I’m reading Anne Rice again. It’s mid-October after all, and my house is full of decorations, but what would Halloween be without a good horror story. Yet it really isn’t. It’s a tragedy. I was explaining The Interview to a friend of mine and said, “After reading it, you end up sympathizing with the character, the vampire.” Her comment was, “Like Dexter.” Ha! What a perfect analogy. It suites me though, the melancholy that chains Louis to mortality. The reckless behavior that Lestat has to exhibit to obliterate his loneliness and attract the fury of others. At least fury is recognition right? The madness in all of them when they finally realize what immortality means and the price they have to pay for it. No one really wanted it, whether from the very beginning or later down the devil’s road, and that’s what suites me.

I try and try to get back on track and I’m knocked down relentlessly. I started riding again and injured myself the third time on the course. I’m going to the doctor tomorrow. I believe I have a hematoma, which means I probably won’t be riding until spring. What’s the point in trying anymore? I feel like lying down in bed and just continuing with the saga of the vampires. After all, their troubles are worse than my own. I would be like John Lennon. I could have people deliver me the books as I finished them one by one. I just don’t feel like moving anymore. Every time I do physically hurt myself. And off I go to the doctor again. I really should count the times I’ve had to go this year. I could put the list up on my wall and measure my sons growth against it. I still think there is a curse, a hex placed on me. And god? Well… that’s a nice theory for people who’s life is going well. Bedtime stories, just like the vampire chronicles. You could choose one or the other. Maybe this is fate. Whatever I choose I seem to keep on ending up in the same exact place. Injured.

I am thinking about the white box in the white room… When I feel emotions overwhelming me, I picture a small white room, with a shelf up high and a white box on it. I take down the box, it’s empty, and I place my feelings inside of it. Then I place the box back up on the shelf. The funny thing is, whenever I do this, I never come back to a room with more and more white boxes that really should be there, and the single box that sits in the same place remains empty. It’s like a garbage disposal. Now, I assume there is a door behind me, perhaps leading to a bedroom, and it’s white too of course, but I never see myself opening that door. I never see myself entering the room or exiting afterwords. So, what exactly is the room? What are the four walls that surround me? Is it like an eggshell? The inside of my mind that I no longer open up to anyone? Are the walls growing thicker every time I open that little white box?

How do I get out.

Drinking alcohol is like choosing to stop taking your medication. If you think about it, alcohol renders the medications ineffective while screwing with your synaptic conductivity and your cognitive reasoning abilities. Now, I’m not talking about one drink here and there, but choosing to drink regularly and copiously (like I have been) slowly erodes the capability for the medicine to work. When I look back over the past 4 months, I see a directly connected pattern with drinking heavily and my rapid cycling.

I was angry enough to frighten and abuse my dog, the one who I picked up off the side of the road. The one who’s owners dumped and left her to try and survive on her own. Just a pup. She only deserves love and compassion, but she is afraid of me, because of my bipolar. She can sense it, sometimes 24hrs before a change takes place. So, I come home and she cowers and pees on the floor and what do I do? I yell at her and hit her and kick her outside. One time I was so angry that she ran off and I didn’t go looking for her, I just left her out all night in the cold. I think that I wronged her the most. Even more than my son. But my son has suffered emotional abuse because of this as well and he is afraid of me too.

I have been off my medication. I have been foolishly thinking that I can drink alcohol. I have been denying that I have this illness by drinking. I’ve been denying this illness because its serious and scary and… heavy I guess. No one likes to discuss it so that must mean its serious and heavy right? I have to fear my own mind, or I have to stay sober, clean, whatever you want to label it and move forward. Knowing that there will be ups and downs. Regrets. Rumination. But no unforgivable acts. No more hurt and shame. No more blame. No more asking for forgiveness. A little humility serves me well right now.

I really don’t want to keep writing about this. I am severally depressed about what I have done. I not only hurt my son (and his dog), I put my father in an ambulance due to the things I texted him. I told him he replaced all of us with a new nuclear family. I told him I believed that he did’t care one whit about me or what I go through each day, living with this disorder, and with my life in and of itself. I explained it to him many times and brought up the illness but he didn’t want to talk about it. So, one hour after I texted him my nastiness, he collapsed in the garage and passed out.

It’s my fault. My mom reassures me that his father had black-outs as well and not to take it on. But thats ridiculous. The doctors said it was due to dehydration, which is also ridiculous. I’m sure no one told him about my message. But my step mother must hate me now. She knows I caused this, but since she’s such a religious fanatic, she believes in forgiving forever.

I think it’s about not listening. He used to listen to me. We used to have our own time together, but as he said on the phone, “the hurt goes both ways”. Maybe it’s my fault that I left. I suppose this is all my deal, after all, I chose to leave. Hell, I even left the country for 4 years. He was ready to jump on a plane immediately when I sent my first text. It was firm, but not cruel, asking for $20,000 and explaining why. He said I could still come home and we could spend the weekend together,  just he and I, to talk face to face. Why didn’t I do that!

I knew not to do this. I knew to just let my feelings go, take the higher ground. But I finally had to open my big mouth. I’m sure it was the gin and tonics, or the wine. I’m not supposed to be drinking at all with my bipolar disorder. I think I finally realize how dangerous it is for me to drink. Maybe this is what it feels like to hit bottom. I wanted to give away my own son and nearly killed my dad with my harsh words towards him in his weekend state.

I can’t continue writing this. I’m suicidal enough already.

Unforgivable.

I ran away on Friday. I finally lost it and left. I left my house, my dog, my son…

I came home from work feeling exhausted and I knew I needed to rest, sleep for an hour in the chair, but I forced myself to get up and take the dog for a walk. We went to her favorite trail, my son and I. Its shady and a flat walk which I can usually handle after a long day. She’s always allowed off leash. For a year she’s been under voice command. Something I’m really proud of her for. She got up ahead, like she usually does, but is always quick to come back an make eye contact with me. This day I was too tired to care. I felt like I was going to collapse.

As we rounded the corner some angry woman with a rather large, aggressive sheep dog yelled, “Don’t you have a leash for your dog!?” It was obvious that the two dogs were getting into a tussle, but I know my dog, she is submissive, especially towards a larger dog. I assume her dog made the first move and mine got defensive, hackles up, growling. So I reply to this surly bitch, “No I don’t”. “Well you should have a leash for your dog!”. If I wasn’t being pushed to my breaking point, I probably would have apologized and told her to just calm the fuck down. At this point I had already called my dog back and was holding her by her collar. She was being a good girl. So I’m like, “Look I’m having a bad day! Just leave me alone!!”. “FUCK YOU” she hurls at me, so of course I have to respond back with a big FUCK YOU TOO!!!

And as if to add insult to injury, the bitch keyed my brand new car.

We sat by the the edge of the creek. The dog trying her best to hide from us under the lip of the bank.  My son was worried about her, worried about me, about what was going to happen next. Then… something took over. Things started to move very slowly, and I said to him, I have to go away. You have to go stay with your dad for a while. He started to cry. For how long? I don’t know. A week, two weeks, a month. I don’t Know! Just tell me you’ll come back… I need to know you’re going to come back. YES, I’LL COME BACK!

I got us back to the house and started packing. I hastily threw stuff into a bag, making random choices, not really caring much. I told my son to pack a bag for his dads house. Put anything into it that he wanted over there. I grabbed a sleeping bag and a pillow for me. Threw everything into the car, leaving the lights on windows open, I’m not even sure I locked the front door. As we left, my son handed me the iPad, “Just in case you might need it” he said. That’s my little angel, always thinking of others. We loaded into the car and he asked me if he called if I would pick up. I said “Of course”. We got to his fathers house quickly, I told him to grab his pack and I grabbed all of his coats and the dog, walked right in and dumped everything on the floor. All I said was ” I can’t do this anymore.”

Who does that? Who talks to their 10 year old child that way? A monster.

It’s unforgivable. Absolutely Unforgivable.

And I still feel sick enough to end my life to escape the repercussions of it all and putting all of the pieces back together. I guess I knew this day would come. When my son would take a major hit for my disorder. And here it is… now here it is…

It all started with collapsing in exhaustion on my couch at around 7pm. I woke later. It was probably ten or so. I was too hot, so I went into the kitchen to open the window and the plant on the sill fell into the sink. My dog, who I believe has some kind of emotional disorder of her own, ran off and acted all afraid of me which only angered me more. After all didn’t she know just how fucking exhausted I was. I was burning the candle at both ends day and night.

Time warped as it always does and I very methodically picked up the plant and ripped it our of the pot and smashed the pot on the floor. That felt good… It was the antique ball jars next, filled with freshly ground coffee, and sugar. They went away… on the floor with the rest of the broken pieces of my life. I swept the counter and my coffee maker crashed to the floor. Glass was everywhere. And I felt once again that this is what is going on inside of my mind and I only have a tenuous grip on what can and can’t be let out. I walked away and was perfectly prepared to leave the room in ruins, but I worried about my dog cutting her feet on all the glass so I did an arbitrary sweep of the room.

One week later I was trying to get pasta sauce out of my white robe. I was rinsing it in the bathroom. Again my reality slipped and I just kept on swishing the water in the sink to wash, wash, wash. The next thing I know is that water is going all over the bathroom. And…. it seemed okay. I felt removed. Outside of my tiny little life of work, anger and strife. The bathroom flooded. There was an inch of water on the floor. I left the room and tore out the curtains from the 9 foot ceilings. I would have continued,  but I realized my son was sleeping down the hall. I wondered what he would think of the bathroom left like that, so I started to clean up. everything shoved into the tub for the time being. I didn’t realize the extent of my fit though. The drawers were filled as well and I had warped the wood. They now wouldn’t close properly. I really fucked myself this time!

Time to go back to my shrink, only to find out that she had vacated and left me with no referral. What a fucking bitch. I could have jumped over the counter of the desk and strangled the scheduler when she suggested getting me in with another PA next week. Jesus Christ! What part of cracking up didn’t she get! Was I supposed to check into the psych ward? Keeping it together was not an option. I did find someone however. Someone I could get into the next day. He’s cool though. Doesn’t ask me all of those redundant questions. He just upped my medication and gave me some tranquilizers. So the drug cocktail I was hoping to avoid may already be here. I’m on Lamictal for the bipolar, Mirtazipene to help me sleep, Klonopin for aggitation. I do feel better though….

I still want to go away. I need a serious break. I still don’t feel well. Stable. I wan’t to go live with the elves. Removed from society. Live the simple quite life.

I resigned on the 7th. I felt a great weight lifted. I was promised a career job, but that’s not what happened. Instead I was used up and burned out like all the the other coordinators. my boss actually tried to pull the I was going to let you go anyway card. What a fucker! He came in the next day and backpedaled like a drowning jellyfish. Spineless, yes, unless he feels threatened.

I feel lied to. Betrayed. Foolish. But I have to remember why I took the job in the first place. It was a stepping stone. A good thing for my resume, because lets face it, 15 years of working for yourself and not much to show for it, well… not so easy to sell. The thing is, I have no idea what the fuck is coming for me next.

Lets get back to the point though. After all this is a blog based on my bipolar disorder. I had a major event in April. Two weeks up and two weeks down. The up was triggered by el Hefe handing over the first conference meeting to me the moment of. No warning, no getting together beforehand to discuss the expectations of me taking over. No agenda prepared by myself. So, I immediately did what I always to… take over. Nice.

In retrospect I should have tossed that right back at him, but I did two months later when he pulled the same shit. Unfortunately (or fortunately) I did speak up. I chucked the papers on my desk that he gave me, telling me I was in charge of yet another thing, and told him no way. There were 5 people in the room and I just reamed him out. You could have heard a pin drop after that. Insubordination would now be in my personnel file I guess. Ha-ha. At that time I think I already knew I was out of there. The conference went well, despite the fact that I did the job of 4 people this year. I alway love seeing my third favorite doc after all. Mmmm…

TBC…

When my foot was broken I experienced a tremendous amount of anger. It was so frustrating to not be able to get up and do stuff, fix things, make order like I do. But keeping order tends to draw out anger in me, because, as my son says “perfection is a moving target”. It can never be attained for more than a minute if at all. I get more and more angry when things don’t fall into order when I exert my will upon life, or more closely, I get them in order and they fall out of it which leads to the irrational anger. I was angry then for not being able to drive the bus. Now that I’m back in the driver’s seat I have a short fuse. So essentially I was angry at not being able to be angry. How utterly stupid we humans can be.

I should have said something. Once again I ignored my intuition and it’s sent me into a tailspin. I’ve been drinking like a fish to cope with something and in trying to figure out what that something is I think I can see it now. There are things that I need to say, need to decline, or address that I avoid, but since you can’t actually avoid anything you get chased by them instead.

I am being chased by a design job that I should have declined. I don’t have the time to do it and I don’t want to anymore. I’m being chased by the university. I need to withdraw, but I feel guilty about the loss of money so I stress about it, all the while not doing the work. And last but not least, I am being chased by my doctor. I really should have said something. God I wish I could put things in rewind.

Its called an energy leak and that’s exactly what it does. It drains you without you even knowing it. Right now I am being drained without my permission. I should have done things differently in the past but I didn’t and now I don’t know how to correct the mistakes. It would just be weird to try and correct them at this point. Here’s what I should have done and said:

• Sorry Bjorn I don’t do websites anymore, but I can put you in touch with someone who can.
• Albert, coffee is fine as long as it’s just coffee. I don’t want to date you. I don’t want to date anyone for at least a year.
• Don, I really don’t think we should have dinner together. Maybe coffee. I also wish that you would quit sending me pictures. I have copies of all of them and seeing pictures of the boys when they were little just makes me feel guilty. Yes, we had something good in the beginning but you know it turned bad for both of us in the end.
• Karl, I have to talk to you about something. I am experiencing quite a bit of transference towards you and its making me a little uncomfortable. I know that’s all it is, and it was probably unavoidable due to the crisis I’ve felt with this injury. I’ve been terribly dependent on you, and now I’m finding you attractive and your married and your my doctor, so I don’t know if just getting this out in the open will help or not. I don’t want to find another doctor, but I will if this makes you uncomfortable.

It’s interesting that they are all men. I declined a board membership recently because I knew I couldn’t take it on and that was Rita. She actually wrote me back and said,

“I totally understand and respect your decision, as too many times we try to do more than what we should be doing.  Wise decision.”

So maybe it’s a man trip on my part. What, do I have a problem saying no to men? Am I afraid of rejection?

I really should have said something. Especially to my doctor. It’s going to take longer for me to heal from those feelings towards him because I didn’t. I listened to other people, but I knew. I knew it in my heart that I should confront the issue. Now I can’t help but think there was some countertransference on his part and there may not have been. He could have put a stop to my uneasiness with a simple change in behavior. Maybe even just saying it would have made it go away. I suspect it would have.

At the very least I wouldn’t be holding on to thinking that somewhere in the future we might see each other again and there might be some spark between us. Or, that he’s leaving his wife. Holding on to such ridiculous ideas are detrimental to my well being. Hence the drinking.

Yeah, maybe I give men too much power over me. I’ll have to think on that.

Two more weeks in the boot. That was the determination on Monday. I don’t have to go back to see my doctor. I’m free to go. It’s on to physical therapy. 4-6 weeks 3 times a week.

The visit with my doctor was entirely different this time from all of our previous visits. It was brief, to the point, professional on both of our parts. He remained very detached and I remained slightly aloof. There were no lingering conversations. No long pauses on his part that extended the visit for no real reason. I didn’t have a lot of questions and I was quickly dismissed. He walked out like a doctor and did not hold the door for me this time which I felt was so odd when he did the last time.

I am relieved that it’s over. That nothing continued. Nothing transpired. But I’m confused. Was it all in my head? When I ask my friends they say no. They understood there was definite blurring of the boundaries going on. I might have been experiencing transference but he allowed it. The unspoken attraction. The building tension. However, I feel oddly displaced. A part of me still feels that needy desire. Still wants that comfort he was able to provide. And the fantasy that he might actually act on the attraction.

It was titillating, intoxicating and borderline scandalous. I have to admit, I enjoyed the thought that I might be able to compel him to step over the line. It would have been something to just grab him and kiss him right there in the exam room. There wouldn’t have to be any sex, any meeting outside of the office. No planing. No promises. Just that one moment of passion. That one heated moment.

There’s another part of me that wants the broken foot back for other reasons. I was able to slow down for real. My personality changed as I adapted to my predicament. I was much more centered and calm and I can already feel that slipping away. My anger is much, much better though and I can let things go, which was one of my goals. I don’t swear like I used to either. Now that I can walk though I can act. I can get up and fix things that are out of place. That’s going to take some work. To not act.

It will take a little longer to process the transference/countertransference though. It was such an odd experience. One I haven’t had to deal with before and I’m shocked really at how overwhelming it was. I went from mildly infatuated to nearly obsessive in one visit, one half hour, where he responded to me.

Feelings still remain for me and I have to remind myself of how I felt about him before that visit. When I was able to control my fleeting admiration because that was all it was. It’s hard when he lives right down the street though. I can’t help but be completely aware that we shop at the same grocery store and we might possibly run into each other in the dog park. And I think, would it be appropriate to talk to him if he was by himself?