“Stop picking on her,” Mom says, fussing over fixing the covers and sitting beside me.
“I want to show you pictures of what Matteo did for me, in case you have any doubt whatsoever that he’s not exactly the person I’m supposed to be with.”
“We love Matteo, Tris; we just wish—”
“Yeah, me, too,” I cut Dad off. “But I’ll take whatever time we have.”
I hold up the phone. “This is me, and those are my monsters.”
“Your monsters?” they ask at the same time.
I nod and pull my knees up to my chest. “I just recently started being able to identify which one was driving the crazy train. Like, in my head, I see yellow when an anxiety attack is coming on.” I look at them both. “You still with me?”
They simply nod.
“I know it’s a lot to understand, and no, I don’t think there are actual monsters living inside me. Well, not anymore, anyway.” I hand Mom the phone and flop back, not convinced this is a good idea. Staring at the ceiling, I continue, anyway. “Red is rage, like, black rose buffet-style flip out. Black is depression, like taking a handful of pills because I would rather die than feel the way I felt. Gray is disillusion, which happened more often than I care to admit, and yellow, the anxiety that can bring any of the prefaced out to play at any moment.”
“And you recognize it before it happens?” Dad asks.
“Starting to, yep. Living cleaner and stress-free helps that a lot. Which brings me back to the whole reason I messaged and asked you to come down. Matteo brought me to his studio and put a brush in my hand. He guided it to paint the collars and the leashes, showing that I have control of my monsters and not the other way around.”
I sit up and look at them. “When I say I think I’m bipolar, it’s not some excuse I need or want; it’s an explanation as to why. So, please stop label-blocking Marley.”
“Did she say that we were?” Dad huffs.
“No, she gave a real flowery explanation as to why she didn’t like to diagnose kids my age with a mental health issue. But I assume the two of you are behind it.”
“We aren’t against it, Tris. We want you to get help and feel the exact power you hold, the kind Matteo depicts in the paintings. But there are several different bipolar disorders, and there are several different causes. You have to let the process work, and so do we, so we will step back, too.”
Not wanting to step back and wanting them to see I know myself better than they think I do, I tell them, “Bipolar is out, since I tried to off myself. Bipolar II is more likely.”
Mom leans her head against mine. “Teenagers have manic and hyper- and hypo-manic mood swings, too, which is why no diagnosis. There is also bipolar due to substance abuse, Cyclothymic disorder, and a new theory that says PTSD can share some of the same attributes as bipolar disorder.”
“PTSD?” I laugh. “Can we sue Suckshore for that?”
Dad chuckles, “Or you could sue your parents for you finding that album, porn for how fucked up of a stigma it gives people, the internet for allowing access to that without showing ID or whatever, the state for allowing you to go through an abortion at fifteen without proper mental health support, or Marcello and the twins for being bullies.”
“Wow, I’ve been through a lot, huh?” I laugh.
“You have.” Mom hugs me. “And we’re sorry.”
“Then be sorry for the entire population,” I joke.
“Trust me, Tris; we are. This world is fucked.”
“Says the man who used to tie Mom up?” I smirk.
“At a legal age, an age where—”
“Your brain is fully developed. Yeah, I know.”
After a few minutes of silence, I lay down, and so do they.
Dad holds up the book. “We should get Matteo a copy of this as a wedding gift.”
“I do not want my future husband knowing I still like my parents to read me this book.”
“Surely, he knows, and I’m guessing he’d love to read it to you. Hell, he drew you your own.”
“No, Mom”—I smile and close my eyes—“he doesn’t. How crazy is that?”
And Dad begins, “The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind”—he flips the page—“and another”—he flips the page—“his mother called him ‘WILD THING!’ and Max said, ‘I’LL EAT YOU UP!’ so he was sent to bed without eating anything.”
No More Time Apart
Matteo
Change is exhausting, but I have a renewed hope that everything will be for the better. My lab results and scans confirm that I am no worse than I was a little over a year ago. Dr. Adler was so surprised that she ordered a second scan, which concluded the same.
Ten days into my change in meds, being hooked up to an IV, to keep me hydrated, and I am feeling exceptionally well, and another scan has confirmed that, at present time, there has been no change in the days since the change.
The reality is that there has been a change, and although it feels wrong on many levels, I am showering as much as I did when puberty took hold, possibly even more.
I am now off the IV and at the castle rented for our wedding guests.
The fact that three days after Brisa and Amias’s graduation, Bekah, Brisa, and Tris had everything planned, mind blowing. Most women take years to prepare for their big day.
I expressed my concern to Tris, hoping that she wasn’t settling, because I wanted her to have the wedding of her dreams, and she started crying.
It was then I saw it—the sadness and the clouding in her eyes. It battered my already broken heart. Then I told her the good news from the doctor, hoping to brighten her day, and the other good news—that the medication changes helped.
She cried because she didn’t want me to change for her. I assured her that the medication was perfectly safe, that the only reason I had not switched was because I wasn’t going back to mindless sex and, until her, that’s what I would have been having. I also admitted that I was concerned for my afterlife and wanted to live as a morally sound man before the inevitable happened.
To that … she cried.
Now I am sitting in a castle, bustling with people, readying for the arrival of Tris and her family, as well as her extended family, and waiting for the internet to connect the therapy appointment with Marley for Tris and I, something I suggested.
As soon as she is visible on the screen, the lighting much better than the darkened bedroom she Face-timed with me for the past twelve days, hiding her pain, as was I for the first of those days while the medication change was affecting me.
Her first words: “I sent an email invite to some people and fucking Google invited the Effisto’s.” She takes in a deep breath and continues, “They RSVP’d that they would be there. I’m sorry. If you don’t want to marry me because I’m a fuck-up than—”
“Tris, I’m not concerned with the guests at our wedding.”
“I mean, it’s just Mel and Sabato, maybe Torrance, but Marc isn’t coming, so …”
I realize I hadn’t mentioned my little exchange with the father, and I have no plans in doing so.