Mood: Has fluctuated so many times today that I don't know what to call it
Meds: Finally, at 5:30 pm or so
Sleep: 9 hours
Other: Mother brought me my meds today. I still feel like whale shit at the bottom of the ocean because I've been off the Wellbutrin so long. I was honestly afraid to do much of anything without the Lamictal. No, I don't have seizures, but, yes, it IS a concern if you abruptly stop an anticonvulsant. I didn't go anywhere yesterday because I was scared I'd have a fucking seizure going down the road or something.
While Mother was here, she bought me some new clothes and a new pair of shoes. She dropped about $200 on it. I feel TERRIBLE for her doing it, but she flat-out insisted. It made me feel better for awhile, but I'm back to feeling like whale shit at the bottom of the ocean again. Not telling her that, of course, because I don't want her to think I don't appreciate it because I do. I really, really do.
She's as batshit as I am or more so. She's put me through hell for years, tying me in knots, giving me what amounts to emotional abuse (though I hate to call it that because I feel like it trivializes what REAL abuse victims have been through), teaching me nothing but dysfunction in personal relationships. She's neurotic, tyrannical at times, and probably more fucked up than I'll ever be.
But, on the other hand, if I'm going to lay some of the blame at her feet for me being the way I am, it'd be hypocritical of me not to lay the blame at the feet of her own mother for her being the way she is. My grandmother is the Queen Narcissist, the narcissist to end all narcissists, and the rest of us peons just have to jump through her hoops because the world revolves around her, and the only thing that matters is her own personal comfort and amusement and DAMN what it costs anyone else, financially, physically, emotionally, or psychologically.
I am incredibly ambivalent about my mother because, despite her faults--and they are considerable--she would still give me (and pretty much anyone else in the world) the shirt off her back. Just don't cross her. Ever. I think to some degree, as she's aged, she's realized some of the damage she did to me when I was younger, and she's tried to rectify it. She's a pain in the ass sometimes, but I think she wants to fix it before it comes home to roost.
We aren't a "talk about our feelings" family, my mother, my daddy, and I. It weirds me out when I hear other people talking to their parents on the phone and saying, "I love you" before they hang up. That's so strange and foreign to me. I'd have no idea how to react to that. We're dysfunctional. We all give until there's nothing to give, get upset with one another or with others because we feel unappreciated, play the martyr card, not speak to each other for hours...days...weeks, or, alternatively, fly into incomprehensible rages, and then give the silent treatment for weeks after we can rage no more.
Read about the Drama Triangle. Seriously. Read. I'll wait.
This is the legacy with which I have been left. I don't know how to deal with people any other way. (In case you're curious, I'm the starting gate rescuer.)
BUT, despite all that, despite the fact that we don't ever talk about our feelings, I know who came and rescued me from bumfuck South Carolina last weekend. I know who I called in the middle of the night every time I've found out that yet another man I was in love with decided to go marry someone else. I know who has given me money when I wasn't sure how I was going to live. I know who gave me a vehicle when my car broke down. I know who knew I felt like utter shit today and took me out to do what I used to do for myself but am no longer in a position to do because it's what got me in all the trouble with the credit cards in the first fucking place--buy shit until the pain eases.
We are not demonstrative emotionally. But we are demonstrative in other ways. And, believe me, I don't forget.
I've been dangerously close to doing something horrible the last few weeks. If you don't believe me, go back and read my blogs. You can probably tell when I ceased being stable just by the writing style. The things that have been going through my mind--I haven't even scratched the surface of them in this blog. I am too ashamed to talk about it.
I feel like I don't really have friends. The few I had don't want anything to do with me anymore. I damn sure don't have demonstrative love from someone(s) that I never got from my parents. I don't do anything but sit in the house, day in and day out, isolated from the world. I feel like I will always be giving more than I receive in return, no matter what, and will be made out to be the villain in the situation regardless. This will be my life forever. I feel like the only reason anyone would give a fuck about my dying would be that they'd be put out at the inconvenience of having to show up at my funeral.
I've seriously considered suicide twice in my life: once during that ugly mixed episode in the fall and now. This is not dramatics or theatrics or a desperate bid for attention. It's not a "that'll show THEM" thing. This is not a ploy for sympathy or a shirking of responsibility. This is truly a "my life is never going to get any better, and the world will truly be better off without me" thing.
The only thing--ONLY--that has stopped me is knowing that it'd kill my mother and father. They'd think it was their fault. I can't live, even in death, with putting them through that. They've given their whole lives for me. I can't do that do them.
I still feel pretty close to the edge, honestly. The therapy appointment helped, and that was why I made it. I think that now that I have the meds again (despite the fact that they were only kinda helping before) will keep the floor under my feet. If nothing else, I've made up my mind to at least see it through to the other side. I have that much self-control, I know.
I just hope there's something worth waiting for on the other fucking side. I do not want my whole life to be this way.
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