I have been stuck in blue funk mode for about a month now. After about three weeks of just feeling awful about myself, the world, and my non-productive role in it, I finally broke down and called my psychiatrist to refill my anti-depressants. One has to be very careful administering anti-depressants to Bipolar people; they have been known to kick that person right into the manic phase of the illness. Although, at this point, I am willing to put up with a mixed episode. At least I will have achieved a balanced madness instead of this one-sided version of madness.
I get very irritable and fatalistic when in the depressive phase of this lovely “life choice” as my Father put it in an email recently. I start to think no one really wants me around, and I start to wonder about what death would be like. However, due to a promise I made 6 years ago to the Universe and all it contains, I cannot actually go through with it. Being a Buddhist, I think that would be a really bad cause that would have Karmic retributions in this life and the next. I cannot believe that my Father called having Bipolar and having your brain swimming in toxic chemicals a “life choice.” Oh that just irritates the living crap out of me. It’s like when people say being homosexual is a “life choice.” How is a chemical imbalance in my brain a “life choice?” I most certainly did not wake up one day about 20 years ago, and say “I think I am going to have Bipolar disorder, and experiment with many psychoactive drugs.” A “life choice.” Hmmpphh. That tells me he doesn’t know the first thing about mental illness.
And then yesterday, my mother calls, and the gist of the conversation is that I only contact him when I need money. That is so objectively and subjectively not true. I have spent 14 years of my life trying to penetrate his narcissistic shell. That’s about a 1/3 of my life that I have been trying to reach out to him, and let him know how I am doing, what I am doing, and whatnot. Nowhere in these letters have I mentioned financial help. Granted, he did pay for insurance so I would not have a coverage gap, but he stopped that, and I did not plead with him to start again. He was reimbursing for Medicare part B, but he stopped, and once again, I did not go begging for him to continue. No, far from it, I just sucked it up and lived on $126 dollars less per month. So, I sent him an email telling him how much it hurt for him to say that when everything I have written to him recently has expressed appreciation and gratitude which are apparently emotions he doesn’t understand. Neither is humility. And, of course, I mentioned that Mom had told me about his comment. Now my Mother is all chappy because apparently she now feels he won’t talk openly with her anymore. So, I fucked up yet one more time. I just really felt he needed to know that his comment hurt to the bone. So, I schooled him in what it is like to be Bipolar with PTSD, et al. Why does my mother attack me when I am down? That has been her M.O. my whole life. Attack when one least expects it, and not only that, attack one’s character. I mean, after all, I “chose” to be poor and mentally ill.
This state of existence is not what I had in my life plan when I was growing up. I had it very clearly laid out: undergraduate school, and from there my Master’s and PhD. That was my plan. To find a subject that I felt fulfilled me personally, and brought a comfortable income. But, no, that is not how it turned out. I have no idea what these drugs are doing to my cognitive abilities. I know the PTSD rears it’s really ugly head when I am under too much stress. I just do not know if at this point, I would be able to do the research necessary to write a thesis. I do not know if I can hold down a job. If my past history is a measuring stick, the answer would be no. But my parents fail to see this about me. My Father thinks I use him for money when in fact, I have not asked for financial help until now to take care of my teeth, but I am hitting my Mother as well. He is so focused on the fact that he has retire at some point that he can’t see that he makes in a day what I live on for a month. If anything, he is the one who is caught up on money. Every correspondence I receive from him mentions retirement and funding that retirement. He is the President of a fucking University. His salary is a matter of public record. In the 6 years, he has been president they have paid him 2.2 million dollars. That does not sound like hardship to me. But every email. every letter mentions retirement and money. I am not bringing it up. I do not want his money. I want something far more precious: his love and understanding and time. You cannot buy that.
Man, I forgot how irritable I can get when I am in a depressive cycle. I am just waiting for the anti-depressant to start working. That’s all I really want right now is to get out of this overly sensitive, irritable, angry, and sad mood. I do not think it is too much to ask. But, maybe it is. I am not even looking forward to my birthday. It’s just another day. I have had 43 of these, and I do not see any reason to celebrate my life because my life sucks. Okay, enough of the pity party.
Well,, my birthday came and went without pomp or circumstance. although a very odd thing happened. Upon checking the mail on my birthday, I was surprised to find a parcel/package locker key. Being a perpetually curious person, I wondered what it could be for since I had not ordered anything, I opened the locker, and there was this rather large box, with a return address that was very familiar. It was a birthday gift from my Father! I was in shock for at least an hour, maybe more. My Father has not sent much in the way of cards for Christmas or birthdays for going on 8 years or so, and the same goes for gifts. I am still in shock and awe at the gift……and it has been about 3 weeks. Now I am baffled because the rules have changed. I suppose baffled is better than depressed.