Rise or Crumble (Pete Davidson AU)

1.

***Also before you read I know Pete has BPD and is not Bipolar don't worry it's a part of the story progression❤️

The first thing I woke up to, after my mom shoved the blinds aside and attacked me with the unwelcoming sun, was a blinding headache and a dry mouth.

"Rise and shine sweetheart!"  Mom yelled loudly and I couldn't help but groan.

Without a complaint, I pushed myself to from the mattress, ignoring the pulsing that held a steady beat through my temples.  The floor was the same as it was everyday when I stood up, wooden and boring, creaking underneath my feet.

There wasn't many good things about waking up but I found a few.

1. Stretching and listening to every bone in my body feel a release.

2. The sleepiness pulling me back into the slumber I was enjoying.

3. The ability to forget who you were for a moment.

The third step was good or bad, depending on perspective.  What if Billie Eilish hated being famous?  Her first thought of a long day would be about breakfast, or plans with friends, or more sleep.  Hitler, I'm sure, didn't wake up with the thought 'I'm Hitler' all of the time.  Humans work like that, no matter who you are, your body has needs that prevent you from executing your day from the moment it begins.

"Come on honey, it's almost noon," my mother encouraged, yanking me along.

"Please stop, I'm going to puke."

She let out a loud breath.  "Come down to celebrate, you only graduate from High School once."  With a kiss on the forehead, she walked out.

I sat back down, at the edge of my bed, willing myself to be pretend for the chaos downstairs.  It did, of course, robotically.  Everything I been doing for a month felt like someone was doing it for me.  And I didn't care, I never felt angry or happy that my mint no longer had a say in the way my limbs reacted.

Last month, I attempted to kill myself.

It sounds brutal, and if you didn't think so I had the long, deep forming scars on my forearms to put it over the edge.  Luckily, again depending on the perspective, my dad found me before I could bleed out.  He rushed me to the hospital and they saved me.  Or, only kept me alive.  Soon after that was a mental hospital where they watched me for two weeks and decided they knew enough to declare that I was Bipolar. The psychiatrist gave me medication and this was what became of me, a shell. A face of a walking and talking human being with nothing going in on, on the inside.

The floor creaked underneath my feet, followed by thumping, following my every step as I made my way downstairs. Like everyday once I was visible to everyone in the kitchen they smiled and stared too long, trying to act casual.

Except Roman, who was only six and didn't know how much of a basket case I was. I liked him the most.

"Hi sweetie, come sit, I've made your favorite." When Mom places the food down I probably would have snarled my lip in disgust had it not been for the medication that igniting a white noise effect around the perimeter of my brain. She made eggs and pancakes, the only breakfast food she found easy to create, thus forcing the it as everyone's favorite, even at noon.

Continuing without complaint I sat at my everyday spot and picked at the contents in front of me to appease everyone in the room. Roman shoveled everything into his mouth faster than he could swallow, causing his cheeks to protrude like a little chipmunk. My other brother, Caleb, four years younger than me stared at his phone while eating like it was a chore to him.

"How was your night?" Dad asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

"It was good, Harley and a bunch of friends were there, we stayed up pretty late." The only reason I left out the alcohol and weed intake was because of knew it would turn into a lecture. Technically with the medication that was prescribed for my crazy I wasn't allowed to do anything fun. But I'm reality it just made me a one hit wonder; someone who could get messed up off a beer, or high after one hit of the blunt.