by Barb Natividad
Josie had to tell Eric. She’d been dreading it, and wondered how he’d react. Wondered if it was too late to tell him. They’d been dating for three months, and it had gone well. Plenty of dinner dates, trips to the movies and museums, and last week, a long weekend in Galena, Illinois. They’d rented a cabin and taken her dog, who pranced in circles whenever she saw Eric.
Josie had told her family and they disapproved. They wouldn’t believe her, and thought she was just lazy and weak. She’d never told a boyfriend because her relationships didn’t last. She always broke it off when things started to get serious. Even her friends didn’t know, but she had to tell Eric eventually.
He had agreed to meet her at The Perfect Cup near Lawrence and Damen. She was late because she’d driven in Chicago traffic while it snowed and couldn’t find a nearby parking space so she had to walk two blocks. The snow had stopped falling, but a gust of wind blew. Josie stepped carefully into the snowbanks that weren’t yet shoveled, which slowed her down.
Inside, Josie welcomed the aroma of fresh coffee. A line led from the doorway to the counter, but she saw Eric at one of the six occupied tables. He had two cups in front of him, and she saw his face brighten when he spotted her. She made her way to the table and he stood and took her in his arms. Her own arms remained stiff. He let her go. She sat, took off her red mittens but didn’t remove her coat. This might be a short conversation.
“I got you an almond milk cappuccino,” he said.
Josie loved that he remembered her go-to drink. She tried to smile, but her lips remained in a straight line. “Thanks.”
“How was your morning?” asked Eric.
“Fine.” She removed the lid from her cup to let the coffee cool.
“Have you had lunch? Let’s go out after we finish our drinks.”
She shrugged.
Eric’s brow furrowed. “You’re awfully quiet. Is everything okay?”
The coffee shop was loud because of the conversations that buzzed around them. Instead of raising her voice, Josie lowered it. “I have something to tell you.”
“Of course. What is it?” He smiled.
“I’ve had a great time with you,” Josie began.
“Uh oh,” said Eric. “Are you breaking up with me?” He ran his fingers through his short, gelled hair.
“No,” she said. It was now or never, and never wasn’t an option. Not this time. She liked him too much. “I have an illness.”
“I told you to get the flu shot,” he said, and chuckled. “Seriously though, are you okay?”
“It’s not that kind of illness. I’m okay now, and have been for a while.” She dunked her pinky tip into the cappuccino and pulled it away immediately. Still too hot.
“Is it in remission?” he asked, and leaned forward.
“Not exactly. There’s no cure.”
“Are you saying it’s terminal?” asked Eric, leaning back.
“Well, no,” she said, then blurted, “I have bipolar disorder.” She hunched her shoulders.
Eric stared at her. “Oh. But you seem normal.”
“I’m stable right now,” Josie said drily. She took a sip of her coffee. It burned her upper lip and she winced.
“Bipolar,” said Eric. “Is that where your moods go up and down?”
“Something like that.”
“But everyone has mood swings.”
“Not like this,” Josie said in a clipped voice.
“Tell me more,” he said, and leaned forward again.
“I have manic and depressive episodes that can last for weeks.”
“Go on,” he said, and held her hands.
Josie let her shoulders relax a bit. “When I’m manic, I make bad decisions. I don’t sleep. I’ve had anonymous sex. Once I put down all my savings on a BMW I didn’t even want or could afford, but seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Josie visualized what it would be like if she had a manic episode and they were still together. She’d hope he knew her well enough to detect any changes in her behavior and support her, stay by her side.
“Also, I speak rapidly with no pauses from one thought to the next. I’m productive at first, and do things like deep clean my apartment and start hobbies I end up quitting after the episode,” she said, and held Eric’s hands tight. “I double-book my appointments at the salon, but end up overextending my commitments. Once mania really takes hold, I don’t show up for work and the receptionist has to cover for me. I’d lost a job once, which scared me into seeking help.”
“Anonymous sex?” asked Eric.
“That was before I was diagnosed two years ago. I don’t do that anymore,” she said. “Now, as soon as I feel an episode coming on, I call my psychiatrist so he can adjust my medication. I’d been hospitalized when the episodes were really bad.”
“Hospitalized?” Eric let go of her hands. “You mean in a psych—”
“Behavioral unit.”
“And when you’re depressed?”
Josie explained that manic episodes often preceded a crash into depression. She’d oversleep and still wake up tired. She was unable to do basic things like showering and brushing her teeth because her energy was so low she felt like a light bulb flickering towards its death. Like in mania, she’ d cancel her appointments but at least called or emailed despite her lethargy because of the guilt she felt for being depressed.
“Sometimes, I just can’t get out of bed.”
“That sounds awful,” said Eric.
Josie agreed. But with Eric at her side, she believed she’d recover sooner knowing she had his support. She didn’t expect him to cater to her, but knowing she had someone in her corner would be a relief. Someone who cared, unlike her own family who didn’t believe in mood disorders. She was tired of going through it alone.
“I didn’t know when the right time was to tell you,” Josie said.
“I appreciate you telling me.”
“Does that mean you still want to see me?” she asked, and finally smiled.
Eric looked everywhere but at Josie. He fidgeted.
She remembered when they first met at a bar during an Ohio State Buckeyes game. She and her friends, Ohio transplants to Chicago, were decked out in the school’s colors—scarlet and gray. A group of men sat at a table next to theirs. One of them wore a red football jersey and a string of buckeyes around his neck. His brown hair was short, his eyes the color of Lake Michigan.
The team scored a touchdown on their opening drive and everyone exchanged high fives. He turned to her, and when their hands touched, she was blinded by fireworks that went off in her head. That had never happened when she’d met other men.
“Honestly, I’m not sure,” he said and ran his fingers through his hair again. “I don’t know what I’d—you’d be dealing with. I wouldn’t know how to handle it.”
Josie’s jaw clenched and she stood up. He let her go.
She didn’t believe it was a mistake to tell Eric. How could she not? Maybe she should have told him sooner so she wouldn’t have spent so much time with him. He wasn’t worth it.
Fat flakes fell as Josie trudged to her car. Before taking out her keys, she held out a mittened palm. Snowflakes landed on it and melted on impact. But more snowflakes fell and eventually, she knew, they’d accumulate.
Barb Natividad (she/her) is a disabled writer living in Chicago. Her stories and poems appear in several publications, including BigCityLit and Babaylan: An Anthology of Filipina and Filipina American Writers. Barb holds an MFA in poetry from The Ohio State University. She writes Comedy, Tragedy on Substack, and is currently writing a novel.
January House Literary Journal 
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