Page 39 of The Golden Boy’s Guide to Bipolar

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 tried so hard to help you with your shit! I did everything for you! What is your problem with me?”

“ That’s the 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 we were sinners. Even if we were going to hell. I wanted Jamal 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.

I don’t want 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.”

I think on that. It’s true that I don’t care about anyone in group like that, and they don’t care about me. But I’m not so

sure none of them care about each other. Like, Zo, Aaron, and Avery seem to like each other just fine. In fact, I’d be surprised if

they didn’t hang out outside of group on the regular.

Then, because I love to contradict myself, I ask a question I didn’t realize I wanted the answer to until it leaves my mouth.

“So are you really doing better after switching medication?”

Nia raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. My meds literally saved my life.”

I laugh, then stop when I realize she’s not joking. “I don’t trust meds anymore.”

“Why not?” she asks.

I just shrug. I don’t know how to explain to her that I’m pretty sure the powers that be are trying to brainwash all of us.

For what, I don’t know yet. But why else would Dr. Lee, and everyone else for that matter, be so insistent I pop pills every

day? Either everyone else is right and I’m wrong, or they’re all trying to make me feel crazy, just so I’ll do what they say.

Seeing as I’m no longer being actively mind controlled, the second option feels more logical. I don’t know what their end

goal is with that, but it can’t be good.

But then again, if Nia’s being brainwashed, she should know, right? There’s no way she hasn’t at least considered it by now.

“Do you ever wonder if, like, your meds are... I don’t know, brainwashing you?”

“What, like making me a mindless zombie or something? I mean, some meds do that, but that’s why you have to switch until you

find the right ones.”

“No, not like a zombie, I mean more like... I don’t know. Never mind.”

“Ohhh... I see what you’re saying.”

Now she’s getting it.

“You know, it’s actually a really common psychotic symptom to believe your meds are being used for mind control.”

“That sounds exactly like something someone who was mind controlled would say,” I scoff. I can’t believe I said that out loud.

I expect Nia to burst out laughing at me, but she doesn’t. “Did you tell anyone you want to go off your meds?” she asks.

My head snaps in her direction. How would she even know that? “What are you talking about? I’m not off my meds.”

“Didn’t say you were. But chill, I’m not gonna narc on you if you are. It’s just... if I don’t take my meds for a while

I start believing shit like that too, and it goes down a vicious cycle until I hit rock bottom. It’s really hard to get out

of that mindset.”

“Again. You sound seriously brainwashed,” I say. Of course she gets in the mindset of thinking she’s brainwashed when she

stops taking the meds that are doing the brainwashing.

“You’re not gonna convince me to go off my meds, if that’s what you’re trying to do.” She scowls at me.

“That’s your prerogative, I guess,” I say, trying not to judge, but I super am. How can anyone be okay with being brainwashed like that after having been confronted with the truth?

“Look, I know you don’t get it, but when I go off my meds, I go full crazy.”

“Well, I’m not crazy,” I say defensively.

Now she laughs. “Sorry to break it to you, but you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t at least a little crazy. We all are. Embrace

it.”

“If you’re all about embracing it, then why are you trying to avoid going crazy?” I ask, fully aware I’m doing the asshole

devil’s advocate thing everyone hates. She knows I have a point, though.

“No one wants to see me full crazy,” she says. “Look, I won’t tell anyone, but you really shouldn’t go advertising that you’re

off your meds. Especially since you’re clearly not working on coping skills or anything like that to substitute them.”

“I’m not advertising shit.”

“Right, but you’re obvious. If anyone finds out you’re off your meds, you’ll probably get institutionalized.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.” No one’s noticed I’m off my meds so far, and it’s been months.

But I do know one thing for sure. It has to stay that way. I just got everyone to stop babying me. No way in hell am I going back to the hospital and starting all over. I’d rather go full

crazy.