The Past
“Wha’ are ya sayin’ ta me?” Ashanti, my mother, asked my therapist as we sat in his office.
I hated coming here.
Ashanti was going to make me come every week to see what waswrongwith me because I crashed out two days ago. Normally, I would only fuck up the house, but this time, she got in the way of my rage, and I ended up striking her. I felt fucked up after, but she made it clear that she didn’t want my apology or to be anywhere near me.
I blacked out because my ugly-ass daddy had just moved in, without my mom asking us if it was okay. I politely told her thatI didn’t want him there. She ignored me and told me it wasn’t about what I wanted; it was about her happiness and her need for help.
When I came to, the house was trashed, and Kenzi was crouched in the corner, crying.
Seeing her like that made me realize that maybe somethingwaswrong with me.
I hated to see my sister cry or fear me. She was the only person in this world I felt truly gave a fuck about me.
So here we were.
“I’m saying that Ghana has what we call impulsive behavior and bipolar disorder. It’s a disorder that causes him to act out without consequences, driven by immediate desires and urges. Sometimes, it could be emotional outbursts and spontaneous purchases, but in Ghana’s case, it’s reckless and dangerous actions.”
“Whaddya s’pose I do wit’ dat information?” Ashanti’s thick accent filled the small office with a hint of fear and uncertainty. If she only knew her actions were why I reacted the way I did.
I was about to be eighteen next week, and she still treated me like a five-year-old. She kept me caged in the house, as if I were some wild animal, and was trying to move her good-for-nothing baby daddy into our home.
I may not have the right to say who she brought into our home, but that nigga didn’t give a fuck about Kenz or me. He ignored me most of the time, and Ashanti acted as if she didn’t see the shit.
The blindfold she wore proudly was what triggered me. She loved that bum more than she loved her own kids.
“I would suggest medication to help him regulate his behaviors.”
“I ain’t taking no medicine,” I told him, finally speaking.
“De medicin’ will help ya, Ghana.”
“Ain’t shit wrong with me,” I denied. “You the problem. Not me.”
She sighed heavily and shook her head. “I dunno wha’ else ya wan’ me ta do. Ya act out an’ tink it’s normal. Ya scare ya sista. If ya care ’bout ha like ya say ya do, ya get de help ya need.”
I looked off. My attention went to all the fancy degrees lining Doctor Ventura’s office. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to take no damn medicine, but I also didn’t want to keep scaring my sister.
I sighed deeply and crossed my arms across my chest. “Give me the stupid medicine, man.”
I could hear Ashanti sigh in relief and had to tighten my arms around myself to refuse the urge to knock her ass out of her seat.
She hated me.
I knew she did.
I also knew she used my love for my sister against me.
“We’re going to start you off with a mild dosage of methylphenidate. It’ll help regulate your mood and keep you focused. I know this is hard, Ghana, but if you want to be better, the medicine will help you with that,” Doctor Ventura said.
I didn’t say shit else as he wrote something on a paper, then handed it to Ashanti.
We left his office and went straight to the pharmacy. I stayed in the car, my hoodie pulled low, and took out my phone to text Kenzi.
Me:
I hate yo’ mama, bro.