Page 33 of The Golden Boy's Guide to Bipolar
“I believe you,” she says, without pressing the issue further. “Now, back to our earlier conversation. Would you consider your sister, your mom, and Jamal to be your main support system?” Dr. Lee asks, which kind of throws me off.
“Um, yeah, I guess so,” I mumble.
“It seems like the three people who are there for you the most are the people you get the most frustrated with. Why do you thinkit is that you feel negatively about your support system, well...” She stops writing in her notepad for a moment to look up at me. “Trying to show you support?”
There’s that feeling again. That twinge in my chest.
“Guilt,” I find myself saying truthfully.
She writes something down again. “You don’t feel like you deserve their support?”
I just shake my head, since I can’t bring myself to say the words. Idon’tdeserve their support. They spend all their time trying to make sure I’m okay while I’m just...me. There’s no reason they should be spending so much of their energy on my mental health. It doesn’t make any sense.
“Now we’re making progress,” she says, giving me a reassuring smile.
And maybe that’s true. Maybe I’m not the type of person who can just apologize whenever I fuck up, but Icando something.
Maybe I don’t deserve their support right now, but somehow, I need to find a way to fix that.
13
When You Make Up an Entire Semester’s Worth of Homework in One Night
Hyperactivity
I don’t sleep tonight either, but this time instead of lying down and trying to ignore The Thoughts, I don’t even bother closing my eyes. It’s almost like I was a dying car battery that just got jumped. All the energy I’ve been missing for the last couple weeks is suddenly in my grasp.
I remember the counselor’s offer from before. If I finish my overdue homework, it’ll probably be enough to get my mom to ease off, even with me having failed a test. Which will hopefully get Yami and Jamal to stop worrying, too.
I sit at my desk and get started.
While I know this stuff, it’s still not exactly quick work. I feel like they make this shit purposely time-consuming just to steal our lives away. Still, I’m faster than most, so by the time I finish, the sun still isn’t up. I check my dying phone. Three in the morning.
What else can I do to make things up to my mom and Yami?
I jump up and quickly start cleaning my room, which I’ve been putting off so long I’m surprised my clothes haven’t fossilized onthe floor. With how much energy I have, though, it only takes me a half hour or so to organize everything and put away my laundry. But now I’m in a cleaning mood, so I expand my chores to the rest of the house.
First up, dishes. I do them as quietly as I can manage. I sweep next, then scrub the floors. I do it on my hands and knees with a washcloth instead of with the mop, since that’s how Mami does it when she wants to be extra thorough. Once the floors are spotless, the couches fluffed, the surfaces dusted, the windows cleaned, and the mess in the living room reorganized, there’s still about an hour before my alarm goes off, so I go ahead and clean the bathroom too, making sure to even scrub the shower.
Suddenly I feel gross, being the dirtiest thing in the bathroom. I don’t even know when the last time I showered was. Today is different, though. After cleaning the rest of the house, the last thing to wash off is myself, so I hop in the shower for the first time in too long.
For once, I feel the way everyone else says they feel when they shower. Refreshed, energized, creative. I even find myself singing a made-up song while I shampoo. I don’t know what’s wrong with not-today me, but usually showerstakeenergy instead of giving it. Everything takes energy most days. Getting out of bed, getting dressed, social interaction, and, yes, showering.
Today, though. Today, ha ha! Today is the shit.I’mthe shit. Today I’m showered and dressed before Yami even manages to make it to the bathroom at all.
Mami’s not up yet either, so I decide to make pancakes before she wakes up as a surprise. I’m not making them from scratch oranything, but this pancake mix and milk are working their asses off. They smell better than any breakfast I’ve ever made. Hell, better than most Mami’s made. I can’t help myself. I eat the first one I finish, just to make sure it tastes as good as it smells.
And, oh my God, how the fuck does it taste evenbetter?
Who says I can’t cook? I’m Gordon fucking Ramsay, bitch!
“Cesar?” Mami comes into the kitchen, looking around the house in awe. I grin at her.
“I’m making pancakes!” I say proudly.
She tilts her head to the side. “You didn’t have to do all this, mijo.”
“I wanted to!” I say eagerly, almost interrupting, but this time it’s because I’m excited and not angry.
