Page 52 of The Golden Boy’s Guide to Bipolar
If I’m wrong, then all we have is now, and I’ve wasted too much of this life without her already. I want you to spend yours
with someone who makes you happy.”
It takes me awhile to respond to that. She’s right that Jamal makes me happy. I’ve always felt safe around him. He makes me
laugh and doesn’t expect me to be anything I’m not. But... what if he’s not happy with me? After everything I did, what
if I can’t make him happy anymore?
“But what if it’s too late?” I ask, barely above a whisper. She pulls into our driveway and parks, but neither of us moves
to get out.
“You won’t know unless you ask, right?”
I nod hesitantly. Maybe there is a chance. And if there’s any way I can make things up to Jamal, I have to at least try.
It isn’t until after everyone goes to their rooms for the night that I realize I might have one more sentimental conversation
left in me. That talk with Abuela has me questioning everything. I’ve been wrong about so much, but I finally feel like I’m
starting to understand the people around me. I used to think I was the one nobody understood. I thought no matter how hard people tried, they wouldn’t really get me. But looking back on
everything that led me here, it’s me who hasn’t made much of an effort to figure out anyone else.
I haven’t exactly been the most consistent person in the world. It didn’t matter what I thought I wanted. No matter what my
mom did, I was mad about it. I’m still not really sure why, but everyone keeps telling me I have to talk about things instead
of letting them stew. So, instead of going to bed confused, I get up and head straight for my mom’s room.
She sleeps with the door open, so I peep inside to check if she’s still awake before going in. She’s up, sitting in bed just
scrolling on her phone.
“Everything okay?” she asks, putting her phone down on the nightstand.
“Can I come in?” I say instead of answering her question. I know I don’t have to ask—she leaves her door open for a reason—but
maybe hearing her specifically tell me it’s okay will make this conversation easier.
“Of course, mijo.” She scoots over and pats the spot beside her.
A weight I didn’t realize I was carrying floats away as I go to sit on her bed.
“Everything’s okay, but...” I shift, wanting to move closer but not feeling ready.
Maybe if I was leaning on her or something it’d be easier to get the words out.
“I want to get better about saying stuff,” I say, but the “stuff” remains in my throat.
“What’s on your mind?” she asks. I thought me coming in here late would worry her, but she looks more relieved than anything.
“So, um... I think I get why you didn’t know what to do with me. I was kind of out of control,” I say as I dig my fingers
into the comforter to ground me.
“I still should have told you before sending you with your abuela,” she says with a sad look on her face. “I’ll always be
sorry for the way all that happened.”
“I mean, yeah. I wish you had told me, but that’s not what I was even mad about.”
She tilts her head in a question mark but gives me the space to go on without pushing.
“I would have been mad anyway. It didn’t matter what you did,” I admit, adjusting my grip on the comforter. “You did exactly
what I wanted you to do. I wanted to get disowned and mean nothing to anyone anymore. But when I thought it happened, I was pissed anyway.” I feel myself choking
up, but I have to keep going or I’ll never say it. “Maybe I was just mad at myself, and I blamed everyone else so I wouldn’t
have to face it.”
I finally move my hand from the comforter to wipe my eyes, which are now apparently leaking.
My mom offers her hand when I pull mine away from my face, and I take it.
She must know I still have more to say, because she just squeezes my hand as a silent encouragement.
I let out a shaky breath, trying to will myself to say what I’m thinking, no matter how shameful it feels.
“I saw how you stopped sleeping when you noticed I did. You were always so protective of me, to the point where it was hurting
you. I didn’t want that, but it was what I was used to. You walked on eggshells like I was a land mine. And I always thought
that was the reason everyone was so afraid of me going off. Like we all knew I was gonna take everyone out with me.” My voice
cracks as my mom starts rubbing her thumb along the back of my hand. “I didn’t want that, but I... kind of expected it?
Like if I died, I thought you’d never recover. And when you sent me to Abuela’s, I thought it meant I was wrong, and that
I could just go out alone. Which is what I wanted! But...”
I can’t finish my sentence anymore since we’re both crying now. She doesn’t seem to have the words either, so she starts stroking
my hair while I try to catch my breath.
“I want to unhurt everyone. I want to fix it. I just...,” I manage to get out between broken sniffles. “I don’t want to
be like a bomb anymore!”
“You were never a bomb, mijo.” She pulls me to her chest and rubs my back. “You’re the sun,” she whispers, holding me closer
still. “My beautiful son.”
And in this moment, she’s not holding me like a grenade she’d sacrifice herself to protect the world from. Right now, she’s
holding me like I’m the sunrise she wouldn’t miss for anything. She’s holding me like the world could end any second and she’d
still hold on. Like we’re protecting each other.
We just hold on like that for a while before we’re finally ready to say goodnight. Eventually she kisses the top of my head and gives a final squeeze before I go to let her sleep.
When I get back to my room, I find myself heading straight for the drawer that’s been hiding my poetry notebook, the promise
ring, cross necklace, and jaguar necklace.
I take out the jaguar necklace and wrap my fist around it.
I don’t know if I’m ready to face my fears yet, but maybe putting this back on will help me get there.