Bipolarity

16 year old Sophia Brooks has just lost her father. She's in therapy for depression and doesn't talk to her mom anymore since her dad's death. But when she leaves her notebook in class after having an emotional breakdown everything changes. Her boyfriend Derek distances himself from her and a mysterious boy dubbing himself "A.Q." writes back to her in her journal. Will Sophia get over her depression? Will she find out A.Q.'s true identity? Will love blossom between the two?

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2. Entry Two

September 11, 2013

                How rude of you. I’m sorry your dad passed away. I figured you and I had something in common though. If it’s any consolation I still miss my dad. I’m sure you miss yours too. I’m sorry if I offended you. I can’t tell you who I am Sophia. I’m an asshole; I’m a loser turned prick. I’ve earned a demotion. Smart asses like me get beaten. I’m a jerk. I’m every mean adjective you can think of. I’ve had my fair share of fuck-ups. Trust me; you don’t want to know me. But then, I have your notebook so I guess you have to. I guess it no longer becomes a choice but an obligation. Maybe I’m just really fucking lonely. Yeah that’s it, I’m really fucking lonely. This’ll be in the library sweetheart. Same time, same place.

A.Q.

P.S. Stop biting your nails, it really isn’t healthy for your cuticles … and nails.

September 12, 2013

                Therapy was awkward. I’d gone down to the library and gotten the notebook back in case you’re wondering. It was the same time, same place.  But anyway here I was in therapy—no—sorry counseling. To process with my counselor this was essentially a nicer way of saying processing with a therapist without all the formal no-how of a therapist with their doctorate. My therapist had a doctorate. This one didn’t. Or maybe they did but their methods of application were different. I don’t know. I’m nervous and antsy and I bit my nails so I didn’t follow stupid A.Q.’s advice. Oh well. He’d live.

                “So how are you feeling today?” That’s what my blond haired therapist asks me. She also offers me cookies. I feel like I’m at someone’s house and it makes it even more uncomfortable. I don’t say much. I don’t have much to say. I tell her I’m feeling fine and we sit in ten minutes of silence. Then she sighs and asks why I bite my nails so much. I say I’m stressed and she asks why. My reply is to eat a cookie because I want Marilyn and this blonde chick is so NOT Marilyn.

                I’m let go having only told her that I was anxious about class and I thought people were talking about me. I don’t remember what she said because it went in one ear and out the other. A nice way of saying: I didn’t give a fuck.

                I really didn’t. I leave the fucking notebook in the hallway. I drop it actually. Some kid bumps into me and he’s got a multitude of very visible tattoos. One of them is an anchor with some guy’s name on it. It’s intricately drawn in blue ink. Very vibrant and very irritating because he should’ve looked where he was going. I don’t have much patience for people. I don’t get a good look at his face but I notice that his hair is dark black and frames his face in spikes. It was an odd hairstyle. Hell he was odd and he doesn’t give me back my notebook …

                I think he’s A.Q.

                When I get home mom asks why the counselor called her all concerned and I said I had no clue. I said I didn’t have much to talk about. She said I needed to open up more and she looked all concerned but I didn’t care because mom and I hadn’t had a good relationship since dad died. She’d written a note on my box of sharp things. I kept my pencils, razor blades, scissors and other sharp things in this old shoebox in my closet. I don’t know what possessed her to get a step ladder (because she’s shorter than me) to retrieve it. She violated my privacy I yelled at her. I said if I wanted to cut then I would cut and it was none of her business. She said read the note. I yelled at her “fuck your note!” She stares at me for a long time and I can tell we’re both breathing heavy except mom has unrestrained anger now and mom normally only gets angry with clients. In fact she never ever yelled at dad or me.

                She never brought her case files home or her briefcase of notes home with her. She left that in her file compartments at work where it should be. But now she doesn’t yell she just smacks me. My cheek smarts. I’m sure it’s red. She stomps off angrily and I read the stupid fucking note. Then I cry. I cry for hours and take out the shoebox and I want to draw blood. I want to cut. I remember dad and how he would’ve sat with me and asked me what’s wrong buttercup?

                I want to cut. Let’s make that abundantly clear okay? But I don’t. I only scratch with a pair of scissors until angry welts pop up on my skin and my skin on my arm is tender and sore. It doesn’t do it so I draw three vertical lines so I guess I lied. I did give in and cut. I wash the blood from the scissors in the sink. I watch it swirl down the drain—all my anger, all my hurt, all of Dad from my throbbing pulsing veins. Then I gingerly apply some rubbing alcohol, clean out the blood, grit my teeth against the pain and apply some Band-Aids to the fresh cuts.

                “Think about Dad” was what her note had said. I rip it up into shreds and dispose of it in the garbage can. Fuck her note.

                September 13, 2013

                I’m writing in a new notebook Mom bought for me which makes me mad because I can’t backtrack for Marilyn through my progress. She asks me what happened to my old notebook. I tell her candidly that some kid named A.Q. stole it and writes in it only to give it back to me. She said that’s odd. I agree with her. I tell her about the counterproductive counselor and the yummy molasses cookies I ate. I must’ve eaten at least five or so during my session or “five minutes of obtrusive silence” really. The silence was obtrusive because I couldn’t adequately concentrate and I didn’t like processing with anyone other than Marilyn.

                So since I’m with Marilyn I eagerly process away.

                I like to process it gets out my emotions and allows me to vent and allows me to be raucous or subdued or angry and snarling. I could be anything I wanted to be really. Marilyn would just sit and occasionally nod and make notes in her notepad and sit cross-legged. It was like I was jabbing her with my emotions and she’d just sit there and take it without complaint. Marilyn was awesome and that was probably why a lot of kids in the adolescent unit like me, ended up baking her something or buying her cards for her birthday and Christmas and shit. She allowed you to find out the answer on your own all while asking her occasional very relevant questions.

                Asking me why I bite my nails, hint, hint, was not making progress towards the fact that I’m clinically and chronically depressed. It doesn’t help. School counselor could learn a thing or two from my therapist. So my therapist asked me how I felt and I tell her I feel ashamed but still angry at my mom for writing the fucking stupid note from last night. Marilyn asks me to tell her about that so I do. I blab on like how I blab in this new notebook. I miss my composition one—this new one with perforated pages just can’t compare—the old one has history of smudging and erasure marks and shit. But I digress. So I tell her about how mom smacked me and she actually gasped because in our family sessions she always praised my mom afterwards for trying to be understanding and being so calm and assertive in communication.

                She asked me how I felt about the note and I said like my mom was invading my personal bubble with dad—like she was trying to help but she just made me angrier because I knew how dad would’ve felt. He would’ve hated it if he knew that I was cutting. He would’ve hated it even more if he knew the reason why because if he knew the reason why then it would crush him and he’d feel guilty and slip into some depressive mode and God knows what he’d do then. So in short I hated the fact that she wrote that and that’s what I told Marilyn. She said to not worry about A.Q. and said write back to him if I want when I asked about him. She just wanted me to really sit with my feelings (that’s something she always says and I find it mucho helpful). Sitting with my feelings as she says, allows me to validate it but not give it power because the more you sit with it, the more it diminishes. Sure enough the more I sat the less my legs shook and the less sweaty my palms were and my chest wasn’t as tight and I felt all around calmer. Plus messing around with her little therapeutic sand box thing with the little rake really helped.

                So all in all today was good until I saw mom and then I ignored her during the whole car ride home. I didn’t even blink when she started crying. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve just lost my ability to connect with people since dad passed away. Sometimes I wonder …

                September 14, 2013

                It’s Sunday. Nick and Devin invite me over to their house. I try phoning Derek but it goes to voicemail again. It’s been doing that a lot. And every time I try to Skype him he’s always on “Busy” which means the dot by his username (FlynnRider92, because we both love Tangled) is yellow constantly. It drives me crazy. Not literally of course. It drives me crazy though because I really want to talk to him but sometimes I think I overload him with stuff because the last time I talked to him which was when I’d bumped into A.Q. he’d sounded really strained when he said he loved me. He usually sounds sincere. He also sort of whined that I unloaded on him too much and that it was hard for him to sympathize with me because he couldn’t relate to cutting or losing a parent.

He has both parents and two younger siblings and he’s the captain of his soccer team and gets straight As. But he so can relate because he used to have body image issues and I know this because I used to hold his hair back while he barfed up his lunch and binged on McDonald’s and Taco Bell every day. Sooooo I don’t know where he thinks he comes off by saying he doesn’y understand at least a little bit. See because he used to be like over three hundred pounds and then he did martial arts and did soccer in high school and shed off the weight and now he’s like Alex Pettyfer hot.

                Anyway so Devin and Nick invited me over to their house and Devin and I played Mario Kart and laughed about girls he liked and I told he needed to be more talkative and sincere but also sensitive. He said it was too hard and sounded like girls were complicated and I said he’d understand when he was older. Than Nick saw that I was trying to phone Derek and he said that maybe Derek found someone else and that got me all hot and angry for some reason so after eating Amy’s wonderful cream of mushroom soup I stormed off and said I needed some air.

                Nick followed me because he’s fucking stupid like every other boy who isn’t my dad.

                Dad would follow me but he wouldn’t swing me around to face him and be all demanding with a whole spiel about look and how he’s sorry and how it was out of line. Nick did look like Gerard Way though only chubbier but he was cute. But Derek … but Derek was ignoring me and Nick had a point but I still was mad because it was none of his business. I told him we’d only just met and he had no right to intrude on my business with Derek and besides I’d been with Derek for over a year and besides  Derek was swamped with schoolwork and being captain of the soccer team and I goaded about that.

                So Nick begged me to stay because Devin looked up to me and wanted me to and Nick just plain liked me but he didn’t say that but I could tell because he blushed so much around me. So I stayed and Amy asked if I’d felt better and I felt so bad because she was so nice and told me to carry some extra helpings for my mom because I was sure she felt bad because we’d lost my dad and she didn’t have anyone to share her bed with too at home. Nick and Devin’s dad left them when they were younger for some hot teacher or something. He was stupid because Amy was gorgeous and an awesome aspiring chef. She’s a sous chef at some fancy restaurant in the city.

                But I digress. Nick got me a job. More in the next entry. 

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