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"Do they have you taking lithium now?" my mother asks.

Good morning to you too. My eyes would roll but she has a point —I couldn't even complete the task of pouring her newest eastern remedy into a tablespoon without dribbling bits of purple nectar all over the marble counter. She sighs, tears a paper towel off its roll.

I woke up healthy enough after a week of bedridden illness to a batch of lesions bubbling up on my face. Impetigo is a skin infection most common in infants and toddlers. I'm sick twice a month at least. My immune system has its defects. Mom frets; scours the internet for magic potions to make them go away. My hands just fucking shake.

"I don't think so."
"What do you mean you don't think so?"
"I just take what they give me."
Well are you bi-polar or depressed?"
"Uh...
depressed I guess. I don't know."
"Is that what you tell Dr. Ferguson?
"Sure."
"Ok good, no lithium then. So what's wrong with your hands?"

I down the syrup that made it into the spoon. It's over-sweet, mouth now slicked with sugary slime. I think about smiling at my mom, letting the dark red syrup squeeze through my teeth, down my chin.

I meet her eyes once more, nothing like mine. I tell her I feel better already, kiss her cheek, turn towards the door. My vision is blurry, my face is blistering, my hands quake uncontrollably as I reach for the knob.