The Story of Stephen, Part 1.

Initially, I misunderstood this story. Now, I am determined to tell it properly.

Stephen was late into his adolescence, when he finally realized his idea of ‘normalcy’ had always been skewed. His mother’s mood swings weren’t influenced by her brain – not the way his were. Hers were instead directly correlated to the alcohol content in her blood.

She was a chipper sort of woman who slurred her words, draped herself on the couch and giggled her hours away, pungent fluid sloshing in her glass and spilling down her shirt. The house was always in disarray, a jungle of clutter and grime. Every available surface was covered in bottles and cans, soiled tissues that were soaked and sticky against the countertops or coffee table after being left for so long, dirty dishes stacked in any available corner, rotting peels of fruit that had been eaten a week ago, bags, plastic wrappers, half-chewed toothpicks.

And that was to say nothing of the floors.

His mother either didn’t notice the state in which she lived, or didn’t care. She hadn’t worked in years, living off the disability cheques that came to her every month – she had fought the government for it, and used every penny within the first week of its arrival. The house was paid for; given to her, following the divorce. Their food was mostly charity from their local food bank.

The booze…that was where their funds seemed to go. She was the greatest abuser of the liquor store’s delivery service, and didn’t tend to leave the house unless that was her destination.

Stephen didn’t mind. It was better than the times she was sober.

When her drunken high wore off, her footsteps would get heavy, and it was hard to say whether she was more angry, or depressed. She would sleep through entire days, sob into her pillow when she woke, and sometimes need his help just to dress herself due to her lacking energy.

No matter which extreme she was experiencing, she didn’t tend to take much notice of Stephen. Not where he was, not what he was doing. She didn’t monitor whether or not he was in the house, and on several occasions she would respond with puzzlement when his school called and ask why he hadn’t been in attendance for the past few days.

There was no one to tell him that the manic moods weren’t typical. Stephen didn’t swing between his highs and lows due to any sort of substance abuse. It just…was.

Those days he didn’t go to school was not a sense of laziness, or rebellion. He felt the same lack of energy, the kind where an ache would drag his head back to the pillow and the rest of his body would seize with anxiety, knowing that he would have to face people. A new day meant more judgmental staring, meant the weight of expectation from everyone in his life; what was the point?

The mountainous highs were almost just as bad. It wasn’t ‘a good feeling’. His energy levels prickled under his skin, making him snappish, putting every reaction on the surface and pushing them until he was all but screaming how he felt at any given time. He would fixate and frenzy, staying up to the wee hours of the morning, cleaning the house.

After graduating high school – which he only managed to do thanks to summer classes – he applied at their local grocery store and obtained three things; his own money, his own food, and the attention of a girl.

She worked at the next cash, close enough for them to exchange flirty banter throughout less rushed business hours. When they started dating, she told him from the beginning: their relationship could never be anything but casual.

For the first while, he accepted that. When they both realized they’d fallen in love with each other, she set forth a condition. They could start thinking about a long-term relationship, if Stephen would look into counseling.

She wasn’t strong enough to deal with his mood swings alone, she told him. He needed to work on his problem, too.

It was the first time he’d ever been told he had a problem, of any kind.

He reacted poorly.

In the aftermath of the argument, he didn’t leave his bedroom for days, and called in sick to work.

She visited him at his home, when it had been a week since they’d seen each other. He could see in her face, that she was trying not to be appalled by the state of the house, the drunken antics of his mother. She implored him to reconsider, said that maybe they could live together. He could have more independence, a healthier place to live – but he needed to get help, first.

She said Stephen would be so much happier.

He made the call and set up an appointment with a psychiatrist, with her in the room, and moved out by the end of the month.