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Tim was not having a good time.
Ever since his stunt on the rooftop a week ago, he’d been put back on suicide watch. Everyone kept telling him it wasn’t his fault – apparently, starting new psych meds can actually increase suicidal thoughts and actions. This, of course, seemed very counterintuitive. The meds were supposed to help him, not make him worse.
Leslie and her clinic’s resident psychiatric nurse practitioner had changed his regimen when Dick had brought him in. That meant that for the next few weeks, Tim was going to have to be closely monitored for increased reckless (aka suicidal) behavior until he leveled out.
That is, if this new regimen worked at all.
He had to admit he had become pretty discouraged. His meds had been changed so many times, but the results never seemed to get any better. Jumping off of a building certainly didn’t seem like progress.
And of course, new meds meant new fun side effects to deal with. So far, this new regimen made his appetite nonexistent, his hands twitch, and his brain foggy. Leslie assured him that most of the side effects would fade away over time, but Tim was still not happy about it. Just like he wasn’t happy about being benched and constantly passed around like the Sisterhood of the Traveling Psych Patient.
He was currently at Jason’s. When Dick had been forced to return to work after a few days, Tim had been sent to the Penthouse where Cass and Bruce had taken turns watching him. He had refused to go back to the Manor on account of Damian. He loved his little brother (most of the time), but the kid just couldn’t help himself. The al Ghul in him was simply unable to comprehend the fact that Tim’s mental illness was not the result of some psychological weakness. Alfred had explained to him that Tim couldn’t just stop being bipolar anymore than he could regrow his spleen, and the butler swore that Damian was trying, but progress had been slow. The youngest Wayne wasn’t quite ready to be around Tim yet.
It probably didn’t help that most of their rogue gallery seemed to pop right out of the DSM-5.
Tim found he actually didn’t mind staying with Jason. His older brother had his own complicated history with mental illness, so Tim felt like he actually got it. He always seemed to know when to push Tim and when to give him space. He forced Tim to take care of himself, yet he let his brother be as independent as was safe. Tim felt slightly less smothered around him.
“Eatin’ time, Timmers,” Jason announced.
Speak of the devil.
Tim groaned. He had been napping on the couch in his brother’s living room. His sleep cycle had been another victim of his new regimen. Some days, he couldn’t sleep at all; others, he couldn’t stay awake.
“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled.
“Too bad. I didn’t slave over a hot stove for nothing. Besides, it’s med time, and you don’t want that shit on an empty stomach.”
“I’ll just throw it up.”
His brother placed a steaming soup mug on the tv tray table in front of him. “You won’t throw this up. It’s easy on the stomach.”
The smell was enticing, even to his overly sensitive nose. Tim slowly sat up to investigate further. “What is it?”
“Egg drop soup made with ginger,” Jason explained as he took a seat on the oversized chair next to the couch. “Alfred used to make it for me a lot back when I was struggling with my meds.”
That was another reason Jason was good at taking care of Tim. He was on his own personal cocktail of psychiatric medications, so he understood how any changes to a regimen could knock a Robin flat on his ass.
“Fine,” Tim relented, knowing he wasn’t going to get out of it. At least it was in a mug so his twitchy hands didn’t have to deal with cutlery.
The soup was, of course, delicious. Anything Jason made was good, but this was just what Tim needed – warm and flavorful without being overpowering. It was the first thing he’d eaten all day that didn’t make him gag.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “It’s really good.”
Jason smiled at him. “Happy to be of service, Timmers. So, tomorrow, I was thinking we should go on a hike. Some exercise and sunlight would be good for you.”
Tim grimaced. Exercise and sunlight did not sound like a fun time.
“Oh c’mon, you know both Leslie and Dr. Hudson said that you need to be physically active. The endorphins and shit will help your mood.”
“Do I have a choice?” Tim asked.
His brother thought for a moment. “Tell ya what. I’ll give you a choice: either we go hiking, or we stay here and talk about your feelings all day. I won’t leave you alone until you’ve poured your entire heart out. Which would you prefer?”
Dammit. He was good. “Fine, I’ll go on the stupid hike.”
“Good decision.”
They ate in silence the next few minutes. Tim studied his brother. He remembered when Jason had gotten on medications for his mental health. It had been soon after Bruce had been declared dead. Tim wasn’t sure what had made his brother finally seek psychiatric help (they weren’t exactly on speaking terms back then, with all the murder attempts and whatnot), but when Tim had returned from overseas, Jason had been different.
“Jay?” he asked, his voice shaky.
Jason put down his mug of soup. “Hmm?”
“How long do you think it’ll take for me to get better?”
“I really can’t answer that, Timmy,” his brother replied with a noncommittal shrug. “For me, it took a few months to find the right combination of pills, and even longer until I stopped having regular psychotic episodes. But your situation is completely different, so all I can really tell you is that you will get better eventually. You just have to hang on until then.”
“I just hate this,” Tim sighed. “I don’t even know myself anymore. But then again, I don’t know if I ever did. All these years… how do I know what was really me and what was my bipolar disorder? How do I begin to untangle that?”
Jason moved over to sit beside his brother. “Let me give you some examples. Your love of photography? You. Your annoyingly perfect nerd brain? You. Your impromptu globetrotting to find Bruce when any normal person would’ve thought he was dead? You, but with a hefty dose of mania sprinkled in for extra flavor. Now, the whole ‘attempting to clone your dead best friend’ thing? That was 100% bipolar disorder. Any questions?”
Tim nodded thoughtfully. “I guess that makes sense. So you think I’m going to be okay?”
“Honestly, I think ‘okay’ is a relative term. ‘Okay’ compared to how you are now? Absolutely. Like I said earlier, you will get better in time. But ‘okay’ compared to people who weren’t victims of a serial-adopting crimefighter with a fursona? I wouldn’t hold your breath.”
Tim let out a breathy laugh. That in itself felt like a victory. He couldn’t remember the last time he had found something to be humorous. “Thanks, Jay. I really appreciate you being here for me.”
His brother threw his arm around him. “It’s the least I can do, Timmers. I got a lot of shit to atone for.”
Tim lay his head on his brother’s shoulder. “You’re off to a good start.”