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.

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.

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?