Page 103 of The Golden Boy's Guide to Bipolar
“What are you talking about?” My face gets hotter. Does she know about Jamal? Who would have told her? Andwhy?
“I saw the way you and that boy looked at each other at the hospital,” she says with a smile. “I know that look. I’ve lived the life you’re trying to make for yourself. It’s heartbreaking to see you following in my footsteps without even knowing it.”
I want to ask what made her choose my grandpa over Doña Violeta, but I feel like I already know the answer. Abuela’s just as religious as I am, if not more. It’s not why she made the choice she did that confuses me, but why she’d choose differently now.
“What changed?” I end up asking.
“I used to fear God more than anything, but I’ve changed.” She pauses for a moment as the car slows at a stoplight. “I use the Bible to understand things better, but the original version was written by men doing their best interpretation of the word of God. Never mind that the current version has been translated and edited into something completely different.”
It takes me a second to let that sink in. I guess I knew it was true, but I never really considered what that meant. “So how do you know which parts to live by and what some random guy forever ago decided to change?”
“Nothing is set in stone, but I will take any opportunity to learn more about the context behind the scriptures I read. I haveto be open to being wrong and diving into the meaning. But I think the people who hate us read the Bible differently than I do. They cherry-pick the verses that confirm their worldview and shut their eyes to everything else. But I think those people believe in a different God than I do.”
For some reason, hearing her say that makes me want to cry. Maybe I’m just so off emotionally from all the ups and downs lately, but it seems like everything I lived by (and almost died by) is just falling apart right in front of me. What if I was wrong about all of it? I’m scared of what the answer might be, but I already promised I’d voice my fears instead of letting them build.
“What if they’re right, though?”
With one hand on the wheel, she reaches the other over to squeeze my shoulder. “No one can know for sure until they die, right? But if I can be sure about one thingnow, it’s that I still love my Violeta.” Her voice softens at Doña Violeta’s name, and she smiles. “If I’m right, then I’ll die and spend an eternity with my loved ones in heaven. But if I’m wrong, then I won’t have the afterlife to spend with my Violeta. If I’m wrong, then all we have is now, and I’ve wasted too much of this life without her already. I want you to spend yours with someone who makes you happy.”
It takes me awhile to respond to that. She’s right that Jamal makes me happy. I’ve always felt safe around him. He makes me laugh and doesn’t expect me to be anything I’m not. But... what if he’s not happy with me? After everything I did, what if I can’t make him happy anymore?
“But what if it’s too late?” I ask, barely above a whisper. She pulls into our driveway and parks, but neither of us moves to get out.
“You won’t know unless you ask, right?”
I nod hesitantly. Maybe there is a chance. And if there’s any way I can make things up to Jamal, I have to at least try.
It isn’t until after everyone goes to their rooms for the night that I realize I might have one more sentimental conversation left in me. That talk with Abuela has me questioning everything. I’ve been wrong about so much, but I finally feel like I’m starting to understand the people around me. I used to thinkIwas the one nobody understood. I thought no matter how hard people tried, they wouldn’t really get me. But looking back on everything that led me here, it’s me who hasn’t made much of an effort to figure out anyone else.
I haven’t exactly been the most consistent person in the world. It didn’t matter what I thought I wanted. No matter what my mom did, I was mad about it. I’m still not really sure why, but everyone keeps telling me I have to talk about things instead of letting them stew. So, instead of going to bed confused, I get up and head straight for my mom’s room.
She sleeps with the door open, so I peep inside to check if she’s still awake before going in. She’s up, sitting in bed just scrolling on her phone.
“Everything okay?” she asks, putting her phone down on the nightstand.
“Can I come in?” I say instead of answering her question. I know I don’t have to ask—she leaves her door open for a reason—but maybe hearing her specifically tell me it’s okay will make this conversation easier.
“Of course, mijo.” She scoots over and pats the spot beside her.
A weight I didn’t realize I was carrying floats away as I go to sit on her bed. “Everything’s okay, but...” I shift, wanting to move closer but not feeling ready. Maybe if I was leaning on her or something it’d be easier to get the words out. “I want to get better about saying stuff,” I say, but the “stuff” remains in my throat.
“What’s on your mind?” she asks. I thought me coming in here late would worry her, but she looks more relieved than anything.
“So, um... I think I get why you didn’t know what to do with me. I was kind of out of control,” I say as I dig my fingers into the comforter to ground me.
“I still should have told you before sending you with your abuela,” she says with a sad look on her face. “I’ll always be sorry for the way all that happened.”
“I mean, yeah. I wish you had told me, but that’s not what I was even mad about.”
She tilts her head in a question mark but gives me the space to go on without pushing.
“I would have been mad anyway. It didn’t matter what you did,” I admit, adjusting my grip on the comforter. “You did exactly what I wanted you to do. Iwantedto get disowned and mean nothing to anyone anymore. But when I thought it happened, I was pissed anyway.” I feel myself choking up, but I have to keep going or I’ll never say it. “Maybe I was just mad at myself, and I blamed everyone else so I wouldn’t have to face it.”
I finally move my hand from the comforter to wipe my eyes, which are now apparently leaking. My mom offers her hand when I pull mine away from my face, and I take it. She must know I still have more to say, because she just squeezes my hand as a silentencouragement. I let out a shaky breath, trying to will myself to say what I’m thinking, no matter how shameful it feels.
“I saw how you stopped sleeping when you noticed I did. You were always so protective of me, to the point where it was hurting you. I didn’t want that, but it was what I was used to. You walked on eggshells like I was a land mine. And I always thought that was the reason everyone was so afraid of me going off. Like we all knew I was gonna take everyone out with me.” My voice cracks as my mom starts rubbing her thumb along the back of my hand. “I didn’t want that, but I... kind of expected it? Like if I died, I thought you’d never recover. And when you sent me to Abuela’s, I thought it meant I was wrong, and that I could just go out alone. Which is what I wanted! But...”
I can’t finish my sentence anymore since we’re both crying now. She doesn’t seem to have the words either, so she starts stroking my hair while I try to catch my breath.
