Page 2 of The Golden Boy’s Guide to Bipolar

Yami stays the night at Bo’s house, and instead of going home with my mom, I let Jamal give me a ride. If he was anyone else,

I’d assume he was offering to take me home as an excuse to hook up within the privacy of his truck. Unfortunately, this is

Jamal we’re talking about. Which means he wants to talk.

It’s one thing to make out at the designated kissing time when everyone else (but Hunter) is also doing it, but it’s a wholly

different thing to be alone together afterward and talk about it. Despite all odds, though, I get in the truck. I’m giving Spartan levels of courage right now. I’m braver than any

U.S. Marine. Chuck Norris has nothing on me.

But being brave doesn’t make me smart. It doesn’t mean I have a single idea about what to say. So the first few minutes of

the drive go by wordlessly except for his favorite poet, Saul Williams, playing from the old truck’s CD player. Jamal waits

for the track to end before stopping the next one from playing. There’s a moment of silence before he says anything.

“I still love you,” he admits.

“I love you, too.” I surprise myself at how quickly I say it back. Like all I needed was to know it wasn’t just me, that it wasn’t just in my head.

He smiles but doesn’t take his eyes off the road. He’s a responsible driver like that, even if it’s inconvenient for me not

to be able to search his eyes for a hint of what he might say next.

“Question,” he says, and for once I’m almost certain I know exactly what he’ll ask.

“Hmm,” I mumble in response, trying to give him the go ahead to ask without sounding too anxious.

“Do you want to get back together?”

Somehow, even though I knew the question was coming, I don’t have an answer. I haven’t exactly been mentally “well” since

last year, and there is one consistent theme of relationship advice every mentally ill person inevitably gets. It’s either

“You can’t love someone else without loving yourself first,” or even worse, “You can’t expect anyone else to love you if you don’t love yourself.”

And while I feel like I’m doing better at the moment, I can’t lie and say I feel any kind of love toward myself. Does that mean I shouldn’t be in a relationship? Pretty sure I’ll die alone if loving myself is the prerequisite.

“Didn’t it kind of suck though?” I find myself asking.

“Not at all.” Jamal looks almost hurt. “Did it suck for you?”

“No, I just mean... like, you know how my brain is all...?” I do some weird hand gestures around my head to avoid calling

myself crazy. “Like, you could never love me into fixing my brain, you know?”

He’s quiet for a second as he thoughtfully pushes his glasses up his nose. “Is that why you think I want to be with you?”

I just shrug. The whole I-can-fix-him sentiment is pretty common with people who date people like me, isn’t it?

“Well, I don’t want to fix you. I mean, I do want you to feel better, but that’s not the same thing. I’m a lot more selfish

than you think. I like being around you. It makes me feel better.”

I’m glad it’s dark in the car so Jamal can’t see my cheeks flush. Obviously, he makes me feel better, too. But when we were

together before, it was a secret only Yami knew about. And keeping him a secret was like this weird mind game where I had

to justify why it was a secret in my head. Like, if we were hiding, we must have been doing something wrong, right? I ended

up feeling guilty for keeping the secret, so I told the school’s priest about Jamal at confession and got my answer. Definitely

a sin. And to get right with God, my penance was to break up with him.

And I did.

Breaking up with Jamal was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and if it made God like me any more, I didn’t get the memo. I

ended up spiraling so hard I wound up in the mental hospital. I’ve been in therapy and on medication ever since, but honestly,

I’m still playing whack-a-mole to keep all The Thoughts buried. The Catholic guilt, internalized prejudice, and mental illness

shit keep popping their heads back up, but I’m getting better at whacking them right back down.

As if he’s reading my mind, he goes on before I give my answer. “We wouldn’t have to tell everyone if you’re not ready for

that. It can be just between us, for as long as you need... if you want to get back together, I mean.”

Jamal’s hand is resting on the console between us, and I reach for it on instinct. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road but does let a little smile crack at the contact. I think on his words for a second, letting his hand in mine be my tether.

Do I want to be with Jamal again? Of course I do. But I don’t know if I can be with him again if it’s a secret from the rest

of the world. Hiding our relationship before mixed all my feelings of shame into our dynamic, and I don’t want to do that

to him again.

Jamal lives with his cousin now, who knows he’s gay. And my extremely traditional Catholic mom is all-in on being an ally

now that she knows about both me being bi and Yami being lesbian. Even though I’m still technically in the closet, Bo, David,

Amber, and Hunter know I’m bi since I impulsively came out to them at anti-prom last year, so I already know my friends are

cool with it. Even if we didn’t have to be out to everyone , it seems like everyone I actually care about is on board with me being bi now. We could tell them and at least be ourselves around some people if we wanted to.

“I don’t know, maybe...” I trail off and start absent-mindedly tracing the lines on Jamal’s palm while I stare out the

window.

The only person I haven’t heard from since they found out about me and Yami is my dad, but since he hasn’t lived with us since

I was, like, nine, it’s easier to kind of push his existence to the background. Sure, I caved and sent him an email a few

months ago, but he never responded, so I sort of just pretend that moment of weakness never happened.

Then there’s Father John. It’s not that he particularly cares about me or me him, but he’s still the closest connection I

have to God at the moment. I try to pray and all that, but I’m not one of those lucky people who hears God talking to them

or anything. Since Father John is, I guess I do put some stock into what he says.

So, do I believe being with Jamal is sinful? Yeah. I do.

But do I care? Maybe not anymore.

If I don’t sin, then Jesus died for nothing, right? Besides, I don’t even go to the public high school my old homophobic bullies

go to anymore. Though with Jamal still going to Rover, it’s almost a shame I’m not there too.

I realize I’ve been leaving Jamal hanging for a while. He’s used to me getting lost in my own head and he’s always patient

about it, but I do have to give him some kind of answer, even if it’s an uncertain one.

“I have to think about it,” I finally say. I’m used to acting on my impulses, but this is different. If I get back together

with Jamal, I don’t want to fuck things up again.

“Okay, that’s fair,” Jamal says as he pulls the truck into the driveway to my house. “Just let me know what you end up deciding.”

“Okay.” I want to lean forward and kiss him goodbye, but I hold myself back. That would imply yes, and I want to give myself

enough time to be sure. “See you later,” I say before hopping out of the truck and heading inside.

When I walk in, I’m not surprised to see my mom still up, cleaning the kitchen. Between her main job, cleaning, cooking, and

her side business of making jewelry with Yami, that woman barely ever sleeps.

Ever since my dad got deported, she’s been running everything on her own—at least, until Yami started helping with her jewelry business.

It’s been eight years with just the three of us, but my mom has probably aged a few decades in that time.

Wrinkles crease around her mouth and eyes, and the color from her once-black hair has been slowly syphoning into the dark circles under her eyes for years.

Today, though, seems even worse than usual. Her eyes are puffy, and her nose is red. She must have thought I’d be staying

the night with Jamal, because she’s not wearing her I-was-just-crying sunglasses that she thinks keep me and Yami from being

able to see her bloodshot puffy eyes.

“Everything okay, Mami?” I ask.

She smiles and ruffles my hair. “Don’t you worry about me, mijo. You have enough going on in your own life.”

“Not really,” I reassure her, ignoring the hidden meaning behind her words. Ever since I went inpatient, it’s like she thinks

I’m made of glass and if she lets me carry the tiniest bit of weight from her shoulders, I’ll shatter. “Whatever it is, I

can handle it, I promise.”

“My sweet boy.” She puts a tender hand on my cheek and gives me a teary smile, like me asking her what’s wrong is worthy of

the Nobel Peace Prize or something. “I guess I’ve been a bit lonely lately. The party tonight was fun and everything, but

I’m just too busy to make any time for friends or dating outside of holidays. Too much to do, and when it’s done there’s always

more to do,” she admits.

“Maybe I can help?” I offer, knowing I’ll probably regret this in the future, but hey, it’s the new year. Perfect time to

start picking up some slack.

“No, no, no.” She waves me off. “You can help by paying for my retirement when you’re the next rich and famous inventor or

scientist, or whatever brilliant thing you end up doing.”

I sigh. “Who knows if I’ll even be alive when you retire?” I blurt out, and her pained expression makes me immediately regret it. “I mean, like, anyone can die at any time. Why wait until later when I’m here now, and I can help now ?”

She shakes her head. “You have school to focus on. I don’t want you prioritizing me over your own success.”

Sometimes I feel a little bad that she coddles me like this, when she’s always been more than happy to accept help from my

sister. But I guess I’m the one with “limitless potential” or whatever, according to her. “What about on the weekends? It

doesn’t take me a whole two days to do my homework. What if I just make dinner or something, like, once a week? You need a

break. Like a regular, predictable break. I can start tomorrow for New Year’s. It can be our resolution.”

She smiles, eyes getting watery again. “I would love that.”

“Mami, don’t cry... ,” I say, reaching out and wiping the tear that falls with my thumb.

“It’s happy tears, mijo. Now go get some sleep, okay? School is starting again soon, and you need to get your sleep schedule

back on track.”

“Fine,” I say, not bothering to argue that my sleep schedule has never been on track. She doesn’t need to worry about me any more than she already does.

I pass through what Yami used to call the Hall of Shame on the way to my room.

It’s where Mami had so many crosses and pictures of Jesus and the Virgin Mary plastered up that you could barely see the paint on the wall.

There are still Jesuses and Marys, but now some of the crosses are rainbow and there are Bible passages with uplifting quotes about loving everyone, etc.

, etc. My mom kind of went a little overboard when Yami and I came out to her last year.

When I get to my room, I pull out my secret poetry notebook that literally no one knows about. Not even Jamal, who does poetry

slams and open mics every chance he gets. The thing is, I don’t even know if I’m good at poetry. I might be absolute shit.

And that’s the entire point.

I’m the family’s golden boy. I’ve always gotten the best grades and picked things up easily and been really good at whatever

new thing I tried. But when you’re good at everything, that becomes the standard, and then I’m not allowed to just do something

because I like it. When everyone is expecting to be impressed, I can’t just be good, I have to be the best. And if no one

knows I like poetry, then I’m allowed to suck at it. I’m allowed to just have something to myself that no one expects me to

be good at. Someone else can be the best at poetry, I don’t care.

So, instead of writing a super-deep epic or sonnet or spoken word piece that would make an audience cry, I turn to the Jamal

section of my notebook (yes, I have sections, sue me) and write a haiku with a title longer than the poem itself.

A Non-Exhaustive Pros and Cons List of Getting Back Together with Jamal

Pros: I feel like I

Could live forever if he’s

There—cons... TBD