22 January 2011

Tough Day All Around

Henry Wallis "Chatterton" (1856) Tate Britain
I woke up this morning in a great mood, ready to take on the world, revise my manuscript that Dad doesn't give a fuck about, get ahead in my reading assignments so I'm not as crunched later in the semester considering I have 27 books I have to get through.

I called the doctor's office to get my very needed Lexapro refilled since shit happened this time and I didn't get the paperwork done (because the nurse who does it didn't come to work). The nurse spoke to me as if I were a child and this happens all of the time with me. Stupid fucking twat doesn't realize that I rarely run out of medicine and I often still have a week or 2 left when the new shipment from the patient assistance program gets here. 11 am, awake for half an hour, already pissed. It got worse from there.

I called the pharmacy to make sure the medicine was in, it was and an extra supply of Klonopin was in as well. Yay on that point. Unfortunately the Lexapro is expensive as hell (why I use the patient assistance program) and 15 days costs "Dad" $109. This of course pissed him off because I am such a failure that "I didn't stay on the ball and make sure the paperwork was done." This was followed by several back and forths about this being a fluke, a rare thing and "I need my fucking medicine unless you want to deal with me being like this all goddamned weekend."

To further prove how uncaring and callous this person is he asked me if there was anything I could change lifestyle wise to "help not need meds." WTF?!? I'm ALWAYS going to need medicine. "Well I thought I got medicine for you a few weeks ago, what was that?" That was my damn Risperidone, since the Lexapro was losing effectiveness. I was suicidal all through November except for the week I was away from here. Then I was manic, free and happy... and quite stoned for most of it. "Well you make me suicidal."

Really? You're fucking making fun of my goddamn disease and bitching at me because I fucked up and you have to front me the money for my meds so I don't kill anyone? Don't fucking tell me your goddamn suicidal until you live a week in my shoes going from manic to suicidal to manic to suicidal to manic to suicidal several times a fucking day. Then tell me how exhausted you are just trying to survive yourself and pass your classes with a B considered mediocre.

And how I need to try to work 20-40 hours a week and take the fucking classloads I do, shooting for the 4.0 so I can get out of here and stop being the failure 30 year old I know I am, go on to grad school and forget everything about this fucking double dysfunctional family and pretty much see this part of the country as in flight movie.

"You don't even care enough about me to accept the fact that I'm bipolar and I am never going to be able to live a normal life in your eyes. My only shot at normalcy and self sufficiency is this writing thing." Something else was said and I evoked Mom. "At least Mom gave a shit enough about me to learn about what it is I suffer. I know she asked you a million times to Google the shit and see what my life is like 24-7, she accepted me for me while you don't even bother."

"I accept that you have something wrong mentally, but I'm not going to google it or try to understand it. Why should I?"

"Because you make the shit worse! Everything you say to me, especially about college and my plans to be a doctorate collector, all the stupid things you do like leave your Quicken up so I know that you think so highly of me that you keep a running tab of what I owe you..."

"Half of it's not even on there!" Yeah, like that was supposed to make me feel better?

Luckily the grief counselor from the hospice company got here after a good 30-45 minutes of arguing with Dad.

She wanted to talk to me and see how I was doing and Dad went to being nice and caring, even smiling (passive aggressive much?) when he said "I'll see you later," while I'm foaming at the mouth with a red face and ears and black eyes. I popped a Klonopin and talked to the counselor for awhile.

Apparently Mom had asked for a chaplain when she was in the hospital and the grief counselor is attached to him. Mom had expressed concerns about my relationship (or lack thereof) with Dad. Probably a great insight on her part. I had told her I was fucked if it went down to just Dad and I. Mom used to be the mediator so to speak, or at least scream at the top of her lungs for us to shut up, which neither of us did, both feeling the need to get the last word in, until she finally caught my attention enough that I just walked away, or got in my pickup and drove to the lake exiled from my own house or imprisoned in my own room.

Then again, Dad hasn't given a fuck about anything but money in 30 years, why should I expect him to see the real me, and the entire situation with me now? What the fuck made me ever think he might goddamn try to understand my daily struggle just to live somewhat normally when all he does is throw my stupid ass perfect brothers, everything I do wrong, every penny I borrow and the fact I'm a psychotic asshole in my face.

Just to spite his bullshit ideals of what I should be as a human being, I'm finishing school, getting graduate degrees and I will live my life as I see fit, hopefully without the dysfunctionality I'm stuck dealing with on a daily basis.

I've already popped 2 klonopin, getting ready for the 3rd.

The day was shot from the time I woke up. I went from a good, maybe hypomanic mood to rabid wolverine pissed, to depressed enough that even Awesomesauce couldn't calm me down or make me feel better.

The weekend is going to be rough because weekends always suck. I'm regretting the usually awesome 3 day a week schedule. At least when I went 5 days I was gone before he woke up and asleep by the time he got home. Then again Mom was home to referee and get Dad to back the fuck off of me. Weekends were the only point of contention, but if I stayed in my room it went a bit smoother. It's no wonder I have a fucked up sleep schedule.

Hopefully Steve the counselor at school can help me not stab people.

My first week of class and I already need a vacation to York or Hadrian's Wall.

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