Lack of restraint. That’s a symptom. An example of that might be chasing a girl into a bathroom after she very clearly—clear to the point of hysterical tears—told me no.
Aggression. Agitation. Excitability. Hostility.
That’s a word-for-word summary of the best parts of my personality.
Self-harm. Negative. Unless you counted fucking everything in sight without due regard to consequences as harmful.
I personally wouldn’t but that might be because my last batch of test results were clear, and I haven’t really been with anyone lately. If I’d turned up with some nasty disease, I might have to rethink the option.
Besides, losing interest in my dogged pursuit of the opposite sex isn’t a plus. We’re back to anhedonia. Negative symptoms still count as symptoms.
False belief of superiority. My best trait.
Apathy. Tick.
Paranoia. Such as my entire train of thought since arriving home? Extra-large tick with a side-helping of fries.
“Did you get lost?” Mum calls out from the lounge, and I grab a can from the fridge to keep my excuse in place.
“You want something?” I call, dipping my head far enough around the corner to catch her eye.
“Anything sweet hiding back there?”
I walk back into the lounge clutching my drink and toss her the gummy worms I bought the weekend before last.
“They should make another one of these films,” she says, nodding to the TV. “But make him sexy and rich and have him banging their brains out until they die. That’d sell better.”
My phone buzzes and I check it, tilting the screen away from my mother so she can’t read over my shoulder.
A confirmation for an appointment in a fortnight’s time. And that’s the emergency level response.
When I tuck my phone away, Mum has a spark in her eye. “Secret text message, hm?”
“It’s just an appointment.”
“Sure.” She chews her way through three brightly coloured worms, then raises her eyebrow. “Would the appointment involve someone of the opposite sex?”
“Like a horny rich burn victim who wants to enter my dreams?”
Her eyes flash with delight. “Something like that. But maybe with less murderous intent.”
I should tell her about making the appointment. That her meds have slipped into uselessness while she wasn’t looking but I really don’t have the stomach for it right now. Besides, If I leave it till the day of, that’ll mean there’s only one fight. “There’s a girl I like,” I say instead, guaranteed to grab her attention.
“Mm. Does this girl have a name?”
“Not until you’re in danger of meeting her, she doesn’t.”
“Ooh. Intrigue. Which one of us are you ashamed of then?”
“Definitely her. She’s practically the school bike.”
Mum slaps me on the leg, then pulls me into a head lock and ruffles my hair just because she knows I hate it. Or pretend to hate it.
“You shouldn’t talk like that about a nice girl.”
The laugh bursts out of me without restraint. “Yeah. In no way, shape, or form is she a nice girl.”
“Why’d you like her then?”
