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.
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