TW for blood, self harm/suicide attempt, mental illness, psychotic symptoms.
Kurt develops bipolar, him and Blaine try to deal.
They call them “mood stabilizers” but Kurt knows what they really are. Atypical antipsychotic pills to make the voices go away. To make him stop hurting the ones he loves. To make him stop hurting himself. Then antidepressants (two kinds: SSRI for the anxiety, SNRI for the depression) and sleeping pills and he’s about done so long as he doesn’t count the vitamins he has to take to stay physically healthy after his last bout of mania lead him to exhaustion and malnutrition. They don’t know what’s going on with his eating (Kurt knows, though, that’s all that matters).
Blaine doesn’t know what to do, he’s spent the past 72 hours in total panic and shock after seeing Kurt, after he’d been in such a good mood before, lying on the kitchen floor bleeding. Bleeding from wounds he’d made himself. Then it was an ambulance and a Thank god we made it in time and then a written consent form to put Kurt into care and Blaine’s husband of three months is committed into the psych ward.
The diagnoses and prescriptions hit both of them like a hurricane. Suddenly Blaine is playing nurse and Kurt is playing patient but not in a sexy way--in fact they can’t even have sex because Kurt’s medications destroyed his sex drive. Even if they hadn’t if Kurt is manic, he can’t truly consent to sex. It’s a scary thought that they both put to the back of their brains when the psychiatrist tells them.
“It’s only going to get worse,” Kurt whispers to the air. Him and Blaine are sitting on their fire escape. “I’m only twenty-one, psychotic symptoms start in your early to mid twenties. It’s only going to get worse.”
Blaine doesn’t disagree, he simply kisses the top of his head and pulls a sedated Kurt into his arms.
“You’ll love me anyways?” Kurt asks.
“Forever,” Blaine replies.
--
Forever lasts about two weeks until Kurt throws out his medication and posts nude photos of himself online.
“Why would you do that?” Blaine shouts. “Those were private. Those were about us.”
“It’s my body,” Kurt yells back. “God why can’t I ever have any fucking fun anymore?” Kurt shouts nonsense, throwing his cellphone near Blaine’s head. It smashes into pieces and puts Blaine in shock.
“Did you just try to hit me?” Blaine asks venomously.
“I can’t help it Blaine,” Kurt says sarcastically. “I’m a psychotic mess, remember?”
“This isn’t you,” Blaine says to himself. “This isn’t the man I married.”
“Then fuck off,” Kurt says nonchalantly. “It’s not like you actually ever loved me.”
Blaine walks out the door.
--
He walks back in about five minutes later. Kurt is painting something on his easel.
“I’m sorry,” Blaine says.
“I don’t care,” Kurt says. “Let me have fun.”
“Take your pills,” Blaine says slowly. “I can get a refill, the pharmacy is just down the street--”
“Why can’t you just let me have fun for once?” Kurt yells. “You’re not my dad!”
“Then stop acting like a child!” Blaine shouts. “I’m sorry, just--please. Take your meds.”
Kurt closes in on himself. “They make me feel weird. Like nothing is real.”
Blaine sighs, hugging Kurt. “Its just for the first couple of weeks, I promise.”
Kurt nods, and Blaine takes the chance to drive them to the psychiatrist before Kurt can change his mind. Luckily they get there in time (thank god for same-day appointments) and Kurt agrees to take his medications. The psychiatrist pulls Blaine aside to tell him to monitor his medications regardless of what Kurt says. Basically tells him not to trust his own husband. The worst part is that deep down, Blaine knows that she is right.
“You’ll still love me?” Kurt asks as they walk to the parking lot.
“Forever.”
-
Three weeks pass, and, with much fighting on both the husbands parts, Kurt does show small signs of improvement. Kurt can take his own medications, he doesn’t feel like he is drowning in lithium. It’s better. It’s not perfect, but it’s better.
Blaine doesn’t realize how much it has done a number on him until he comes home from work to see Kurt making dinner. It’s just a simple pasta, but it means so much.
“You cooked dinner,” Blaine says.
Kurt smiles, in an oversized sweater and loose ripped jeans he stirs the sauce. “So you trust me around sharp objects again?” Kurt jokes.
Blaine doesn’t find it funny. “Kurt,” he says.
“Sorry,” Kurt replies quietly. “In case you’re wondering, no I’m not better. Not completely. I’ll never be better. In a year or two I might develop schizophrenia and have to be sedated even more. I might never be able to work--or perform--” Kurt’s voice breaks at that last part. Blaine grabs his hand.
