keep my wallet shut when there’s something I want, be it a new tshirt on Threadless or a glittery eyeshadow at Sephora.
