Happy One Year-Section 3

Well, I finally got the nerve to publish the last part. It's been hard since a lot of things I'm going through right now, mainly with my career,is related to this post. There is a lot more, but honestly, I'm glad to be sharing this portion with you. Thanks!


Happy One Year-Section 1

Happy One Year-Section 2

The time between BP’s departure from my life and my graduation six weeks later was a blur. I passed my comprehensive exam, completed my clinical internship, and had three job offers in my hand by the end of April. Yet I don’t remember anything from that period, as if I was stuck in a haze while I went about doing what I needed to do. What I do remember is calling BP, holding my breath as I highlighted his name in my cell phone, pressed the dial key, and held it up to my ear to only let out a sigh when I heard his voice mail.

I did not to attend my graduation. I no longer felt connected to the degree I earned, only thinking about what my next move should be. I remember wandering around NYC, taking the subway to random stops, thinking of whether I should make this place my home. The city was beautiful, caught up in that cusp between spring and summer where the city air was warm and smelled the way it would before the humidity set in for the summer. I still remember sipping a cup of ice tea at Battery Park, staring at a hazy image of a distant Statue of Liberty thinking.

I needed a change.

I decided to move back to California.

I left NYC on a Tuesday morning and RJ drove me to the airport. Driving into Queens on our way to JFK, I looked at the Manhattan skyline getting smaller on the passenger side mirror and said a silent goodbye to the city that gave me so much.

******

Within a matter of weeks I got a new job, a new apartment, and a new life in San Francisco. I decided not to pursue becoming a therapist since I felt that in spite of my training, I couldn’t help someone so close to me, how could I help my clients? Back in CA, I got reacquainted with old friends, made new friends, and even began dating again. I also tried to embrace my new home in very much the same way I embraced NYC, by getting lost on their public transportation and discovering new pockets of the city. Yet that same sense of adventure wasn’t there for me as it was in NYC. On one excursion to Dolores Park, I felt my phone vibrate in my jean pocket. It was BP and I hadn’t heard from him in five months.

“Hey babe, I’m walking along York Avenue right now. You wanna go to Barking Dog for some pancakes and talk?”

“Um, I don’t live in New York anymore. I’m in San Francisco now.”

“What? When did you move? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I moved after graduation. Anyways, I thought you wouldn’t care if I stayed or left.”

“I wish you were here, so much has happened.”

I sat down on the grass facing the San Francisco skyline, forgetting about the wind on the hill, as BP relayed to me his tumultuous time since I last saw him.

Even before my departure from NYC, BP began to descend into a sea of confusion. AK moved out of the apartment to live with friends and with him, the weed was gone, too. BP threw himself back into his work, spending long hours in the office working on his particular projects. But when work got out, he became restless. Nights he would wander, go to strip clubs, visit call girls, and began to drink excessively. He was spending exorbitant amounts of money on his exploits, along with making trips to Atlantic City, gambling his money, snorting coke in the bathroom to keep up. He would then spiral down, spending hours in bed, depressed and zoning out in front of the television for days on end. His mood and behavior became erratic. Eventually he began to miss work, with his projects declining, his project manager called him in for an evaluation.

“’Either you get help or you get out,’ she told me. I was asked to go in for a psychiatric evaluation. Sugar, I got diagnosed with bipolar.”

I remember my heart sank as I sat on the hill while my brain was abuzz, going through what I know about bipolar, the manic behaviors, and the signs to make a diagnosis. It was so apparent, why had I not noticed it before? As BP shared his therapy and medication schedule with now daily meetings at AA to work with his addictions to coke, weed, and alcohol (did not want to go through the less strict Narcotics Anonymous), I was overwhelmed with guilt. How come I didn’t notice it before?

I left the hill at Dolores with my soul lost among the fog. I was wrought with guilt that in spite of my limited training, I should have seen the signs, connected the behaviors. I wished that I were more forceful in helping him, persistent in my interventions. Perhaps I was so caught up with my own recovery, that I ignored his. All these questions filled my brain.

******

For the next couple of days I carried the conversation I had on the hill with me. I went over little moments from our relationship, both bad and good, trying to make a connection. I was grateful for the help that he provided me through my own personal struggles, but maybe I could have given him more. But then again, I did, so it wasn’t on me that I tried. The regret and the anger both were swarming through my mind.

All these thoughts swirled in my brain before finally I had to call BP. I needed to ask him questions, to clarify my role in the relationship, and more importantly, to see where I went wrong.

“BP, I am so sorry. I can’t believe that I didn’t see it…the signs,” I cried to him on the phone.

“No, Sugar, please don’t think that it’s your fault, it’s mine for not listening to you. I know you tried to help, to get close, but please don’t blame yourself. I’m so sorry for the way I treated you. I’m on my way to being fine, you’ll see. You’re inspired me with your recovery and you’ve moved on. I’m glad. It’s kinda funny, in a way, your caring and your love saved my life.”

“No, BP, you saved mine.”