I feel the blood draining from my face, but I move forward, handing colas to Erik and Alex.

“No.” I’m not sure which question, I am answering, it’s just the first response that comes to mind, “I mean, no I’m not really sick, but no I am not really OK, either.”

“That’s OK,” Erik says, “grief is hard.”

I nodded and sit on the bed, tears pricking at my eyes again, threatening to expose my vulnerability.

“I know, except . . . I’m not OK.”

Alex picked up the bottle and read the label, “What’s it for?”

“It’s a mood stabilizer,” my voice trembles. I feel Alex shift on the bed as she moves forward to rub my back, “I started talking them just before Mima went into the hospital.” I turn to face Alex, “The doctor prescribed them.”

Alex nods.

“It’s for anxiety and depression.” I don’t use the term bipolar, because it doesn’t feel right. Where’s the high your supposed to get? I’ve never felt high. I’ve never felt supper happy, “I get really anxious and overwhelmed and then I get sad because I can’t deal with it all. I feel like I am spinning out of control.”

“What are you anxious about?” Erik asks.

“I don’t know. Everything I guess,” I try to search for the source in my head, “I feel like I can’t do anything right. I’m never quite good enough.”

“Wow, sounds like a lot of pressure,” he says. I just shrug.

“Is it helping?” Alex asks.

“I don’t know. It hasn’t been long enough, I guess.”

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