“God, it’s like she’s bipolar or something. You know what I mean?”

The girl sitting next to me stares at me expectantly,
waiting for me to validate her opinion.
What should I say? Does she know?
Does she know how the thick the air is in a house
with two bipolar people, so still that you fear even the
bat of an eyelash, the lift of a finger,
might somehow cause calamity?
How sometimes the normality of the household relies on that
thick, still air, just to hold everything together? As if it even can?
Does she know the sinking, burning feeling of
watching her dad throw himself into yet another manic phase,
another three weeks of short-tempered tunnel vision?
Does she know what it’s like to come home,
open the garage door,
see a brand new car in the garage that wasn’t there this morning?
Does she know the discomfort of the elephant in the room
being your own family member?
Does she know how it feels to dread winter?
Does she know to fear the anger, the selfishness,
and the impulsiveness, but to fear the silence even more?
Does she know the monotony of a life in which
a person exists, but is rarely ever present?
Does she know? Does she know?
She’s still looking at me. Maybe a minute has passed. Maybe an hour.
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”