Well, I thought it would be a good time to post something new
since I have recently been falsely diagnosed with PTSD and bipolar disorder. It
really sent me into a fucking depression for a few days there. I was going to
sign up for disability and start collecting my checks. I felt like a fucking
crazy person. Not that people can’t function with those disorders, but damn, I
can barely function as it is, so that was like way too much for me to handle.
Plus, this so-called psychiatrist, who turns out to be nothing more than an
ARNP, prescribed me gabapentin, which made me fucking insane for a few weeks,
but then, after I complained about the gabapentin, she wanted to put me on
Lamectyl, one of the two main drugs for bipolar disorder! And I am NOT bipolar!
I might be a nut—I might pull out my hair, chew on my lips and fingers, and have
an immense capacity for self-loathing, but I assure you, I am not bipolar. I
should be so lucky as to enjoy manic episodes of overwhelming self-esteem and
delusions of grandeur. No, lucky me, I suffer from pure MD….Major Depression.
Yes, that’s right, it’s the depression part of bipolar without the fun part (the
part that keeps people from wanting to take their meds). Yeah, woohoo, yay, me!
I have regular-ass old depression. Old school, writer shit. Typical Jew shit. Go
figure, big fucking surprise. So I can’t get a real job, or a real life, I’m stuck here in my dad’s house, a thirty-one year-old chick, with a less than part-time job, and a desire to
become a “published author” one day, when I’m the only one (and occasionally my
therapist) who reads my blog. I drank nearly an entire bottle of wine and then
silently snuck into my dad’s bathroom and found a bottle of benzos from 1996.
Will they still work? I took four. We’ll see. I also binged on peanut butter and
various sugary substances for the first time in a long time. I’ve been doing
good, in fact, I weighed myself today and I was down to 115.6, the lowest weight
I have been in over a year. But I probably sabotaged that tonight since I ate
almost 3000 calories in one sitting just a little while ago. I am such an idiot
some times. Do I want to sabotage myself? I don’t know, maybe. My ex called me a
few days ago for the first time in months. I didn’t even know he had my phone
number. It pissed me off. I told him to never call me again and I hung up on
him. But still, it fucked me up. I told him, “Well, I hope YOU feel better,
because I don’t. You think you can just call me up and apologize and tell me
about your life and whatever, and I’m gonna be OK with that. Well, I’m not. I
was fine already and I planned to never talk to you again. So I hope YOU feel
better, because I don’t. I feel worse. I’m gonna go now. Don’t ever call me
again.” And then I hung up. It felt scary to officially and finally take my
power back, but it felt good, too. He knew I meant it. He didn’t call again.
That was it—he knew I was serious. He knew I meant it when I said “never call me
again.” And he knew I meant it because it’s the truth. I never for the rest of
my life have any need or desire to talk to that asshole ever again. He’s put me
and HAM and our relationship through hell and he has absolutely nothing to offer. I
don’t need him to write my memoir. All I need is MY story, MY memories—not his.
If he wants to write a memoir, then he can go right ahead, but this one is mine
and I know enough about him and the rest of the losers of my past to write my
story, I want to call is something like, “My Life Through You”, or “Chameleon:
  The Story of the Girl Who Changed for Him”, or “UFO: Unidentified Female Object”.
Maybe the last one is best. I’d like to keep my misery lighthearted. Seriously,
  though, if you can’t laugh at your own life, you have no business laughing at
  anyone else. And, sorry, but that just won’t work for me. I need to laugh at
  all of us—we’re all fools. Even the smart ones.

So my Dad has been in China the whole summer, and when he left, he only asked for a few simple things. One was to get the mail, another to water the plants, and the third was to make sure we didn't get any water on the wood pieces by the stairs because they are unfinished and will stain if any water gets on them. Well, we've been bringing in the mail, we've been watering the plants, and today we discovered that there are water marks all over the unfinished wood! I am just a little bit FREAKING THE FUCK OUT! After work today, we're going to Home Depot, and then Lowe's if necessary, to first see if there is a way to get the stains out, and if not, to have it replaced with identical pieces...I don't believe in God, but in situations such as this one, you better believe I'm praying that we can pull this off. If he comes home to that, it will just be one more reason not to trust me, one more reason that I couldn't possibly care for my own home. We are both totally confused by these stains, too, because, first of all, it's summer and has been relatively dry, and second, we have been extremely careful with the wood. We even moved the plants to the floor to avoid any possible spilling from the watering can. We don't set anything down on the wood. We are very careful to avoid setting anything down on the wood. So how could this happen? We're both at a loss for an explanation. But it sucks, that's the one thing we are both certain of. The other thing is that we are leaving on September 5th for our road trip, and he is getting home that same day, so whatever we do, it has to be done by then, and god, it better be good. If we can't fix this, I won't be able to sleep at night. I don't want to email him about it and have him pissed on his way home and pissed again when he gets home. We have to, I repeat, have to find a way to fix this situation without him ever finding out. My last resort is to take the cat, dip his feet in water, and press his paws into the wood over the water stains to make it look like he did it. My Dad would never get mad at the cat, the cat is his fucking golden child, the son he never had, Mr. Prrrrfect. The little shit. But whatever, it would piss him off, but not nearly as much as it would piss him off if he thought that HAM and I did it. And I'm not into animal abuse, like I wrote recently, I've gone vegan again, but don't put it past me to hold him against his will, dip his feet in water, and press his paws all over that damn wood until he is sure to be 100% framed for the staining of the wood. Of course, I hope it doesn't come to that, I hope there is a more humane resolution to our problem. It's not that my Dad would DO anything to me, it's just the disdain he would have for me, one more reason not to trust stupid, irresponsible BG. BG, always making bad decisions, BG, never able to follow through on her responsibilities, BG, a failure. Maybe this is more my own idea of myself than it is his, but where do you think I got it from? Years of being treated like a dumb girl, because girls are silly and don't really know anything and they can't take care of themselves, and they're certainly not as smart as men. And I don't just experience this with my Dad, but with most men, men in general (with a few exceptions of course). Whatever, they can kiss, my big, smart, responsible, ass.