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loves me and hurts when I hurt, but it never makes anything better and it only gets him mad at her, too, and then he's withdrawn and pouts and everybody's unhappy.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.

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?