Page 12 of Rush

I want a life. I want to be able to paint again. I want to have a career as a professional artist. Maybe even get married one day and have children of my own.

But, to have all of those things, I need to stay sober.

My count is up to fifty when I feel able to actually let go of the counter.

I get my cell from my bag and sit down on my kitchen floor. I open up my music app and press play on my relaxation music. I adopt the lotus position and close my eyes.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting like this when my cell starts to ring with an incoming call.

I open one eye, glancing at the caller display, and see it’s my dad.

I really don’t feel like talking to him at the moment, especially not after my little episode. And it’s hard, feeling like a disappointment all the time. Not that he says so. I can just hear it in his voice.

But I know, if I don’t answer, he’ll just keep calling.

So, I pick up my cell and swipe to accept the call. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey. How are you doing?”

Oh, I’m currently sitting on my kitchen floor in the lotus position after a bad moment, but aside from that, peachy.

“I’m good,” I say. I stretch my legs out and lean back against the cupboard door. “I was just going to start thinking about what to have for dinner.”

“We could have had dinner together,” he says. “I thought you might have come to see me after you finished work. I was gonna give you a ride home, so we could grab dinner together in the city.”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize.” If you’d told me, I would’ve known though. “I wasn’t sure where in the building you were”—lie—“and I had to rush to catch my bus.” Another lie. “Maybe tomorrow?” I suggest.

“I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got a late meeting with Bill.”

Bill is the owner of the team.

“The day after,” I suggest.

“Sure.” Pause. “So, how did you get on today?”

“Okay. It was…good.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to spend much time with you today. I was busy with—”

“It’s fine, Dad.” I’m used to it. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but like usual, I don’t say them.

My therapist in rehab told me that I should air my grievances with my dad, tell him how I’ve felt like second best all these years. The resentment that I feel toward him for never being around to help with Mom when she was still alive.

I knew he couldn’t handle Mom’s mood swings. He would spend as much time out of the house as possible. So, it was mostly just me and her.

When she had a high mood, she was great, fun. But, when she was low…it was bad. Sometimes, she couldn’t get out of bed for days.

Mom was diagnosed with bipolar disorder when I was seven.

Her problems started after I was born, and I wonder if I was the catalyst for everything that went wrong for her. I know she’d had a bad childhood, which was where most of her problems stemmed from. But it seems that it got worse for her after I was born. I sometimes think that she blamed me for her depression…her illness, and that was why she let me be the one to find her in the closet on that day.

I was angry with her for a long time. Angry with my dad for not being there. I guess I still am.

But he was there when I screwed up. It was him who cleaned up my mess. Hired the lawyer. Put me in rehab. Gave me this job.

I owe him for that.

And I don’t want to fight with my dad over the past. He’s the only family I have left.