Page 57 of The Golden Boy's Guide to Bipolar
Anger boils all the blood in my body. How could she betray me like that? I knew I shouldn’t have trusted Dr. Lee. As far as I know, Moni’s dad could be personally paying Dr. Lee to prescribe something to brainwash me. But I’m not falling for it.
“My point is, mijo, it’s important to recognize when you’re going through these episodes so you can regulate them.”
“I’m not having an episode,” I say sharply.
She nods. “I see. Just know that when and if you do have one, you’re not the only one, okay? This is an illness that affects a lot of people, including me.”
Whatever she says, she just doesn’t get it. What I’m going through is divine intervention, not mania. I would think that someone who raised my religious-ass mother might understand that much, but apparently not.
“Can I go to bed now?”
“Haven’t been sleeping well, right?” she asks, and I clench my jaw. “Of course. Get some rest, mijo.”
So I leave for the bedroom and crawl into bed, unable to get Abuela’s words out of my head.
I believe we’re more alike than you think.
22
When I Dip You Dip We Dip
The Crash
It’s a good thing it’s Friday, because when my head finally meets the pillow for the night, I actually fall asleep for once. And I meansleep. The next time I open my eyes, I’m not sure if it’s sunrise or sunset or even how many days have passed.
I wake up to Abuela nudging my shoulder. I groan and stretch out. The rising—or setting?—sun makes the room way too bright even through the small slits between the blinds. She’s carrying a tray of empanadas.
“That crash is never fun, is it?” she asks.
“What?” I ask groggily. Way too early—or late?—for thinking.
Instead of answering, she pulls the blanket from over me, which makes me squirm like a worm on hot cement.
“Abuela, whyyy?” I whine.
“Because you haven’t eaten since yesterday,” she says matter-of-factly.
“What time is it?” I croak.
“Las siete.”
“In the morning?” Why the hell would she be waking me up 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday?
“In the evening.”
“Oh... ,” I mumble, forcing myself to sit up.
“Ten, mijo,” she says, handing me the tray with three empanadas, rice, and beans on it.
“You’re letting me eat in bed?” I ask.
“You need to rest,” she says. “Your body and mind have been working on overdrive.”
“Can’t argue with that,” I say, putting the tray on my lap and biting into an empanada.
She sits down on a chair that I’m just now realizing she must have pulled in from the kitchen. “Actually, I’ve been in the very same situation as you.”
“What do you mean?” I say through a mouthful of beans.
