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.

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.?

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?