I'm Telling the Truth, but I'm Lying

Bassey Ikpi

• Publisher: Harper Perennial
• Year: 2019
• ISBN:
  9780062698353
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: Social Sciences

INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER!

In I'm Telling the Truth, but I'm Lying Bassey Ikpi explores her life—as a Nigerian-American immigrant, a black woman, a slam poet, a mother, a daughter, an artist—through the lens of her mental health and diagnosis of bipolar II and anxiety. Her remarkable memoir in essays implodes our preconceptions of the mind and normalcy as Bassey bares her own truths and lies for us all to behold with radical honesty and brutal intimacy.

A The Root Favorite Books of the Year • A Good Housekeeping Best 60 Books of the Year • A YNaija 10 Notable Books of the Year • A GOOP 10 New Favorite Books • A Cup of Jo 5 Big Books of Fall • A Bitch Magazine Most Anticipated Books of 2019 • A Bustle 21 New Memoirs That Will Inspire, Motivate, and Captivate You • A Publishers Weekly Spring Preview Selection • An Electric Lit 48 Books by Women and Nonbinary Authors of Color to Read in 2019 •A Bookish Best Nonfiction of Summer Selection

"We will not think or talk about mental health or normalcy the same after reading this momentous art object moonlighting as a colossal collection of essays." —Kiese Laymon, author of Heavy

From her early childhood in Nigeria through her adolescence in Oklahoma, Bassey Ikpi lived with a tumult of emotions, cycling between extreme euphoria and deep depression—sometimes within the course of a single day. By the time she was in her early twenties, Bassey was a spoken word artist and traveling with HBO's Def Poetry Jam, channeling her life into art. But beneath the façade of the confident performer, Bassey's mental health was in a precipitous decline, culminating in a breakdown that resulted in hospitalization and a diagnosis of Bipolar II.

In I'm Telling the Truth, But I'm Lying, Bassey Ikpi breaks open our understanding of mental health by giving us intimate access to her own. Exploring shame, confusion, medication, and family in the process, Bassey looks at how mental health impacts every aspect of our lives—how we appear to others, and more importantly to ourselves—and challenges our preconception about what it means to be "normal." Viscerally raw and honest, the result is an exploration of the stories we tell ourselves to make sense of who we are—and the ways, as honest as we try to be, each of these stories can also be a lie.

This Is What Happens

11:40 A.M.

IT’S NOT SO MUCH the traveling.

It’s the airplanes and the airports and the security screenings. The TSA agents and the bored way they ask, “Miss, please put your belongings in the bin” and “Please step to the side and wait for assistance.” I hate waiting for flights that are delayed and missing those that come in on time. I hate flight attendants and their tiny useless bags of pretzels. I hate preparing for takeoff and landing and the baby four rows back that will not stop crying. I hate the man next to me, who insists on both the seat by the window and a conversation. I hate myself for not telling him that I need a place to rest and have no room for company. But his voice is better than mine. So, I listen.

12:00 P.M.

I am flying home. In three hours, I will be in New York, but in less than twenty-four there will be another airplane, another airport, another city.

2:42 P.M.

The plane lands exactly ten minutes ahead of schedule, but the doors remain locked. “Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay. We’re just waiting for clearance before we open the doors, please be patient.” The captain has assured us that it will only be a “short while longer” at least eight times. I stopped counting when I became overwhelmed by the fear that we’d be asked to take our seats again, fasten our seat belts, and then be flown somewhere further from home than Brooklyn feels.

2:44 P.M.

There is something forming in my throat. It has become more and more familiar these last weeks. I am tired of it. It’s an always wanting to cry, it’s the almost crying and it’s the barely keeping it together because there is a small girl, white socks and first plane ride, across the aisle from me.

2:45 P.M.

I’ve learned to stare at my shoes until they become blurry and liquid.

3:15 P.M.

The doors have finally opened. I grab the bags stashed under the seat in front of me.

I want to run, push, and bump my way past the people in the aisle. But I steady myself, wait for others to pass. Smile. “No. Go ahead. It’s fine.” I’ve practiced that as well. I grab my carry-on from overhead and ease my way down the rows of empty seats—all upright and in their full and locked positions. Manage a “thank you” to the flight attendants who will forget me before I pass them.

3:17 P.M.

There are no new messages on my cell phone.

3:20 P.M.

I don’t expect any anxious faces at baggage claim, but I still search and scan the signs for my name.

3:30 P.M.

I grip the handle of my bag tight and pull, half walking, half running to the nearest exit. The wind hits my face and I breathe for the first time in days. Perfect. I’m right in front of the taxi stand. Damn! I forgot to look for an ATM. The idea of going back into the airport makes my throat swell again. I check my wallet and find $27 and a mountain of change. I can’t remember what it takes to get to Brooklyn.

3:34 P.M.

The queue at the taxi stand is shorter than I expect. It’s colder in New York than I remember. I am tired.

3:45 P.M.

It’s my turn. The attendant hands me the folded yellow paper covered in taxi-cab law that is meant to protect tourists. Usually, I shrug them off, announce, “I live here.” Today, I’m not sure where I belong. The driver lifts himself from the front seat and offers to put my bags in the trunk.

“No. I’m fine. I’ll hold them.” I climb into the back and clutch everything to my chest.

“Where you go, miss?”

“I don’t know.”

“Pardon?”

“Sorry. Brooklyn. Flatbush to Eastern Parkway. I’ll direct you from there.”

“What’s the exact address, miss? I know the area.”

I tell him off Nostrand.

“I know the area, miss. I live very close by.”

I nod. The thoughts have started to flood. They tumble and race so quickly that only focusing on him helps slow their circling. I can’t stop nodding. I want to start a conversation, make him talk to me. I open my mouth slightly but I’m not sure where to start. I bite my bottom lip and say nothing. I think that maybe he will wonder about me and I wait. No. He’s done with me, concentrating only on navigating his cab out of the airport. I realize that I am tense and leaning forward so I push back and stare at my shoes.

3:48 P.M.

The silence is as thick as the plastic that divides us.

4:00 P.M.

The cab is too hot, so I crack the window. Let November enter.

“Miss, which way you wanna go?” His voice cuts through the air.

I lean forward. “Um . . . I-I don’t know. Wherever, I mean, I don’t, I don’t—care. Whatever you think is best.”

I can’t seem to focus on his question or my answer. I open my mouth to clarify but he—

“Okay. Too much traffic here so I take you the fast way. BQE.”

—understood.

I nod and fall back into the seat again. As I stare outside, the view rises and falls in a blur of shapes and colors. The arc and speed invite car sickness so I face forward. The ID on the glass shows a small, brown man, smiling for an unknown photographer. His name is Hasaan. Hasaan. I’ve always liked the name Hasaan. I like how the a’s are the only vowels.

4:15 P.M.

We drive from Queens to Brooklyn in silence, but my mind is never quiet: yesterday, tomorrow, last night, tomorrow night, the next city, the last city, the next show, the last show, when will this end, need sleep, don’t want food, don’t want sleep, need food, sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep. I sigh and shake my head to clear the chatter. Hasaan looks at me through the rearview mirror. Smile. Invite him to talk. I need his voice as solid rock against the dust crumbling around me. But I can’t manage a smile and look away instead. All I have of him is his name. That’s all I need. I murmur it, under my breath, over and over, “Hasaan. Haasaaan. Hasaaan. Haaasaaaan.” His name becomes a mantra reminding me to breathe. I can feel something start but I push it to the base of my throat. I stare at this forgotten, folded yellow paper. I find Brooklyn on the small map. Home.

4:18 P.M.

I can feel fatigue eating through my bones.

4:30 P.M.

“Miss, this is good, yes?”

I ...