Page 80 of The Golden Boy's Guide to Bipolar
Psychosis
My chest is heavy on the walk home, and my breath comes out shallow. I start jogging, and then running, like I can outrun the pain. If my breath is ragged from running, at least that’s a reason.
I sneak back into my room through my open window and close it before toppling down clumsily on the floor. Even though I’m not running anymore, I still can’t breathe. I scramble up and rush into the bathroom with an urge to follow Jamal’s lead and puke my guts out. I hyperventilate over the toilet for a few minutes before the door leading to the bathroom from Yami’s room opens.
“Are... you okay?” she asks hesitantly.
Instead of answering, I grip the sides of the toilet with my hands and dry heave.
She walks over and sits down next to me. Her hand touches my back, but I shrug her off.
“Go. Away,” I say, voice icy even though my lungs are filled with heat instead of air.
Her next words come out soft, defeated. “I’m just trying to help,” she whispers.
“Don’t!” I shout, not caring about my volume anymore.
She stands up and takes a step back, her pity turning to a desperate kind of anger. “Why do you hate me so much? All I’ve done is support you. I’ve triedso hardto help you with your shit! I did everything for you!Whatis your problem with me?”
“That’sthe problem! I need you to stop!” I shout again. “Please just stop!”
Hot tears spill down my face as I continue struggling to breathe. Then I can’t help it, I throw up into the toilet.
“Okay,” Yami whispers as she finally walks away, but leaves her bedroom door open. A few seconds later, she walks back in the bathroom, sets a water bottle down on the sink, and walks out again. She closes her door this time, leaving me to puke my guilt out into the toilet.
When Tuesday comes around, I stare off into space while Dr. Lee drones on about who knows what in therapy. I answer her questions on autopilot, and she gives some bullshit advice I don’t bother absorbing. It’s not like she can help me, anyway. The only one who can help me is God at this point.
He has to see how hard I’ve been trying, right? How I’ve stuck it out with Bianca all this time to get over Jamal. To fulfill my penance from junior year.
I think back to that confession. I felt even more guilty back then than I do now, especially since my shame and guilt over being with Jamal was no doubt starting to rub off on him and how he viewed himself. I didn’t want that. Even if it was right. Even if weweresinners. Even if weweregoing to hell. I wantedJamal to live a happy life, blissfully unaware of the eternal damnation that awaited him.
Me, though? I couldn’t get that fear out of my head to save my life. Not that I wanted to save my own life. Life was already hell, so it didn’t matter if I was headed there after death, too. But all Jamal had was this life, and I was ruining it for him.
Somehow, I doubt God is proud of me, even after all the lengths I went through to fulfill my penance. Bianca loves me, but I’m only hurting her. She’s better off without me too. They all are.
The session is almost over when Dr. Lee finally unfolds her legs and sighs. “You know, Cesar, I can’t help you if you don’t want to help yourself.”
“You can’t make me want help,” I snap back at her, a little harsher than I’d meant it to come out. But it’s more than true.
Idon’twant help. I want out.
After therapy, I say I have to go to the bathroom, so my mom doesn’t notice I have no intention of going to group today. There’s a second exit from the office building near the bathrooms, and I quickly go out that way the second the coast is clear.
It’s not like I have anywhere else to go, so I just walk behind the office, where only the employees are parked, and sit down against the curb.
“Hey, that’s my spot,” Nia says playfully. I’ve only ever seen her in a couple of group sessions before since she’s not usually there. Apparently, my idea to ditch out here wasn’t original.
“You too?” I ask as I scoot over, and she sits down next to me.
She chuckles. “Yup. Been coming out here almost every week since my mom started making me come.”
“Smart,” I say, looking at the graffiti on the wall on the other side of the employee parking lot. “It’s all bullshit. I don’t know why they make us go there.”
“Agreed.” She nods. “You don’t care about my problems, and I don’t care about yours. Don’t see why we’re supposed to pretend.”
“Ouch,” I tease, and she shrugs.
“Hey, we all know it’s true.”
