I keep writing this journal entries so that I don’t forget my own persona, as what usually happens, is that when I’m with him, my own personal problem’s tend to dissapear, and all of the good things I achieved tend to be pushed to the back.

That’s okay, I’m used to it.

Martin tend’s to have that effect on people, whenever he’s talking to someone even if they are talking about something else, it alway’s somehow has to do with him, it always has to do with him no matter what the situation is about.

And he knows it, and his friends know it. It’s a weird thing he has where it’s always about him, and I’m okay with that.

The other day I had made food for him. We were silent during a good portion of the middle of the conversation, there was just nothing to say, and I was kneading bread.

“So,” he started. “Why you keep making food for me?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, knowing that there was something hidden inside of this question.

“Don’t answer a question with a question,” he said, trying to back me into a corner, he had this episodes of anger as well, subtle, but still, it seeped into his thoughts. There was a moment of silence, where we just looked at each other, I was dumbfounded, I had no idea what he meant but that, and I didn’t want to find out, because I knew where this was going. “I mean…” he started back up.

“All I mean is that, why do you feel the need to take care of me?” he asked, like he didn’t know the answer, maybe he didn’t, maybe I don’t know.

“Martin – You know the answer to that,” I said retorting back at him.

“Okay…” he said. “But like seriously, do you think that I’m unable to take care of myself… I can cook just fine, I can wash the dishes, I can do my laundry, why do you do all those things for me, you’re not my maid, you’re my friend,” he said. There were times where he would just stand in the entrance and watch me do laundry.

“Oh, okay, I know this is not you talking right now, so you’re gonna have to punch that anger into someone else, because it ain’t gonna work on me, I know you, and I know what you’re trying to do,” I said, that’s really what I told him.

He screamed and threw his plates to the ground, like a child. “I HATE YOU!” he shouted, his face mad with anger, he stormed off into another room. And slammed the door.

Later I heard weeping, finally, I entered the room slowly, and I embraced him and he told he was sorry, over and over, and over again.

Martin was diagnosed with bipolar disorder somewhere during the middle of collage. Lately he hasn’t been taking his meds because he say’s that they don’t allow him to process his mother’s dead properly.

He’ll be back on them when he get’s better, but how long will that be?