“Yeah, but I still struggle.Obviously.” He says this last part with bitterness. Like it really should be that obvious to me that he isn’t okay, but it isn’t. Jordan’s seemed sad a few times, but not depressed. “But yeah, maybe I am. I guess. I don’t know. Fuck.” He groans. “I was a total fuck up before gettingdiagnosed, Miles. Like an honest-to-God mess. I don’t know how Graham or anyone put up with me. I thought I was just an emotional guy, someone who felt every little thing. My dad made me believe that too. He never believed in mental illnesses, so he never had me checked out. Said that shit was just in the head. Not real.”
The more I hear about his dad, the more I hate him. Parents are supposed to advocate for their children, not let them suffer.
“I can at least manage my bills now. And I don’t drink as much as I used to. Still smoke weed occasionally, but I’m not a total fuck up.” His voice lowers even more, so much it’s barely audible. “I have never been as bad as I was after Graham died. Like, I wasbad.Really bad.”
Something in his expression makes me think he was suicidal, but he continues on before I can ask.
“I think that’s why I jumped at the chance to help with the bar. It gave me something else to focus on. Not that it helped. I still spiraled.” He scoffs suddenly, then reaches for something. He shows me a crocheted mouse. “These dumb things helped more than a job ever did.”
My heart warms, but I still feel for him. I pull my other knee up, holding the phone out in front of me. I desperately long to touch Jordan. To hold him and take away his pain. He’s so burdened.
“Anyway, Declan and Piper eventually encouraged me to get checked out, so I did. They started treatment right away.”
“How did it go?”
Two years isn’t a long time in the medical sense, especially for mental illnesses. It can take years to find the right medication, and even longer to find the right dose or see the change. Most people give up too early, thinking it’s not helping.
Maybe Jordan is still figuring out his medication, and if so, he reallyshouldn’tbe going anywhere or doing anything drastic. He needs to be taking care of himself.
“My therapist says routines are important,” he continues, avoiding my question about the meds. “They give me familiarity and something to cling to. So traveling… I don’t know. It just feels impossible now.”
“I get that. I’m sorry I suggested it. I shouldn’t have. I’m just glad you’re getting help. That’s what’s important. Forget I said anything, okay?”
“I don’t want to, though. I don’t want to forget any of it! My dream, my writing. It shouldn’t be taken away just because of some goddamn illness.”
“I know, but maybe now isn’t—”
“Then when will it be, huh? Because I feel like I’m caged, Miles! Like thisthingis holding me back. I can’t write. I can’t go anywhere. I can barely function. All I do is work and come home to my cat. What kind of life is that?”
I chew my lip, unsure of what to say. My eyes burn. He’s making me want to cry. Not because he’s hurting me—because I’m hurting for him. He’s right, he deserves the same freedom everyone else has. The same joy. Not to be trapped by invisible limitations.
And to lose someone he loves too? God. I can’t even imagine. Jordan has been through so much.
“You’re right. It’s not fair,” I say. “It’s absolutely not fair that you have to deal with this when others don’t. But this isn’t the finish line, Jordan. You just started. You’ll figure it out, and until you do, I’ll be here, okay? We can keep video chatting and being friends. Because I really do like talking to you. Knowing this about you doesn’t change that.”
He exhales hard, then his shoulders relax. “I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize.”
“I didn’t mean to blow up like that. Sometimes it’s just… Anyway, I really like talking to you too. You’re definitely a bright spot in my life right now.”
I smile. “Can I just say one more thing, though?”
He waits.
“I think you’re incredibly brave to admit all this to me. And to admit you needed help when you did. When you were at that low point.”
He scoffs and looks away.
“I’m serious. I see a lot of people who refuse treatment, then they come back when their problems are much worse. You did the right thing.”
“Yeah, well. I wish it was sooner. Maybe if my dad would’ve listened to me, I—”
“You can’t think like that. It doesn’t matter what happened in the past. It matters that you’re getting helpnow,” I say firmly. “Focus on that and what you can do to move forward.” I’m slipping into nurse mode, so I take a deep breath to regroup. Jordan doesn’t need a caregiver. He needs a friend. “Like I said, I’m here for you. You’re my friend, Jordan, and I care for you.”
He finally peers up at me. “It really would be fun to visit you someday.”
I grin. “Wouldn’t it? We’d have so much fun. There’s a fun plant store we could visit here, or I could take you to the craft store. We could watch movies and crochet together.”
