How do I know

It's been a tough day. I've been irritable and fidgety and crazy productive, although not for anything work-related. It's not as bad as it's been in the past, but it's worse than it usually is. I have this fear that it's a potent of something worse, that it's going to get really bad before it gets better.

It might explain why I'm so irritated with New Guy. Last night, when I hung out with Big Brother and the girl, he was (I thought) acting like an utter asshole. But then, I thought that the girl was acting kind of like an asshole, too, and Big Brother says they were both just fine. So maybe it's me. Maybe it's entirely my perception, which could mean that I'm just really pissy and irritable.

Now how do I handle it with New Guy? Do I just flat-out tell him, "I think I may have a hypomanic episode coming on, but I'm not sure, so if I turn into a crabby bitch, please don't hold it against me"? Yeah, that wouldn't freak anybody out. At the same time, though, if I do turn into a crabby bitch, I don't want him to think it's about him.

Unless it is about him. And how do I know? That is, oddly enough, one of the worst things about the crazazy: I can't trust my own perceptions. I can never really know if I'm actually feeling what I'm feeling or if it's just my jacked-up brain chemistry telling me something different.

I've got an appointment with Dr. R. on Thursday, thank God. I missed my last one because I was so pissed off after my meeting with Boss of Eternal Evil that I forgot it entirely. It's probably best that I'm going this week instead, though. With the way I feel now and the way I may well feel by the end of the week, I'll definitely, definitely need his input.

Crazazy little thing called love

This is awful. It makes me sound like such a princess. But I'm still having to get used to being treated well by New Guy. It's still a bit of an adjustment. And that's so stupid! It's stupid to say, "Wow, this guy is awesome, and he's sweet to me, and he genuinely likes me, and he lets me know it, and this makes me uncomfortable." But there you have it.

I guess it's just because it's something I've never encountered in my life. Ever. Ever. No man in my life has ever behaved that way. The Commodore was a narcissist. Hot Mess was emotionally distant. Big Brother is incapable of making a move or expressing his feelings. Dad is incapable of offering the most basic approbation without prompting--if even then. So with New Guy being so open about his feelings so early on, my natural inclination is to think, "Well, damn, what's wrong with this guy?"

That's how skewed my perception has gotten: I can't appreciate a normal, healthy guy for what he is. Which isn't to say New Guy doesn't have his faults; he does. They just aren't neuroses. And that's kind of refreshing, if unfamiliar.

Now that I think about it, I think that may be the rub. In the past, I think I've sought out other crazies in the misguided hope that, through the miracle of neurotic empathy, they might understand and accept me the way other people generally don't. But what usually happens is that we two crazies just bounce our neuroses off each other until we're both crazier than before and the whole thing collapses catastrophically.

New Guy isn't neurotic, but he seems to understand and accept me anyway. He doesn't want me to change to suit him. He doesn't want me to heal hi. He doesn't want me to stroke his ego or substitute for a lack of self-esteem or fill a hole in his life. He just wants me to be myself, doin' my thing, wherever he is, and maybe let him grope my boobs on occasion, and maybe let him do the things for me that he enjoys doing. That's all he asks of me, and it feels really, really good.

And really fucking weird.

Daddy's girl

Sometimes it takes a visit home to really drive home the full extent of my daddy issues. I'd been doing well in a more theoretical respect with my efforts not to seek his approval or let his emotional distance get to me, but put me in immediate contact with him, and all bets are off.

It's just so frustrating. I got stupid and tried to bond with him by helping him out with an unpleasant chore, and instead I got the unequivocal message that I don't know anything about anything. I'm just a girl and a writer and I can't possibly help with anything math- or engineering-related that might require a man brain.

Then Mom tried to stand up for me, which I wish she wouldn't do. I mean, I appreciate it, and I know she does it because she loves me and hurts when I hurt, but it never makes anything better and it only gets him mad at her, too, and then he's withdrawn and pouts and everybody's unhappy.

The saddest thing is, this is exactly the way his mother always treated him: disregarding him, demeaning him, making him feel stupid and worthless. And he recognizes this. He just can't help passing it down to his kids.

It just tears me up. I want so badly to have a close, friendly relationship with him, but I have to walk on eggshells all the time. The most innocuous comment will set him off, and then he acts like I'm responsible for his hateful behavior. "I wouldn't have snapped at you if you hadn't been so glib." Glib? I wasn't being glib; I was being perfectly sincere. I know better than to be glib or dry or, God forbid, ironic when Dad's around. It's like smoking at a gas station.

Jumping ship

Okay, I do realize that you're never, ever, ever meant to ditch a medication without first discussing it with your doctor, and I totally understand why, but I just could not keep taking the Lexapro. Two weeks in, and the side effects were debilitating. I couldn't function, so I ditched it. And I'm so glad I did. I'm not nearly so tired anymore, I'm not groggy at work, I've regained both the energy and the inclination to exercise. I'm still not sure why Dr. R. put me on it in the first place, but I'm going to have to break it to him that it didn't work out.

Things are also going better with New Guy. I'm starting to realize that the behaviors that have made me so uncomfortable in the past are simply the behaviors of a guy who sincerely likes me. They're unfamiliar because he's a mature adult who isn't afraid to make his feelings clearly known. And now that I realize that, it's kind of nice. It's nice not to have to wonder how he feels about me. Dating a grownup--what a concept.

And what a pity that, between Hot Mess and so many exes and even my own dad, a mature adult who actually likes me and actually tells me so is such a novelty. I never even realized that I deserved such good treatment until I was already getting it and it was already freaking me out. I guess I'm just going to have to get used to being treated right by a man in my life.

We got the beat

Okay, the side effects have gotten a little bit better. I'm not dizzy or woozy or nauseated anymore, but I'm just plain beat most of the time. I actually got seven hours of sleep last night, albeit on the couch, and I'm just beat like a rug.

What's more, I'm completely unmotivated. Getting up in the morning, going to work, going back to work after lunch, all of it takes effort--almost more effort that I've got in me. That could be the Lexapro, or it could just be that I'm getting really tired of my job. I'm tired of never really knowing who I'm working for or who's in charge or what's expected of me, and I'm tired of getting my work shat upon by clients--and a certain boss--who don't know enough to know.

On the plus side, things seem to be looking up with Dr. R. Now that he's had  couple of sessions to get to know me and better understand my situation, I think he's ready to actually sit down and start therapizing me. And, more importantly, he seems wiling to work with what has already been successful for past therapists instead of trying to reinvent the wheel. Which is not to say that I'm not open to new techniques. If I thought electroshock would get my head straight, I'd wire up myself.

The other thing that's going better is New Guy. It's not perfect, but it's moving in a good direction, for a couple of reasons. One is that I've finally decided to put Hot Mess behind me. Not entirely, because I still do value his friendship. But there came a point when I said to myself, "I'm sitting here pining over an unemployed, unmotivated, emotionally distant guy two time zones away. Why is that?" And I gave myself permission to let it go.

I also talked to Big Brother, which always helps. I mentioned that New Guy keeps pushing forward, and I don't feel ready, so I pull back, and he just pushes forward. And Big Brother said, "Well, stop doing that." And I said, "Well, okay." And once I gave myself permission to like him, I... found that I like him.

It's still not perfect. He's still moving a lot faster than I feel comfortable moving, and he seems to be putting a lot more trust in me than I honestly feel I deserve. And I'm more comfortable with those things when I've been drinking than when I haven't, which is never a good sign (and which I'm not supposed to be doing anyway). But it's baby steps, it's all baby steps, and at least I'm not afraid of where I'm going anymore.

Sufing safari

Side effects fucking suck.

I'm so sick of surfing side effects. I think that's why I was so resistant to Dr. R.'s plan to put me on an antidepressant. Of course I'm wary of polypharmacology; I just don't want to put more chemicals in my body than I have to. But I'm so tired of surfing side effects.

My trip with my family wasn't ruined by the side effects, but it was affected. I was sleepy, easily tired, occasionally woozy and shaky. I'm also cranky and unmotivated of late, although that's just as likely to be work-related as anything else.

I know I'm whining here, but I think it's so unfair that I can't live life like everyone else, more-or-less chemical free. Every time I down a big handful of pills in the morning, it reminds me that I'm 17 milligrams and the grace of God away from the full-on crazazy.

At what point do I get to feel normal?

Okay, apparently not feelin' so good

Dr. R wants me on antidepressants, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. He's given me samples of Lexapro (an SSRI and my dad's "favorite," Dad says), and I'm going to give it the old college try, but I don't know how I feel about polypharmacology.

I know how I feel after the first pill: dizzy. Woozy. Sleepy. Certainly not sharp and aware like you really need to be in a job like mine. I felt like this when I first started the Abilify, too, and it went away, so I'm not worried about being this way forever, but this is just not a convenient time in my personal life or my career to be test-driving new drugs and working through side effects. A little stability would be nice.

I won't pretend I'm not wary of what is now a drug cocktail. I try to keep the number of foreign chemicals that I introduce into my body to a minimum--I hardly take Advil for a headache--and now I'm up to three daily pills, if you count my birth control. Add in my calcium and the glucosamine I'm taking for my hip and I'm a walking pharmacopia.

If it works, though, I'm for it. And Dr. R. seems to think it'll help. I thought the Abilify was supposed to help with the depression, but apparently not. Dr. R. seemed concerned that I cry a lot--a lot--all the time, and while I'm a bit concerned about that myself, I don't know that I'm concerned enough to want to pop a pill.

I guess I just didn't know that I was depressed. I thought I was tired and sad and frustrated and stressed out, which is different, right? It's situational; you change the circumstances and it goes away. And I think that's the rub, for me: I'm entirely willing to do and take whatever is necessary to correct my malfunctioning brain chemistry, but I'm not going to take a pill to make the world go away. I like the world. It just pisses me off sometimes, is all.

But maybe this will be okay. It's an SSRI, and all that does is let the seratonin bounce around in my head a little bit longer, right? That can't be a bad thing. And I gave Dr. R. my speech about not wanting to be numb or flat, and he seemed to understand and maybe even care.

And Dad's okay with it. And Dad is, for all of his faults, a wicked awesome doctor, so if he's okay with it, I'm okay with it. Crazazy Cocktail it is. To my health.

Feelin' good

I had a realization today, and I thought I'd commit it to paper since everything else in here is so godawful depressing (and there's a reason for that--when I get down, I get all introspective and whiny, and I feel guilty enough imposing that on a blog. When I'm up, I'm too busy sharing it with the world to sit down and write).

No more Jimmie Legs.

My periods of what has since been identified as hypomania were marked by the most horrible, skin-crawly urges to move you can believe. I would go out running only because sitting still was agony. It was the illegitimate love child of an itch and a tingle and the feeling you get when you put your tongue on a battery, multiplied by ten, and I haven't felt it in at least a month. So I'm thanking the gods and the drugs and whatever else.

No more Jimmie Legs. The urge to smoke has gone way down. The urge for sex is gone, and I've had my opportunities, too. I was irritable this weekend, but I'm fairly sure that's just due to my impending period. The insomnia's gone. The urge to eat is controllable, making the urge to purge a nonissue.

So there's joy in my life. I feel I need and deserve it. I may be down, but I know it's sadness, not depression. It's situational. It's logical for me to feel sad right now (as logical as feelings ever are). And as bizarre as it sounds, it makes me feel happy to feel sad.

It's something I discussed briefly with Dr. R. at our last session. He mentioned me being depressed about the Hot Mess thing, and I was able to correct him: not depressed, sad. Having been there, I know the difference. And when Dr. F. and I were discussing medication, I told him that I still wanted to experience my emotions, because they're what make a life out of an existence. I'd been numb, and I didn't want to do it again.

No numbness. No depression or hypomania. Happiness, contentedness, and sadness. My life's not perfect, and it's not likely to stay this way for long, but for just one day, things seem to be more or less working out on the mental health front. And when you've got the crazazy, that's pretty damn noteworthy.

A moment to whine

I'm sleep-deprived, I'm premenstrual, and I don't want a pen pal.

I just generally don't want things to be the way they are. Isn't that just the worst whiny bitching boiled down to its elemental form? "Stop the world, I want to get off!"

I don't want to be sick, I want to be sane. I don't want insomnia, I want to sleep. I don't want Hot Mess there, I want him here, and I don't want to be his pen pal, I want to be his girlfriend. I don't want "love ya," I want "love you."

And I don't want New Guy. I'm so sorry to say it, especially since he seems so into it. Actually, maybe that's why I'm not interested. What kind of 41-year-old man would be physically attracted to and intellectually stimulated by me? Must be something wrong with him, right?

I guess that's something to discuss with the new doc, Dr. R. (and best of luck in your new practice, Dr. H.). It kind of ties in with my abandonment complex, I guess; if nobody else finds me worthy of hanging around, I must be worthless. And if I'm worthless, what's this guy's problem?

The more I think about it, the more I should, I realize, hate Hot Mess for the number that he's done on my psyche and my self-esteem. He's made it quite clear that he doesn't give two shits, and I've internalized it to believe that I'm not worth two shits.

And even recognizing this, I still can't imagine being able to let him go. Now that's sick.

The prayer of the nervous bulimic

Okay, so things are kind of falling apart, and I'm kind of scared. I've purged twice today and once yesterday, the big, heaving, heart-pounding kind that remind you exactly how bulimia can kill you. And I don't want to die, certainly not from that.

I'm just sad and lonely, so I comfort-eat an entire box of lemon-poppyseed scones and then feel guilty about it. Or all of that bread and cheese and wine (and I'm not even supposed to drink on Abilify). I've gained so much weight in the past few months, and I can't even chalk it up to the drugs. I'm just sad and eating.

I haven't actually had a drug-related side effect at all in over a month, but who needs 'em? Loss of appetite? I'll stuff myself anyway; it's not about being hungry. Insomnia? I was up anyway. I come front-loaded with my own set of neuroses that top anything Abilify could throw at me, were it still throwing it.

And it does seem to be working. The stuff I'm dealing with now is harsh, but it isn't crazazy-related. I'm sad, but I'm not depressed--and I've been doing this long enough to know the difference. I've got insomnia, but it's from stress and not mania. I spent too much today, but it was because I needed new work clothes. My thoughts aren't racing, I'm not irritable. The only person I want to have sex with is the man I love, however otherwise inadvisable that might be.

Unfortunately, the stuff that I'm still dealing with is just as harmful as bipolar II. Food issues are the worst because you can't just go cold-turkey. An alcoholic can choose never to set foot in another bar, but I have to eat, and if I feel like bingeing, the opportunity is always there.

The underlying addiction, of course, is Hot Mess, and that's one monkey that I can't and won't kick. I should tell him not to e-mail anymore so I can heal and move on. But I told him that I'd always be there as a friend, and moreover, I don't want to quit him. At this point, and I'm not saying it will never change, I would rather be pining and miserable than with somebody else, and I have a feeling that's going to be interfering with my future relationships until I make the decision to let it go. Which I don't see myself doing any time soon.

Sorry, New Guy.

Lord, please don't let me die in my sleep. Amen.

The New Guy

New Guy is moving fast. He texts me many, many times a day. He called me the other night to talk for an hour about nothing because he had to go back in to work late. And yesterday, he invited me to have drinks with his friends.

It would be great. That's precisely the level of engagement I'd want--any girl would want--in a boyfriend. But he's not my boyfriend. We went on one date a week ago. We've yet to establish the commonality necessary to sustain an hour-long chitchat, and I'm not going integrate myself into his social circle until I'm sure he's a keeper. Which he may turn out to be--if he slows down.

Curly Sue may be to blame for this. When we were talking post-first-date, she mentioned that New Guy never falls in love or really cares much. I said I was looking for someone who would be engaged and care as much as--but not more than--I do.

If she told him to stalk me to appear "engaged," I'ma whomp her with a sock full of pennies.

I know that no good comes of comparing him to Hot Mess, but I can't help it. Things with H.M. were just so simple from the very beginning. Conversation was fluid. Text frequency was ideal.

But now that I think about it, that wasn't terribly equal either. At first, I thought he was far more into it than I was, and of course we've since discovered that he's into it far less. So maybe this is a good sign. Maybe this is a sign that, six months from now, I'll be tragically in love with him and he'll be leaving town without a backward glance.

Oh, goody.

Frozen

Frozen is the word for how I feel. I know what I'm supposed to be doing--working out, eating better, writing my story, writing my novel, writing my screenplay, knitting that damn blanket--and it's not that I don't want to do them. I want so badly to do them. I just can't make myself move. I sit in front of the computer and can't type; I pick up my knitting and stare at it.

I lie in bed, trying to force myself to get up and do sit-ups. I cook up a nice veggie casserole and eat ice cream instead.

I wonder if this is how Hot Mess feels, constantly self-sabotaging. I realise that my issues aren't quite as serious as his, but still--to know what you need to do to make life better and to not be able to do it. To only be able to do the opposite.

It almost--well, okay, no almost, it does, it makes you lose hope that things will get better if you can't make those small steps, if you can't let them get better. And when things don't get better, you know the only person you have to blame is yourself.

He lost his job because he was an asshole. I might miss my deadline because I haven't written this story. Things could go right, but they aren't going right, because when I try to do what's right, I freeze. And maybe, like Hot Mess, I'm just subconsciously scared of what will happen when I do finally get my shit together.

Or I'm just lazy.

Phantom babies

I had a dream the other night that I was pregnant, and it was so vivid that I actually bought a pregnancy test today and took it just to make sure. It was negative, unsurprisingly, but what was surprising was the part of me that was disappointed by that.

How ridiculous is that? I'm not ready to be a mom; Hot Mess absolutely isn't ready to be a dad (in fact, in his current I'm-a-screwup mindset, an unintended pregnancy might just kill him). Maybe it's the self-destructive part of me jumping up again, I don't know. But some part of me wanted it.

Maybe it's because in my dream, it was awesome. Despite being burdened with an unintended pregnancy, I was happy and beautiful. And my parents were irate, and I don't even remember H.M.'s reaction; I don't even know if h was in the dream. But I was happy and beautiful and excited about the life inside of me.

The dream dictionaries all say something about a new creative endeavor, but I think it's about H.M. I think that now that he's gone, I'm clinging to any remnant of him that I can find, even if it' just his half of a phantom bastard. Pathetic.

Today at Mass, Father was talking about the power we have to change other people's lives and to heal, and I nearly started crying in the middle of church because of course I thought about Hot Mess and the ways I healed him and the ways he healed me. Except it feels like, in healing me, he grew into the injured parts, so that when he left he ripped it all open again.

I went on an actual date Saturday night. New Guy is great. He's the diametrical opposite of H.M. in just about every way: tall, built, much older, stable, established, very focused, very intense. He opened doors. He stood when I left the table and again when I returned. He's everything that I need in a man at this stage of my life.

But he's not going to sit up with me and teach me to play poker when I can't sleep. And he's not going to suddenly whack me with a pillow just because the room got too quiet. And although he'll feel duty-bound to take care of me, he won't let me return the favor. And that' s what I need at this stage of my life, too.

Maybe I'm just not ready to date again yet. Because every man I see will be measured against Hot Mess, and lose, because nobody's him. And I need to get used to the fact that I will never have him.

On my own

I'm not doing too great. Ever since Hot Mess left, I'm not eating right, I'm not getting to sleep on time, my place is a mess... And it's not like I've ever really been the queen of clean living, but when I'm in a good emotional place, I don't do too badly.

And toward the end, there, especially, H.M. was really looking out for me. He always kind of teased me about my insomnia, and we'd do a lot of eating together, but toward the end, he always made sure that I had dinner, and he'd be the first one to call me on it when I stayed up past my bedtime. I guess that was his way of showing that he cared about me as a friend. Not a bad way to show it, all told, but would that it meant something more.

And now I have this quasi-date on Saturday, which is bringing up all the old anxieties and then some, and I lack the support structure to handle it in a healthy manner. So I eat my weight in fries, and I narrowly avoid making myself barf, and I fall asleep on the couch. And I do have a therapy appointment coming up, but it's not until Tuesday, and I've got to break in a new damn therapist since Dr. H. bailed.

It's not like I resent her for leaving; it's just that she already understands why losing H.M. is so hard on me. I don't have to explain. With Dr. R., I'll have to give him the breakdown of our entire relationship, and there's still a chance (a good one) that he'll just see it as your standard breakup when really it's so, so much more.

It's such a scary thought that I can't take care of myself. I'm 27 fucking years old; I'm old enough to eat right and get to fucking bed on time. But throw a guy into it...

That's really not fair, though. Hot Mess is more than a guy, he's a friend and an ex and a man I love and a person I care about and a person who took care of me.

And I guess part of me wonders, if I'm not worth it enough for anyone in my life to stay around and look out for me, what's the point in looking out for myself?

Loving ya... is easy, 'cause you're beautiful...

"Love ya."

Tossed over the shoulder last thing as he headed into the airport. Now, granted, I did break the L-word seal, but it was casual and in passing--I gestured at his crap spread out across my living room and said, "This is how I love you. I let you move your apartment into my living room." And he laughed and seemed not to notice, and we moved on.

I'm trying not to obsess, because in the end, it doesn't matter what he meant by it. He's gone, and if it's not for good, it's for a good long time. Still, it's in my nature to wonder. One friend thinks he was just too much of a wuss to say it properly--which is believable; God knows I was--and I just don't know if I dare to hope.

Whatever. I need to get over it, because he's the kind of gone that doesn't go away. I need to be able to move on and find someone who will say it when they're not on their way across the country. 

And as I try to move on, to literally close the book on it, I think of the CD I made him. It had some pretty significant tracks on it (I know, and unrequited love mix tape. How lame). Will he realize that "A Song For You" and "All That I'm Good For" have any additional meaning to me? If he does, how will he react? Is he having pretty much the same thought process that I am right now? Do I want him to? How lame am I for hiding my feelings in a fucking CD like a fucking high schooler? How lame am I for caring if he feels the same?

Pathetic.

Move on, high schooler.

And part of me is still waiting for the text message that will never come.

Pa. Thetic.

Skills for life

I managed to physically chill myself out today. It was after my third call from a Certain Freelance Client (grr) in the middle of a day full of rush jobs and tedious work on the last day of my period, and I was ready to lose composure. But I remembered reading about anjali mudra in Shape, and I gave it a swing.

I pressed my palms together for all they were worth and did my square breathing, and as I did, I felt my heart... slow... down. The more slowly I counted, the slower my heart, until I was fully composed and ready to face work and the world and everything else.

Skills for life.

This is now

I said the words to him today. "That was then."

We were joking around about me hanging out naked in my apartment, and he said it wasn't anything he'd never seen before, and I said, "Well, that was then." And he got this kind of look that I couldn't read and said, "That was then."

I think I may have, without meaning to, laid the definition for our new relationship. That was then, and now we don't do naked. The thing is, obviously that's not what I want. I'd love to keep doing the naked thing. It's the friend thing that I can't handle.

Why not, "That was then, and now the naked thing is in an entirely different context"? But that's not likely to happen for a couple of reasons. One is that I've got thirty and a half hours to tell him I love him, and I just don't see myself sprouting that kind of stones in that short time. The other is that if Hot Mess has, in fact, been giving off signals that he has more than friendly feelings for me, and a real possibility does exist, I've slammed the door on that nice and good.

"That was then." What possessed me to say that? Pathetic.

The going and the gone

So, it's been a while since I've felt the need to write in this thing. That's got to be a good sign, right?

Had my last session with Dr. H. this morning, and she raised an important thought: How am I going to deal with Hot Mess's absence? I've given all of this attention to the going without lending a thought to the gone. And the gone is going to be a bitch.

The gone is going to leave a great big fucking hole with absolutely nothing to fill it except food, random sex, and shopping. I have no one in my life currently who can easily move into the role he has in my life. And I don't know how to find or what to look for in a potential candidate. I'm completely at a loss.

And I'm so afraid to screw it up. Getting things right with Hot Mess--at least, as right as they are--has been painful enough. With new people, or new relationships with old people, there are so many opportunities for screwups, and that could be a significant setback for me.

And yet, I don't resent him for going. I know this is what he needs to be doing right now. If anything, I'm jealous; I wish I had the stones to chuck it all and pursue a dream. Maybe I'll be inspired. Or maybe not.

He flies Friday. We've reached the official point of no looking back. That's two days to enjoy his presence, refrain from declaring my love for him, and try my best to prepare for the aftermath of his departure.

Or just not think about it at all. Yeah. I think I'll go with that one.

Letting go

I think I'm really ready for Hot Mess to get gone. I'll miss him for sure, because he's the best friend I have in town and I love spending time with him. But I'm starting to get over my romantic feelings for him and recognizing that things just wouldn't work out.

I'm starting to really accept how bad he is in a crisis, which he's under right now. He strikes me as the type who can kind of muddle through most things but will never really thrive, never be truly successful, until they start planning and thinking logically and looking to the future. H.M. still flies exclusively by the seat of his pants, and his pants are a pretty shitty pilot.

What I need is Hot Mess with about five years of added maturity on him. Still fun, quirky, moody, impulsive, physical, affectionate, thoughtful, and shit hot, but with some amount of reason and logic and stability to balance it out. Someone who dreams big but then comes up with plans and contingencies to make it happen. Someone with balls and brains.

That said, I could do with a couple of good days with him for closure. Maybe a couple of overnights: time enough watch a movie, play Scrabble, eat dinner, talk into the wee hours, have good sex, and wake up together before I put him on a plane and wish him well. A few good memories and a solid certainty that that is all they'll ever be.

In other news, it looks like I might not be able to move into the new place after all. I haven't gotten a single nibble on my apartment, and I certainly can't afford two rents. I'm kind of of two minds about it. On the one hand, I'm pretty crushed. I know that this is, has been, and will forever be my dream apartment, and if I don't get it now I'll never get another chance. But my logical mind is telling me that moving is expensive and a huge hassle, that there will be other apartments that are great even if they aren't my dream place, and that now I have time to look for one before my lease is legitimately up. That kind of logic, and my ability to stay logical and not just wig out about the prospect of losing the apartment, are kind of comforting, especially considering my mental and emotional state of late.

Maybe I'm not so pathetic after all.

Mad wicked codependent, but not hopelessly so

I am mad wicked codependent. Yesterday, I got a call from Hot Mess that he'd just gotten fired. Knowing that it was almost certainly his fault, I was nonetheless sympathetic to the point that I showed up uninvited at his place and dragged him bodily from his funk (for which he was grateful).

He made the point several times throughout the (long) evening that I'm really his only friend at this point and that I'm better to him than he deserves (true), and while I'm ashamed to say this, it kind of made me feel... good. I think I'd be really jealous if he had someone else to give him the kind of comfort I give him.

That said, he's way more attractive when he has his shit together. I know that a lot of what's going on (his rent check getting lost) isn't his fault, but a lot of it (fighting with his brother and getting himself fired) is, and I find him far more attractive when he's being mature and reasonable. That's not to say I wouldn't still hit that twice, nonconsecutively; it just means that I prefer him less needy rather than more needy, which means that I'm not hopelessly codependent.

And now he wants to borrow money, which I just don't know about. I'd be more willing to give him the money outright, if I had it to spare; Dad has imbued me with his wariness of loans among friends. I just don't want our relationship to be like that.

But then, I'm not sure what I do want our relationship to be like. We stayed up last night until after 3 a.m. just hanging out and watching movies, and it was great. I love doing friend stuff with him. But then, I also love the way he smells, the way he hugs, the sound of his voice, the way (sappy alert here) he looks in the dark with the street lights filtering through the blinds, and I'm fairly sure that if things were different, if I knew for sure that I had no chance with him, that I couldn't stand being just friends. Because I love him.

Have I mentioned I'm pathetic?

Assuming it actually happens, this "leaving town" thing will be very, very good for me. Once he's not around, I'll be able to get out of this crazy mentality and, I hope, move on. It tears me up to think about him not being here, but I just can't go on like this. I'm finally beginning to accept that Hot Mess Limbo is not actually a tolerable alternative to a healthy, mature, equitable, communicative romantic relationship. And that's what I need to hold out for.

Postponing the inevitable

Okay, so now I have a throw pillow and a bed pillow that smell like Hot Mess, and I like that, and it's pathetic. Like, "I may never wash these sheets again" pathetic.

I'm so sprung for that boy, it's not even funny. He spent the entire day here yesterday, and it was glorious. I actually put my phone on the nightstand Friday night, hoping for a late-night text, and I got one. 2:30 a.m., "Hey wake up i want to come over." Well, duh.

It was cold and halfway snowing and we spent the first hour talking about stuff and watching the snow. We looked up a Web site on Dante's Inferno. We watched part of No Country for Old Men on a site that was probably illegal. I showered. He showered. We went out for pancakes. We came back and napped on the bed. We tried to go to an art exhibit (closed). More talk. Scrabble (I won this time). Then he had to go home, because his dog had ben on his own for more than twelve hours, because H.M. was with me.

Glorious.

I'm so in love with him.

Pathetic.

He's not leaving before I move, now. He's backed it off. He commented that he can't wait to leave and that he kind of has to now since he's been slacking off and not going to work. I suggested that he not do that, that if he did go to work and play poker and save his money, it might feel more like he was preparing to leave on his own terms and not getting run out of town or running away. That's when he came up with his 30 day plan of taking every shift for a month starting Tuesday.

This, of course, pushed back his departure date, beyond the end of his lease. He asked if, in exchange for helping me move, he could crash at my place during that time. Of course, I had to say no.

Duh. Of course I said yes. Glorious, right? Love, right? We might be friends for those six days, or we might do that awkward "with benefits" thing, and it's going to be absolutely miserable when he goes, but I get him every night for six days and that's glorious.

Pathetic.

I mentioned our little fling in my session with Dr. H., and she seemed unconcerned. The question she always asks is if I feel bad about it, and I never do, but what if I expect to feel bad in the future? Not about the sex, but everything else; this one is going to end painfully, and I feel like I should disengage early to try and get it over with, but I can't, because I love him.

Now I know how he felt before I left on my trip and he was going to be coping on his own. I'm facing down the barrel of a life without Hot Mess in it for the first time in six months, and I'm petrified.

But he has to do this. If he doesn't, I'll be disappointed in him. He needs to do this for himself. But does it make me a bad person if I, knowing how much he hates this town, still hope he comes back here whenever he's done?

At least long enough to take me off with him.

Pathetic.

Two steps back

I have no idea what I'm going to say to Dr. H. tomorrow. There aren't enough minutes in a session. "Well, Dr. H., I feel like I'm back at the beginning. I'm stressed, I'm unhappy, and I'm doing bad things to myself."

"Work is a chaotic mess, and every time I try to do something to make it less so, They come along and jumble things up again. I now have more work for more departments than I can handle. I've tried talking with Boss of Eternal Evil about it, and she seems understanding and willing to help, but I'm not really optimistic because of the big problem, the fact that I've got more work for more departments than I can handle and I'm not getting any additional help or compensation, isn't going to change. To them, it isn't a problem but the solution to a problem. To me, not so much.

"And how am I dealing with it? Shopping, throwing up falafel, and having inadvisable ex sex. So much for my meds working. I bumped up the dosage this morning, but I'm still walking around feeling like I could burst into tears at any moment. I definitely don't feel like my stress reaction is being slowed down at all; on the contrary, I'm constantly ready to pop.

"And the sex last night? Not that good. I just wanted the physical intimacy, and it started out that way, but it ended... another way. I've always gone to him because he's always accepted me just as I am, but I begin to suspect that's because he just plain doesn't care--one way or the other, or about me. Hello to the false sense of emotional intimacy. Not that it matters, since he's leaving in a month, which I saw coming, but it's like to level me, and I wish he'd just go already so I can start getting over him. I know I won't be able to find someone else as long as he's in the picture, because what we have is the ideal by my standards--if only he loved me.

"So that's where I am, Dr. H. Work's a mess, romantic life's a mess, mental health is a big old mess, and while I trust that one exists, I don't see a future where all or even any of that gets resolved. I don't even know where to start. So, in other words, pretty much where I was the first time you saw me. Yay for progress."

Moving on

Well, Hot Mess did call, and I almost wish he hadn't. He's moving, which I knew, but he's going in just under a month, which I didn't. He made some comment about how he would bring me with him if I wasn't moving into my new apartment, but I'm pretty sure he was joking.

He looked so good, all tanned and toned. He was in a good mood with all kinds of stories from his trip. He brought me back tea. And when we laid down on the couch to watch TV, he started kissing my neck, and it felt so sweet, and then we were kissing... and then we were doing other things that we shouldn't have been doing right there on the sofa. So not much for the romance there. But it felt good, and I needed to be close to him since he was leaving.

I think I was more honest about my feelings tonight than I've been with him, and I think it surprised him. When he accused me of lying about being tired, I told him that I was tired but I still wanted him around. And as he was leaving, I told him I couldn't wish him good luck when he moved because he'd be gone longer, but I couldn't wish him bad luck because I'd feel guilty. Part of me hopes that'll make him realize that I have feelings for him and maybe change his behavior accordingly, but the smart part of me knows better.

I'm thinking this moving thing could be positive. It'll make him happy, and it'll get him away from me so I can focus on getting my life together without him, whatever it takes. The distance will do me good.

He may be a hot mess, but I'm definitely the regular kind.

Tears of a clown

You know you've got the crazazy when you're wondering if you need to "up your meds." Heh. I'm on "meds." And I'm wondering if I'm taking enough of them.

It's just that I've been doing this for, what (checks) working on three weeks now, and I'm only getting marginally better. I'm purging again (which might explain things somewhat), I'm not sleeping, I'm physically exhausted, and I'm panicky. Dr. F. said the drugs are supposed to slow down that immediate reaction to let me look at things rationally, but there have been at least three incidences when I've been so frustrated I nearly cried. Cried tears. At work.

Is this a failure on the drug's part, or am I just under such a ridiculous amount of stress right now that even Abilify can't overcome the self-destructive and panicky urges? And if so, what to do? Increase the dosage until stress levels are normal? Or let it ride and try to reduce stress on my own? Or both? Thank God I'm seeing Dr. H. tomorrow. I had to force myself to keep my interview appointment for a story today because I'm so tired and frustrated I just want to go home sick.

Hot Mess had better call todamnnight. I'm making this my bright-line test. I missed him like burning while he was gone, and if he can't be arsed to get in touch with me even to ask that favor he was talking about, our feelings are unequal and I need to pull out. I don't care how few minutes he has left on his phone; if he cares, he cares, and if he doesn't, I'm out.

All I want

I've been thinking a lot about life lately (duh), and I guess that's why something really struck me as I read this interview with this industrial designer. He was talking about archetypes and the way we cling to them even when technology no longer dictates that we have to. Why are phones and cameras and cars shaped the way they are now when modern advances offer so many other options? Why build a camera when you could build a "digital photo machine."

That got me thinking about the archetypes in my life and Dr. H.'s comment that "normal" is only about statistics. What things do I only do or want because it's traditional to do or want them? What do I really want, the hot list, the necessities, that I'm limiting myself to traditional means of pursuit?

I want love, for one. That's the big big. Marriage? Dunno. I'll probably have to because I want kids, and they're better off in that legal social structure. But there's not reason that it has to be a "traditional" marriage, whatever that means, and if I meet the right guy, I'm sure it won't be. Scratch that: it definitely won't be, because I'm not getting married until I find that right man, age be damned. Young marriage is just an archetype, and a pretty stupid one, if you think about it. Why make that kind of commitment when you're immature and naive?

Maybe immaturity and naivete are what it takes.

I want to be confident that I'll be able to afford food and shelter. But that doesn't mean a traditional 9-to-5. Freelancing, writing, odd jobs, bartending, sending handcrafts, singing--all of these are sources of income. Sure, they don't come with insurance--which is a must--but I might marry a man with benefits, or I might make enough to afford them on my own.

I want a pleasant physical environment. My mental/emotional state is heavily influences by my environment, so it needs to be uncluttered and pleasant. This actually recommends against trad jobs, because there's not too much you can do with an office or cubicle. This also doesn't necessitate a house; a yard would be nice, but so would a sunroom filled with plants, and great landscaping can be found around condos, apartments, and townhomes. And any dog I'd want would be just as happy walking to the park as tear-assing around a back yard.

I want a dog.

I want a good relationship with my family, but not at the expense of the other stuff. If they love me, they should want me to be happy, even if I find that happiness in nontraditional--but not dangerous--ways. And if they can't support me in that, we might have to reevaluate our relationship.

I want variety. I get so bored so easily, so I need stimulation and interest and change. This really recommends against trad jobs and housing, because it's hard to run off and chase a story for six months when you've got a McJob at home. I guess a condo, once paid off, could be conducive to travel, provided it was small and low-maintenance.

I want stability. I know that it seems at odds with the "variety" thing, but it's not. I just want to be able to count on the things that I want. I want to know that my love will treat me right and that I'll have food and shelter and intellectual stimulation wherever I go. It doesn't seem like much just written down like that. Kind of attainable, actually.

Coming alive

A few discoveries I've made of late:

1. If I work out first thing in the morning (if I can force myself to get my run in), I don't have the cigarette cravings. Hello to the naturally occurring happy chemicals.

2. As inadvisable as it is, skipping breakfast and lunch is a great way to shed those unwanted pounds.

3. Caffeine on an empty stomach is a great shortcut to Super Perky. Warning: May cause jitters.

4. This quote on a friend's Facebook page:

"Don't ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive and then do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive." --Howard Thurman

It's kind of a challenge, because with my mental state, I haven't felt alive in some time. But there are things that make me feel relaxed, that make me as not-crazazy as I ever am these days. Knitting. Writing fiction. Playing Monopoly with Hot Mess. Interviewing people for work, I discovered recently. Work in general does it a little better when it's something that I feel passionate about.

I don't spend a whole lot of time feeling passionate about my work, so I guess that's where the problem lies. Canuck recognizes this and has some kind of big plan in the works to get us working together  on projects that would impassion me, so I guess I can just wait to see how that comes together.

What about the rest? I'm doing more and more work for another department, which helps feeed that jones for talking to people and learning and sharing their stories. A/V and Art Guy have both suggested showing some of my knitting at a local art/craft gallery (I think) and maybe getting some money for it. With music, I can take Jazz Guy up on that invitation to sing with him and his band the next time they play out, and I can save up for that piano I've been drooling over. And between the novel and the short fiction I've got going, I could conceivably be able to make some amount of money off of my fiction in the not-too-distant future.

Monopoly with Hot Mess is not likely to ever pay off.

I guess the trick now is maintaining the energy and desire to do the things that make me feel alive. Because honestly, all I've wanted to do lately is ass around on my couch, surfing the Internet. And that isn't getting any writing written, knitting knitted, or songs sung. The sucky unfairness of depression: that the things that would make you feel better are the things you can't be arsed to do.

Too late to apologize

Ugh, my head is so scrambled.  I just can't get anything started today, not cleaning up, not working out. If it weren't for the two interviews I have, I think I'd find some excuse to stay home and remain unbathed.

And I'm just busting with anxiety. What if I can't borrow an audio recorder? What if none of the audio files work? What if I can't get in touch with Elusive Interview Subject? What if I can't write my story? What if everyone at work discovers exactly how much fuck-all I really do every day?

But mostly, it's anxiety that I'm not getting any better. Because I'm still cycling. And I'm still have self-destructive thoughts (I wanted so badly to binge and purge yesterday. If I picked one vice and stuck with it, would the other vices go away?). I'm starting to think the urges crop up every time I get stressed out and need a vacation, like they're my brain's way of trying to get me committed for a few days so I could take a medically sanctioned load off. But aren't the crazy pills supposed to help with that? Do I need to increase my dose, and if so, how? Or will they start to work better as time goes on? I should call Dr. F.

Spoke to Dad last night. Mom talked to him, and he called to straighten things out. Not really satisfying, though. As I expected, it was a whole lot of me misinterpreting things and him having good intentions. That was for the crazazy part. For the "just plain rude" part, his excuse was that he's only rude when I'm sarcastic, and that if I'll just stop sassing he won't ever have to use some self-damn-control to keep from being rude. Thanks, Dad. You're a real team player.

So nothing new. I always hate being suspicious of someone who's trying to apologize, but with Dad, I usually have a right to be. I think this is a sign that I need to figure out how to stop caring. Not about him, but about his crap. He's proud of the way I sing and write; he will, if prompted, say how proud he is of "both his kids" for how we've turned out, and he'll be selfish and emotionally distant up to the point where he's needed to act the hero. And I hate to throw it back in his face after he made the effort to call and not-quite-apologize, but whatevs.

The monkey on my back

I've pointedly refrained from texting Hot Mess while he's away, in part because I don't want to interrupt his time with his family but mostly because I'm trying to wean myself off of him, become less dependent on him, maybe stop having feelings for him eventually. It wasn't working, really, I'm still counting days, but I have hope. Had hope.

My text messages chimed first thing this morning, and I knew it was H.M. with his usual 2:00 a.m. text (from a time zone four hours back, this time, at least), and I was right. And of course my stupid heart leapt, and those three meaningless texts meant more to me than anything anyone had said to me this week, and... bleargh. My logical mind pointed out that nothing he said to me indicated anything beyond friendship, my heart countered that he was thinking of me whilst on vacation and that I was his last thought before he went to sleep, and... bleargh again.

I'm starting to think that I will literally never get over this guy. We'll be Just Friends, and I'll want more, until I'm dead. Because I for sure don't have the willpower to pull back (tried that before; EPIC FAIL), and he seems to be signaling pretty hard that he's not interested in moving forward, which leaves us... where we are. Swell. Dr. H. will probably have advice on pulling back, but of course I'll have to confess to her that "no longer attracted to him" has mutated into "love him utterly."

I think part of it is that I don't want to pull back. even if we never move forward, I'd rather have this small piece of him than nothing at all. And while I know I'm trying to move beyond traditional standards for "normal" (which this certainly isn't), the question remains as to whether it's healthy, which it probably isn't. Again, a question for the good doctor.

In the meantime, I'll suck up whatever scraps are thrown my way until I have official medical orders to stop. "It's the scraps of love you throw my way that have got me on all fours." I have overinternalized that song way too much. And it's about a dog.

In other news, I did have that talk with Mom yesterday, and although it wasn't terribly satisfying at the time--she kept bringing up her own reservations and worries, which kind of ticked me off, and I had to confess that I hadn't always been forthcoming when my emotional state was less than ideal, which made it hard for them to give me the support I needed--after letting it sit overnight and seeing/talking with/hugging her this morning, I feel a lot better. More hopeful. I think we both understand better where the other is coming from, and we'll make more of an effort to communicate in the future. Honesty, honesty.

Where's Dad in all of this? No telling. I've enlisted Mom to get him to back off with the medical second-guessing, which is the wimp's way out, but I still don't really know how to approach him. I'm not terribly inclined to talk to him anyway. Mom pointed out that he never realizes when he's hurt me, which means that I should tell him, but I've only gotten excuses and accusations of being hypersensitive in the past. And now he even has the crazazy to explain away my hypersensitivity (bipolar is the new "are you getting your period or something?"). So I don't particularly feel like talking to him, either about his attitude/behavior the other weekend or his reaction to this whole crazazy thing. I know it's totally a textbook case of not wanting his damn jack, but the fact is, I don't.

Or maybe getting over my daddy issues means learning not to want his damn jack. Dr. H.?

More family ties

So, I'm actually going to get a chance to talk to Mom today before she leaves. She said Dad had asked about me, but she didn't know how I was doing because we were busy yesterday. True, we were, although it's not like she actually asked how I was. But that doesn't matter now, because she's asking now, and I don't really know what to say.

The side effects suck. Not as badly as the illness does, but they suck. I've never slept properly, so the insomnia is nothing new, but I hate being thirsty all the time. And I hate being, simultaneously, ravenously hungry and completely full up.

And I hate the thought that it might not be working. I hate being down--although right now, it's likely that I'm lonely and bored and not depressed. And sad, and maybe a little bit betrayed. I hate the highs, too, the racing mind and mouth and tapping foot and clumsy fingers. That's what lets me know that I don't just have depression, I have the crazazy, and that's a lot more complicated to deal with.

I also hate that the self-destructive urges are back. I purged last night, and then this morning, I wanted a cigarette more than anything in the world. I'm lucky that Hot Mess is out of town right now (and that he seems to want to just be friends), because if he were here, I'd most likely make a self-destructive booty call. I really want to call Dr. H., but I'm afraid of being weak or dependent, and I think I can make it another week and a half. Probably.

Maybe I really should just lay it all out on Mom and let her know what I need. I could DEAR MAN it and come back to Dr. H. with something positive to discuss.

D - Describe the current situation. "We know that I've been deeply unhappy for a couple of months now, although we don't exactly know why. And there is some disagreement on how to make it better. We know, though, that I'm in a great place for psychiatric treatment, that they do know their stuff. And we know that I, even at my most messed up, tend to be a Responsible Person who makes good, mature decisions."

E - Express your feelings and opinions. "I feel like I'm not getting a lot of support from you and Dad because you don't really agree with how this is all being handled. I feel like you're second-guessing the experiences I've been having and the feelings I've been feeling, even though I'm the only person who can tell what I'm experiencing or feeling. And I feel like you're second-guessing my doctor, whom I've put my faith in, which feels a lot like you're questioning my judgment."

A - Assert yourself. "I want your support. I want you to look beyond yourselves as principles in this and focus on me. I'm aware of the emotional turmoil that you and Dad are probably going through right now, and I'm sympathetic, but you have to put that aside and focus on me when we're dealing with this. I want you to accept my experiences and feelings as I interpret them and not just make your own assumptions. And I want you to treat me as a capable adult--capable of interpreting my own feelings, capable of making my own health-care choices, capable of making my own life choices--and not just some emotional child to be worked around. I want you to trust the doctors I've picked, because I picked them. And when I make a decision that you disagree with, I want you to say your piece--once--and then I want you to take comfort in the fact that you've raised me well and that I'm equipped to make my own decisions."

R - Reinforce the positive effects of getting what you want. "If you can do that, it'll help us preserve our relationship through this whole mess, which is definitely preferable. It also will help empower me in my own treatment, which is necessary for healing. It will help me learn to trust myself again, which I haven't t been able to do lately. And it may even help you and Dad worry less through this very worrisome process."

Throughout, of course, I'll remain Mindful of my objectives, I'll Appear confident (even if I just want to cry), and I'll try to Negotiate so we all get what we want.

Will it work? God, I hope so, although Mom isn't always the best person to talk to at times like this. Better than Dad, though; when I get emotional-but-serious, half the time, he starts laughing. The other half, though he's really great, better than Mom. So I guess we'll see.

Further updates as events warrant.

Family ties

I'm so jealous of Big Brother.

He's not actually a screwup, he's actually really together and responsible and with-it, but he spent/spends so much time cultivating the image of a slacker screwup that people buy it. Outside of work, no one really expects or asks anything of him, which is ridiculous because if you know where to look, if you lok at the tasks he's taken on voluntarily, it's obvious that he's anything but a screwup. I think it's equal parts low self-esteem and a campaign on his part to manage expectations.

The result of this is that he doesn't, that I can tell, get all the crap from Dad (and, to some extent, Mom) that I do. Or maybe he just doesn't let it bother him. I know he has a lot easier of a timeasking for help or money (Slackers can bum off of their parents, while Responsible People have to make it on their own) than I ever have, but I also know that the parents are quicker to offer help/money/goods than they are to me. Big Bro currently has a kitchen table, four chairs, a couch (replacing another free couch), and a swank new bedding set that all came into his life because he couldn't be bothered to get nice things for himself.

Am I jealous? Damn straight, and resentful. Angry at myself for always being a Responsible Person and taking care of stuff on my own and never asking for help. Hot Mess always says I don't have a poker face, but he's dead wrong. I can hide a whole world of mess with only minimal cracking.

It's funny, though, what's happened with Mom and Dad since I let down the poker face and let them know what's really happening in my life: distance. Like the wunderkind has revealed herself to be merely human and they don't know how to deal with it. I guess we all have our adjustment phases, but this would be a great time for them to adjust really fast so that they can give me the support I need. Because Responsible Person who doesn't need anything is a facade. And I guess I'm going to have to ask for support outright if they're not going to volunteer it on their own.

I know the parents are going through a lot right now. Maybe it's the realization that they didn't produce a perfect child after all. M aybe they feel responsible for it. Maybe they feel guilty for not picking up on it sooner. Maybe they just don't know how to relate to a loony. Maybe they just think it's all bullshit. Dad, I think, is a #5 and maybe #1, although I hope to God that it's some of the others too. Mom is a little #5, I think, but she's probably mostly #3 with a little bit of #2 and #4. But like I said, whatever the reason, they need to talk with their own therapists, spank their inner moppets, and get past it. I need their support, or I need to know that I can't count on their support so I can look elsewhere.

It would be awesome if I didn't have to ask, though, if they just automatically gave me the support they give Big Bro. But I wonder if they also give him the second guessing they've been giving me since I opened up? Maybe I just need to become their Responsible Person again and pretend, around them,. that it's legit. Or maybe it's time to abandon "normal" all together, figure out who I really am and what I really want, and show it to the world. A scary thought, but exciting and intriguing.

And so it begins.

I haven't kept a journal in God knows how long, but I figure that while I'm getting my head back together from its royally fucked-up state, it could be beneficial. At the very least, it should offer some entertainment value later on, assuming I ever get myself sane enough to enjoy it.

This "crazy" thing is tough to deal with. On the one hand, it's kind of comforting to know that what's wrong with me isn't just an issue of me being weak or emotional or dramatic or not trying hard enough (thanks for the complex, Dad). On the other hand, though, it's hard to accept that being emotionally content might involve being medicated for the rest of my life (I mean, that possibility is left open in "indefinitely," right?). And, just like bulimia wasn't as cool or acceptable or relatable as anorexia, a cycling mood disorder isn't as socially acceptable as, say, flat-out depression. Being on mood elevators is almost trendy; atypical antipsychotics are just crazy pills, and I don't see myself dropping that in casual conversation with Bossman any time soon.

The thing is, I want so badly to talk to someone about it. I bring it up almost constantly with Big Brother, gagging for some kind of input, but he tends to be more of a listener than a talker (not a bad thing, really) and I think I'm starting to annoy him. I bring it up casually with Mom almost, I think, as punishment for the unsatisfactory was that she and Dad have failed to handle this whole thing, but she (wisely) doesn't take the bait.

And I'm not going to pretend I'm not a little bit resentful of Mom for flying up here to take care of Big Bro after his surgery when I was self-destructive verging on suicidal and I barely got two phone calls (yeah, Mom, I get that you'd rather I just be depressed. I'd rather a lot of things. Wishing hasn't gotten me married to Wentworth Miller; sometimes we're stuck dealing with reality as it actually exists). I know I didn't ask her to come up for me, but then, Big Bro didn't ask either. If my daughter just revealed to me that she had been, that very day, prepared to drink her way into a coma, I would be up there in half a minute, just to touch her and be glad she's still there.

I realized, when I was talking with Canuck yesterday, exactly where that "drink myself into a coma" urge came from: I wanted to be hospitalized. I wanted to spend a couple of days somewhere that people would be taking care of me and looking after me and nobody could ask me to do any favors or work on anything. It seemed like the ideal vacation because it came with the added bonus of everyone in my life finally knowing how unhappy I am. I mean, my excellent poker face has kept everyone in the dark for months; even Canuck didn't know until I told her. Didn't suspect. Maybe (wild hope, I know) someone would even feel guilty about their own contribution to my unhappiness, "driving me to drink."

While we're dreaming, I'd like a pony.

Bipolar, though, isn't as socially acceptable as alcoholism, either. Alcoholism is Lindsay Lohan; bipolar is Britney Spears. I guess I should be happy I'm not schizophrenic; they don't even have a spokesmodel. Still, bipolar is hardly something I can just mention blithely to my friends.

Except for Hot Mess. He was surprised to hear about it, and he had questions, but so far he's taken it better than anyone (better for me, anyway). I guess it's because his own past isn't terribly socially acceptable, so he's not going to judge me for my unfashionable mental illness. He also seemed to be giving off signs that he was concerned about a possible similar diagnosis for himself, and he seemed to take comfort in the fact that I seem to be holding it together, with treatment, despite my disorder. I'm happy to offer comfort to anyone who can take it from me, although the God's honest truth is that under the surface, I'm a wreck.

It's scary how dependent (co-dependent?) I've become on Hot Mess. I only really appreciated that after he left to visit his family. I wonder if I should text him to let him know that I now understand where his head was before I left on my trip. I really miss having him around, not even to talk to, just his calming presence. I hadn't realized how calm I get just from being around him.

I wasn't lying to Dr. H. when I told her I wasn't attracted to H.M. anymore; at the time, I really did feel that way. Now, though, I better understand that attraction and logic and everything else be damned, I'm still in love with him, and that's not going to change any time soon. I also need him, which is a truly scary prospect. I don't like needing anyone, and H.M. in particular seems to be pulling away the needier I get. Increasingly, he seems to be pointedly interested in being friends--no more kissing; "you're a true friend," he tells me--just as I begin to accept the fact that I really want more.

And I don't know what to do with that fact. Nothing that would result in his removal from my life, that's for certain.

Things are just getting really hard again, which I thought the drugs were meant to prevent. I purged tonight for the first time since H.M. dumped me the first time; I had a big gut full of barbecue, and I wanted it out, and I got it out. This time, the Devil On Shoulder won. As usual, I knew that purging (or following that up with half a box of Thin Mints) wasn't going to fix anything. And it isn't even that I couldn't stop myself, didn't have the willpower; I just didn't want to. Maybe I should give that bipolar support group a go.

I wonder if I'll ever be sane.

I wonder how much of my current turmoil is related to Mom's visit. Isn't that funny, since moms are supposed to make everything better? And while we were together, I had as fantastic a time as I always do. But part of me just can't get over the way she and Dad have acted since Dr. H. brought up the dreaded "b" word and Dr. F. brought up the dreaded "A" drug. I guess they just don't know how to handle it (understandable, since I certainly don't), or maybe they don't approve of the way I've been handling it, but whatever the reason, their heart or their shoes, they need to get the hell over it. I really need support right now, and the fact that the most supportive people in my life right now are Hot Mess and Canuck (someone else's mother) is shameful. I wonder if that's something that I should tell my parents in so many words. Dr. H. would know.

Dr. H. and I talked about my daddy issues, and she raised the thought that since a quarter of a century of effort hasn't gained me Dad's approval, changes are good that I'll never get it and should just learn to go without. She's right, of course, but it's hard to think about just writing my dad off like that. I mean, yes, I definitely need to become more independent and start to have more confidence in the decisions I make (like the one to take the Abilify or the one to take the new apartment), and I talked with Canuck about that fact yesterday. But I've spent most of my life with him trying to gain his approval, so to cut out that part of our relationship leaves a big, gaping hole.

And now this whole thing with Mom. I'm starting to wonder if things will ever get back to the way they used to be if/when I get sane. Although it's becoming increasingly apparent that "the way they used to be" wasn't good. Do I know how to live in a world without that?