All my life I can remember having to apologize for doing this or saying that because it supposedly hurt someones feelings. Or sometimes I just plain out got in trouble. I even find myself doing that to this very day. Why is that? More times than not they’re the ones hurting my feelings and not giving two shits about it. It seems to me though that I’m not the one who’s the bad guy. Always take the high road. I’m so sick of that I could scream. Don’t do this, don’t do that. WTF!
I’m out of my meds, then my roommate tells me today she can’t take me to the CRAZY Dr. So, I’m pretty much fucked. This should be very interesting. I’ve been hanging on for a while now anyway. I guess I can hang on a little longer. It’s not her problem, it’s mine. I’m the one with no car. I’ll just have to figure something out I guess. Hopefully, before the lithium gets too out of my system. At that point I really won’t care anymore.
My brother is flying in from Vietnam. He lives there now. He works for a furniture company. He’s lived in Asia for 8 or 9 years I think. Started in mainland China, now Vietnam. I don’t know if he’ll ever move back to the States or not. If it were me, no children, no wife, I wouldn’t. What’s here anyway? He doesn’t think I should be on medication. He thinks how I was is “normal”. Well, it’s not real normal. I can’t explain it to him, I never asked him to go to the Dr with me. But I know he can READ.
Sometimes he has these expectations of me, that I can’t fulfill. In my 20’s, I was invincible. I worked hard, played hard, I had lots of money, excellent credit, no debt. I am not that person anymore. I can’t work a full-time job. Mentally and physically I can’t do it. I was able to work for William. He was very patient, but it was still very difficult. I have a lot of health issues, another time.
I had seen doctors all my life, but it wasn’t until my early 40’s the shit hit the fan. After traveling overseas for 4 years and a person, I thought was a good fried, hit me in the face with a glass, I thought I might have a problem. So, I started going to NA, then a treatment facility, then a 90 hour out-patient class. The class is where I was diagnosed as being bipolar-(by a Dr). Since that time I’ve had 8 confirmed diagnosis, due to my family. Finally, all the craziness made sense to me. I understood myself for the first time.
I understood me, but everyone else didn’t. They didn’t want me to get help. They don’t want to talk about it. My daughter will, jokingly. But at least she does. I say it doesn’t matter, but it’s just another let down by my family for their support. They haven’t been there for me since William’s death. I will learn to let that go and rely on myself again. I’m just me…