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?