The Difference of Two Squares

"Yes, from what you’ve described it sounds likely that you have bipolar disorder. So, Edie, what we can do now is send you for another appointment, preferably in-person this time, with a specialist who can help you towards an official…"

⬒

It was heading towards worrying that I’d bought my first pack of cigarettes yesterday and already felt like I needed one, but it had less to do with the nicotine rush that was filling my head with smoke tendrils than it did the fact that there was no other unsuspicious reason to sit outside in the rain with my second coffee of the morning taking slow deep breaths. Amy raised her eyebrows at me as I came back inside but I must've looked bad enough to abandon the slightly concerned teasing that always came after one of those looks. 

"I needed it." I said.

That made her look more concerned. I didn’t care.

⬒

I tried ringing my mum, who told me she’d ring me back when she got home, she was picking out tiles for the bathroom at home. I tried ringing my sister, she didn't pick up. I watched some comfort films and argued with the persistent feeling that I’d exaggerated my symptoms to get a diagnosis. In the end the feeling and I agreed to disagree, and later that evening (yes evening, she’d spent all day choosing bathroom tiles) mum rang back. She told me it was good the doctor agreed with me and to keep her updated about the second appointment, but didn’t ask how I was feeling.

To be completely fair to her, I had no idea how I was feeling. I’d just told a stranger on the phone that I self-harm “often enough”, whatever the fuck that means, and a medical professional had told me she thought I had bipolar disorder. I was feeling like I needed to watch Monsters Vs Aliens and eat an inhuman amount of ice cream, and that’s not the sort of response that stops someone worrying about you.

⬒

The next morning I sat on the picnic benches outside our house, our house that didn’t quite feel like ours yet, thanks to the overgrown garden and blank walls and the fact that there were only two of us in it, and attempted to doodle. 

Doodling had always seemed like a natural organic process for the creatively gifted, and although I had managed to come across as creatively gifted to my housemates thanks to some drunk drawings of Percy Pig’s face on pink balloons and some flowers embroidered onto converse that had taken months and were at best mediocre, I was not actually anything close to what I would describe as creative. This meant I was doing the closest thing I could to doodling- googling every variation of ‘simple hand drawn doodle full page for beginners’ I could think of, with my pens tucked safely in their case and my notebook closed.

I had my earphones in, listening to a playlist that was both objectively cool, thanks to the song choices, and objectively uncool, thanks to the fact that I thought of it as cool. There was a knock on the window behind me and I turned to see Anna, standing on the window ledge. I took out an earphone as she opened the window.

"So that's why you didn't come to the door when I rang the bell," she said.

"You've got a key haven't you?"

"Yeah, right at the bottom of my bag. Had to root for it for ages."

"My condolences. God really does give the toughest battles to his strongest soldiers."

She snorted, and shot me a look that told me I was not quite as funny as I was irritating at this particular point in time.

"I’m going to make some lunch," she said.

The window closed. Of course, it was gone twelve and she mustn't have eaten a bite for at least twenty minutes. Anna had been having panic attacks since she was around four, and her anxiety was very much routine-oriented. She could spend all day with people she'd never met in a place she’d never been, provided she knew about it in advance and knew for a fact she would be able to eat at regular intervals and sleep in a proper bed with a good mattress and pillows in pitch darkness at a reasonable hour. I knew I shouldn’t wind her up about it, but it did get annoying sometimes.

I went back to my doodling.

⬒

I stir the beans in the pan and grin at the song that’s just come on. The sausage rolls in the oven are almost done and smelling divine, and I'm taking it as a sign that today will be ok.

I'm actually feeling fine about it. Is it weird that I'm teaching kids benchball with Declan? Yes. Is it weird that he’s asked me to go for a drink later? Also yes. Is it naive of me to assume I’ll be fine just being friends and won’t spend the whole time reading into it and wishing something else was going on? I'm starting to see a pattern here.

It’ll be fine. He’s got a girlfriend, he’s off limits, and I can be friends with him, no problem. Plus there’s no reason to think he has any idea how I feel. Edie said it seemed obvious, when I showed her some texts we’d sent, but she also said that was probably because she already knew. She probably would’ve guessed anyway.

The timer rings, interrupting the music, and I pull the tray out of the oven. The sausage rolls are golden brown, a little crispy on the ends- I’m still not used to these ovens- but they smell heavenly. It’s the little things.

I bring the speaker out with my lunch, balancing the cutlery precariously on the plate, and sit across from Edie. She rolls her eyes, pulling out her earphones dramatically to demonstrate what a huge inconvenience my music is, before returning to her notebook. She’s not actually annoyed. I think.

"You look nice," I say.

"I know," she replies, not looking up.

I’ve only ever heard her respond to a compliment with “I know” or some kind of argument explaining why the compliment is actually null and void because the thing that she’s being complimented on is actually nothing to do with her effort or skill, or because she disagrees with what’s being said. I continue to give them, because I hope that beneath the knee-jerk responses, she’s listening.

But also because she does look nice. She’s wearing a long black dress I've never seen before- must’ve decided it's finally too hot for jeans- and the old red flannel she must wear at least three times a week. Her hair is clipped back, a few bright red curls framing her face, and her freckles are out, giving her a sun-kissed look she definitely hasn’t earned. She’s drawing something in a notebook, but she closes it now and lies back on the bench.

"So how are we feeling about babysitting with Declan?" She raises her hand in the air, trying to block the sun, then gives up and drops her arm over her face.

"They’re like sixteen, I’m hardly babysitting. They’re all gonna be taller than me."

She sits up. "Sixteen? How the hell are you planning on spending three hours teaching sixteen year olds benchball? Step one, nominate some poor sod to get on a bench, step two, pelt them with basketballs until they catch one. Look at that, I just saved you three hours."

"Well I'll be helping them, won’t I? Like coaching them, getting involved."

"You may as well be a powerpoint," she muttered, lying back down.

"How is that a helpful comment? This is why you don’t do stuff like this."

"Nope, I don’t do stuff like this because it’s a waste of time and I’m not masochistic enough to babysit some athletically challenged teens with the guy I’m trying to get over."

I sighed and pushed some beans around with my fork. "Do you really think it’s a bad idea?"

"I think you're not ready to be friends with him, and I think you’ll be flirting with him all night if you go for drinks. Where are you going, anyway?"

"There’s a place near the sports centre, so probably there. It's a bit spenny though, my bank account’s gonna be weeping."

"Me and Amy are going to Spoons for tea, why don’t you come with us?"

"Are you actually fucking stupid? Of course I’m not doing that."

I chewed some food and waited for her to reply, but she’d lost interest. I actually think I’d rather her lose interest than make stupid suggestions for the sake of getting a reaction. I obviously wasn’t going to take Declan to meet her, I’d have to be monumentally-

⬒

"Declan, isn’t it? Hey, I’m Edie, this is Amy."

"Hey." He smiles, nods and sits down next to Amy. Anna sits next to me, pointedly avoiding my raised eyebrows, and gets out her phone to order.

Underwhelming doesn’t do this guy justice. He reminds me of the Silence from Doctor Who, as soon as I’m not looking directly at him I have trouble recalling any of his features. 

"So," I say, trying my absolute hardest to look like I’m genuinely interested in the answer, "How was benchball?"