Page 5 of The Golden Boy’s Guide to Bipolar

On Tuesday, I barely have enough time to change real quick when I get home from school, grab some Takis for the road, and

head to therapy. I’m about to go back out to the car with my mom when there’s a knock at the door. Mami and I both ignore

it, assuming Yami will answer since she’s the only one not about to head out, but she takes one look through the peephole

and rushes after me.

“Cesar! Make her go away,” Yami whispers, about as loud as you can without it not being a whisper anymore.

I don’t have to ask who’s at the door. There’s only one person who gets under Yami’s skin enough to make her want to hide

like that.

“I got you,” I say as I go to answer the door, and sure enough, I was right.

“Hi,” Bianca says shyly. She holds out a Tupperware box full of empanadas, but I don’t take them from her.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, making sure to block the doorway so she can’t see inside. Yami would not want to be perceived

right now, at least not by her.

Bianca sighs. “My mom’s making me go around the neighborhood giving these away. She made too many, I guess.”

“Thanks, but we’re good. I’m sure Dona Violeta would take some, though.”

“Okay... ,” she says, but doesn’t move to leave. “So... is Yami home?”

“Nope. And I gotta go,” I say as I reach to close the door, but she stops it from shutting with her foot.

“Look, I know Yami hates me now, but you don’t have to pretend you do too. What happened is between me and her, okay?” She

moves the empanadas so they’re resting on one hip like a baby. “Don’t you even want to know my side of the story?”

“Not really,” I say, to keep from drawing out the conversation. “I’m staying out of it.” I don’t have to know Bianca’s side

of the story. All I know is that she and my sister used to be best friends, until she outed Yami when we both went to Rover

sophomore year. They’ve hated each other ever since. That’s enough story for me.

“Good,” Bianca says with a little smile that I can’t quite read. It could be genuine, but she could also be pulling some shit

right now.

I smile back politely, then go to close the door. But she’s talking again before it closes, so to keep from being a dick,

I stop it from shutting.

“So, we’re good?” she asks, still smiling.

“Uh, sure, whatever,” I say, since I know any other answer would start shit, and I really do have to go.

“Okay, good, because I like you.” She winks.

“?’Kay, bye.” I shut the door before she can get another word in.

What the hell was that?

I’m not usually one to bring a list of talking points to my therapist, or even know what the hell I’ll be talking about in any given session, but today is different.

And not because I actually want to tell her about anything, but because I need an unbiased opinion here, and asking my mom or Yami would open me up to a swarm

of questions that are either none of their business or that I don’t even know the answer to myself.

I want to get back together with Jamal. But as much as I hate to admit it, I have some concerns. Which means I could actually

use Dr. Lee’s help right now. This is only our third session, so she doesn’t really know that much about me yet. She’s my

sixth therapist in as many months, but my mom finally put her foot down and said she’s not letting me switch again before

giving Dr. Lee a real chance.

Dr. Lee is the first psychotherapist I’ve seen, though, which means she can therapize me and prescribe medication, so I let her go through the meds spiel before getting into the other stuff. She quickly asks if I’ve

noticed any changes or side effects from my medication, and about my recent six-months-on-meds bloodwork I got to make sure

the meds weren’t giving me any health problems. All clear. Now on to the important shit.

I’ve learned from experience that a new therapist will ask all kinds of irrelevant questions trying to get to the bottom of

things. So, in order to avoid wasting any time, I pull out the list I made on my phone’s notes app and start reading immediately

after sitting on the couch in her office.

“My mom probably already told you a bunch of shit, and I know you have all my records, so you don’t have to pretend to be surprised that I’m bi or that I went inpatient last year or anything else you already know, okay?”

Instead of answering, she just nods and silently writes something down in her little notebook, waiting for me to go on.

“Okay, so here’s what you need to know....” I go on to info dump as quickly as I can from the list on my phone. About Jamal,

and that we were secretly together for over a year before I broke up with him as part of my penance. About how we stayed friends

ever since but ended up kissing the other night. About how we still love each other, but I didn’t want to act impulsively

like I usually do because I don’t want to fuck things up. And about how I don’t exactly love myself, and I’m worried that

means I can’t expect someone else to. Basically, I tell her everything I think might be relevant to the question I came here

to ask her.

“So, with that context, do you think I’m ready to be in a relationship again?” I ask her as soon as I finish running through

the list.

“Well, I think the fact that you’re even asking me shows you’re making progress.” Dr. Lee’s expressions are usually tiny,

probably because she doesn’t want me to know she has actual feelings or something, but I can still see her mouth’s micro smile

and happy brown eyes as she answers.

“Okay, but, like... what’s the answer?” I say, trying not to gag at the unexpected compliment.

“Well, let’s talk about it,” she says, and I roll my eyes. That’s exactly what I’m trying to do. “You mentioned not loving yourself as one of the reasons you’re having doubts. Do you mind if we dive into that a bit?”

“Um, sure...”

“I want you to think about someone else in your life who you care about and love deeply. It doesn’t have to be romantic love, just anyone in your life you have love for.”

“Okay...” I find myself thinking of Yami.

“Now imagine that person is struggling with self-love the way you are. Do you think that would make this person unworthy of

your love? Would it make you love them any less?”

“No,” I admit, “but don’t you think it’d make it easier on Jamal if I’m not... you know...” I trail off. I don’t know

how to end that sentence. Sick? Broken? Unlovable?

“No, I don’t,” she answers without me having to say it. “Working toward self-love is a great goal, but I don’t think it’s

fair to say that those who aren’t there yet don’t deserve love in their lives.”

“So, you’re saying I’m ready?” I ask, letting myself feel a tiny bit hopeful.

“Well, I can see you’re being careful not to be impulsive about this, which is good. Having healthy boundaries for yourself

is a good step. But I’m afraid I can’t speak to whether you’re ready for a relationship or not. That’s a decision only you

can make.”

I roll my eyes again. I don’t ask therapists for advice very often, so she shouldn’t take it for granted. But I guess she

might not realize that yet, since we’re still fresh. I remind myself I can’t just ditch her for another therapist this time,

so I resist the urge to fire back about how unhelpful that answer is. I let out a measured breath, and an equally measured

response. “Then how am I supposed to figure that out?”

“Well, let’s unpack that. You said you broke up before because of your penance from confession, correct? Do you still feel

that same guilt or shame about your sexuality that led you to want to make amends for it?”

Well, fuck. I hoped to get through this conversation with minimal vulnerability. I hardly know Dr. Lee, so I wanted this to be as simple as me listing off all the relevant information and her diagnosing me with my current amount of relationship readiness.

I shift uncomfortably on the couch at the prospect of a feelings-heavy conversation. Talking about shame and guilt isn’t exactly

the most clinical topic, but if that’s the information she needs for my relationship diagnosis, fine. But if she wants a tragic

backstory or to see me cry, she’s out of luck.

I don’t know how to answer right away, so I grab one of the stress balls in the basket next to the couch and lie down. Something

about being horizontal and tossing a ball in the air over and over again makes this whole thing feel more casual. Her question

reminds me of a conversation I had with Yami when she visited me in the hospital last year. She asked me then if I was ashamed

of her, or of Jamal, or of Bo. And since the answer was an easy no, she reminded me there’s no reason to be ashamed of myself.

A fair argument, but it’s never been that simple for me. It’s hard to explain, but it’s like there’s this nagging voice in

the back of my head that says it’s different. That I’m different. That I’m special, and uniquely bad.

I told Father John about that guilty voice during the infamous confession, and he explained that it was probably God’s way

of reaching out to me, trying to save me from the devil’s influence. I believed it then, but now I’m not so sure.

“I don’t know,” I say with another toss of the ball. “If I do, does that mean I shouldn’t be with someone?”

“I don’t think there’s a black-and-white answer here. I suppose it depends on where those feelings are coming from and how you address them. Do your feelings of shame come from within, or is it other people and outside influences that say there’s something wrong with you?”

Honestly, I expected her to just tell me I’m not ready if I can’t get over that shame, so she gets an unexpected point on

my imaginary how-much-I-like-this-therapist scoreboard. “Well, my dad isn’t supportive. And I used to get bullied for it at

my old school. So I guess some outside influences. And I’m Catholic, too, so there’s that. Would religion be an outside or

inside influence?”

“That’s an interesting question. I’d say your spirituality is your own, but organized religion comes from other humans. So

perhaps it’s a bit of both.”

“Okay, so two and a half points to outside influences, and half a point to myself,” I say as I catch the ball in front of

my face and toss it up again. People have always described my shame as being internalized, so I never really thought of it

as coming from anything but me.

She starts jotting something else down while she answers. “And are those outside influences any threat to you? Is there any

fear for your safety or well-being if you were to go against them?”

“I don’t go to Rover anymore, and my dad lives in Mexico, so I’m not in any danger or anything, but...” I hesitate before

tossing the ball again or saying the next thing. Going against God doesn’t threaten my physical safety, at least not while

I’m still alive. “I don’t want to go to hell,” I finally say.

Her eyebrows tilt upward just a tiny bit in another micro expression of what I assume is pity.

“I want to give you full disclosure that I’m not a religious person, but for the sake of this exercise I’ll speak as if your experience of Catholicism is the objective truth, all right?

With that said, would you mind if we explore this a bit? ”

“Okay...” I go back to tossing the ball. I’m not trying to have a religious argument during therapy, so maybe her pretending

she believes what I believe for “the sake of this exercise” is best for now.

“Can you tell me what it is that makes someone worthy of a fate like hell?”

I squint at her skeptically, not really sure where this is going. Still, she seems to have an end goal and not just random

questions, so I humor her. “Sinning. If you don’t confess and repent for your sins before you die, you go to hell.”

“I see.” She nods her understanding. “And do good deeds have an effect as well, or only sins?”

“Well, it depends. Like, if you’re so well-known for being good that you get canonized as a saint, then you’re guaranteed

to get into heaven. And if you do something so bad that it’s a mortal sin, then you’re pretty much guaranteed to go to hell

unless you confess to a priest and repent.”

“And is your sexuality a mortal sin?”

“Depends who you ask,” I say automatically, still tossing and catching. I’ve been trying to figure that out for so long, but

none of the nuns or priests I’ve asked can seem to agree. “To be a mortal sin, it has to be grave, done intentionally with

full knowledge of the impact and consequences, and done with full consent of the sinner,” I say, basically from memory. The

grave part, I think is what gets everyone hung up. Like, what qualifies a sin as being grave? Everyone agrees on murder, but

that’s pretty much the only consensus we’ve all been able to come to.

“I see,” she says again. “Did you fall in love intentionally with full knowledge of the consequences? Did you consent to falling in love?”

Her question surprises me so much that I miss the ball and it bounces right off my forehead before rolling away on the ground.

I laugh a little. “I guess not.”

No one’s ever focused on that part of the equation when it came to this whole mortal sin debate. Another point for Dr. Lee. If me loving Jamal isn’t an

unforgiveable type of sin, then maybe there’s hope for me. But is it the type of sin that can be canceled out with a good

deed?

“I think, in general, good deeds should also count,” I add.

Another micro smile. “So maybe you can focus on the good deeds you know you can do, like treating people with love and being

generous and kind as much as possible, instead of focusing on something you can’t control.”

“You know what, yeah,” I say, feeling a little pumped up. I think back to that conversation with Yami from the hospital. She

told me she loves herself because she loves me. Because we’re the same. Maybe loving Jamal will be like that for me. If I love someone I can see myself in,

maybe I’ll hate myself a little less. And with hell out of the picture, the only consequences of being out are other humans,

who I can handle for sure. “Fuck what anyone else thinks. Who cares if people don’t like it? It’s my life, not theirs.”

Micro smile. “I think you found your answer, Cesar.”

She’s right. The answer was so obvious all along, I don’t know why it took this conversation for me to figure it out. The

answer is him.

I’m ready.