Though I’d die to know you love me/I’m all alone

I can’t do it. I fucking can’t.

I was set on a task by my therapist to talk to my father about my feelings and I just cannot do it.

It’s not that I don’t want to try to make my relationship work with my dad, it’s that I truly know my dad and I know that I’d be setting myself up for humiliation and pain.

As much as I understand the concept of vulnerability, some things are just too much. Some things I’ve fought too hard for. I’ve fought too hard for him to see me at all. I feel like asking him to acknowledge my pain would set me back into being his tiny little girl again. The little girl he cast aside and had no interest in raising. While he has little interest in getting to know the woman I’ve become, it’s more than the girl I was.

He called yesterday, out of the fucking blue. He called asking for my advice on some family matters. He typically only calls when he wants something, even if it’s just to pick my brain because of my eXpErTiSe in the field.

…Or to speak to my husband.

I want a better relationship but I just can’t splay my feelings out on the floor for him to tap dance on.

Because he will.

Because he has.

So here I stay, stuck in the corner, watching time go by. Watching him age faster and me become more resentful of the choices he’s made that have affected our lives.

Why can’t I just let it all fucking go?


I’m so lost without you

I’m genuinely concerned about something here.
Maybe I’m out of line.
Maybe I’m wrong. It happens occasionally.

All I know is that I’m fucking irritated and as much as I don’t have a right to be I feel like I have a right to be.

My brother in law. I don’t know how to handle my brother in law. I don’t know why I get so monumentally annoyed by him. He does stupid shit and we’re supposed to co-sign on it. We’re supposed to turn a blind eye to it. Nicest kid you’ll ever meet. Since he’ll eventually be my child, I’m glad to know he’ll be a polite one.

He’s 30 fucking years old. He’s never held a job. He’s never driven a car. He’s never finished school. Why? He’s his daddy’s little boy! Can’t use the good china – it might chip. The other china, however – my husband – fuck it: set it out for the guests or use it as frisbees. He wouldn’t give two shits, until he ran out of shit to eat off of.

When he needs dependability, he runs for the husband. Because he coddled the ever-loving shit out of China Boy and when his appendix almost burst 5 years ago, China Boy called my husband first instead of 911.

Because that’s what you do in emergencies: call family that can’t do shit in the moment instead of trained fucking paramedics. No goddamn sense about himself, that boy. Has tons of opinions about how the world works – sponsored by fucking YouTube and Wikipedia.

I’m convinced I’m going to raise this boy as my own child when the man dies. As much as I absolutely dislike the man, I don’t wish that on him. However, considering his penchant for alcohol, I can imagine his insides are either rotting away or pickling themselves. I’m not a doctor, but that shit isn’t known to prolong one’s life.

…China Boy gets a motherfucking allowance, y’all.

No bills to pay. No job. No responsibilities. Free money. No student loans. Free food. Chauffeured everywhere.

Thirty. Years. Of. Age.

And then I feel like a dick when I want to change the password on the free Netflix and Hulu Live with Showtime that he has access to. Because he seems so overly active with that job hunt.

Because I pay the Netflix. With my fucking job.

My husband pays the Hulu Live plus Showtime. With his job. And China Boy contributes nothing.

My husband frequently covers his meals and drinks when we go out and I scream internally “That’s my fucking mortgage! What the fuck are you doing?!” He has a savings account. This is not someone that needs your assistance in purchasing a goddamn taco and beer, OK?

Did the husband ever get any money from the man? Nope. Not one red cent. Written out of the will, because of me. (I only care because of how it must have hurt the husband to hear that. I don’t care about the money part. I have my own; I make my own. Fuck that man and all that he stands for. He was never good to the husband and he’s shooting China Boy in the foot. He can ride his pride train all the way to hell.)

I feel bad. I feel bad for not wanting to be around China Boy too much (remember? He’s a really nice kid – wouldn’t hurt a soul). I see someone who is emotionally… stunted (and knows it – see: Asperger’s) but does absolutely fuck all about it. I think that’s what pisses me off so much.

And the man just lays in the cut doing nothing, twiddling his goddamned thumbs.

Worse than my father. And that’s saying something considering he is in the same fucking house watching this shitshow.

Breaking guitars

Sigh. I’m very, very tired. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m irritated with disappointed in the hubs, I guess. And I can’t seem to shake it off like I normally would. For the first time in a long time, I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t really want to be around him. I can’t explain why. It doesn’t feel good; it doesn’t feel natural and I don’t like myself for it.

I don’t like that I’m held to a higher standard than his father. I don’t like that I get yelled at for being callous and cold and mean when his father has been this way for decades. A father isn’t supposed to treat their child this way. A wife isn’t supposed to treat their husband that way either – I’m aware – but what makes it so easy to jump down my throat and not his?

[Because he won’t change, Alice. Hubs has tried. The man has an untreated severe mental illness, more severe than you.]

I uninvited my own mother from our wedding for him. My mother – who’s been my rock and best friend all my life, not at the most important event in my life because she disapproved of my now-husband. His father disinherits him because he hates me, says we need to divorce because I’m mentally unstable (pot meet effing kettle), tried to fuck my mother and hubs meets with him for lunch every fucking week like nothing’s the matter. What. The. Fuck.

[Don’t do that. Don’t make him choose because you chose. He never asked you to choose between him and your mother; you just did it. His mother’s gone. He’s probably clinging to the hope that one day his father will come around. Plus, hubs said there was no indication the man wasn’t going to disinherit him for just existing. The man has always resented hubs for merely breathing. You’re more than likely the scapegoat – even your father, Alice, said as much. The man is trying his damnedest to split you apart. Don’t let him succeed.]

Sigh. Why can’t I accept that he’s not like me? We know what I would have done well before now in this situation.

[Not many people are like you, dear. And you’re not like him. It took decades for you to forgive your father, decades for you to see your grandmother as she really was and decades for you to accept and respect your mother. Don’t expect to forget the man and what he’s trying to do to your family in 48 hours. But remember hubs is doing what he can for you and your family today.]

…God. Damn. I’m right.

I’m right. He’s doing his best. It’s not my way, but that’s okay. It has to be. What else can I do? None of this is within my control. I think that’s why I’m so angry about it.

I was telling my new psychologist (yeah, I went back to therapy. Mistakes in the process of being made I’m sure) that that’s why I’m such a perfectionist. I need to have control over everything. I don’t have control – a lot of the time – over my mood swings, libido, etc. so I overcompensate by attempting to control the situations – and sometimes people – around me. A lot of the time it works. Some of the time it doesn’t but by trying to control my environment I can control the trajectory of my life (or so I think). When someone or something comes around and is resistant to my ideas or the environment doesn’t adapt to my comfort zone it throws me for a loop. I get anxious, depressed, despondent followed by irritable and indignant.

Selfish, right? Not when you consider my background. It comes from a lifetime of unreliable behavior demonstrated by my superiors. Now that I’m older, if I can exercise any amount of control it eliminates the need for others entirely, thus ensuring there is someone I can always depend on: me. Who else is there but me? I rarely let me down.

In this particular situation I felt let down by the hubs. I felt like he wasn’t defending me. Like the only way to defend/stick up for me was my way. He says he always stands up for me, tries to explain my situation to the man however the man doesn’t believe in mental illness. (Yeah, that explains a whole lot. Explains why someone with a clear alcohol problem and obvious sxs of schizophrenia isn’t seeking treatment but that’s not my fucking problem. Whatever. I digress.). I don’t care if the man believes in fairies, okay? I cared that hubs doesn’t care enough to say, “Hey, believe what you want. I know the truth. Stay ignorant. You don’t like her? Fine. She’s tried to make peace with you but you’re too stubborn to care. So we’re gonna drop it entirely. Leave her name out of your mouth because we’re all over this shit. We’re staying together and plan on having kids. You can be a part of that or not. Having nothing to do with her precludes you from having anything to do with our children however so think long and hard about how long you want to keep this up. It’s a shame that you can’t let go [of something that never actually happened] out of a sense of pride or principle. Grow up.”

Too much? He could word it much nicer than that! I would have been much meaner, actually. He said if he tried to be more direct with him, it would probably end with them severing their relationship. If being direct and upfront about your feelings with your parent causes them to cut you off, it’s their loss and not yours. Holding all of that inside out of fear of losing the [tenuous] connection with your parent is sad. Having to walk on eggshells just to maintain a relationship with an unstable parent because they’re your only surviving parent is tragic.

[The same could be said for having to walk on eggshells to maintain a relationship with an unstable wife.]

Ouch. Touché.

Yes, both of my parents are living.
No, I don’t understand what it’s like, clearly, to lose a parent.
No, if my mother leaves this Earth first I will not cling to my emotionally unavailable father for parent-ship. He’s not available at the moment. I’ll leave a message and he’ll get back to me like he always has. And that’s the truth of it. And that’s okay. I have other family to lean on – namely my hubs (if he hasn’t divorced me for his goddamned father by then), our possible kids and a plethora of friends I deem close enough to be considered my family.

…Once I leave inpatient psychiatric treatment because losing her will send me off the reservation.

Same if I lose him. #codependent

Sigh. In the words of my father – the wise man that he is: fuck it.

I just want you to know who I am

How do fix a big mistake?  How do you stop a whirling dervish?  An avalanche?  Rolling boulder off a mountaintop?  That’s how this feels. I feel the weight of someone else’s decision – that I didn’t challenge – on my shoulders. 

It’s days like this I wish I got my PhD like I’d planned. 

Long story short and without HIPAA violations: someone who I felt was unnecessarily petitioned and viewed as a psychiatric patient ended up involuntarily sent to a psych facility. Because my higher ups – the attending – overrode my recommendation. 

We’ve just created a psych history for a person who didn’t have one, didn’t need one. Great. I’m party to that and I feel like a piece of liquid shit. Thank you. No really – THANK YOU. 

I don’t think these baseliners (ooh I like that!) truly understand the weight that having a hospitalization can carry on you. Mentally ill folk can’t carry guns here.  With a psych history, it’s harder to obtain life insurance, you cannot enter the military, and imagine every time you saw a physician your symptoms were met with skepticism and disrespect. 

Now remember you don’t have a mental illness. (See the twist?!)

That’s fucked up. If I knew then what I know now, I’m not sure I’d be here. I didn’t sign up to put baseliners, homeless baseliners, homeless addicts and just plain addicts in psych units. It’s not a shelter; it’s not rehab. When the truly mentally ill come along – get this – all the fucking beds are full!  

Fuck the system and the peg leg it stands on. ::::spits on the ground::::

Call me when you’re sober.

OK, I’ve been dodging questions for days now. I’ll try to make this short, but I’m not sure how.

This past Thanksgiving was a nightmare. My FIL, an alcoholic, was drunk upon arrival and proceeded to get more hammered. During dinner, my mother screams in pain due to her sciatica.  

(Now, she mentioned to me that he’d made a pass at her before – while inebriated. I told her to check him if she was uncomfortable. She told me she didn’t want to hurt his feelings as he is mentally unstable and extremely bad at handling rejection. I said to find a way to check it if she doesn’t want it to happen again.)

Back to Thanksgiving. My FIL hears her cries of pain, gets up from his seat, goes to her, and begins massaging her thigh under the table. All while my husband, brother-in-law, and I are watching.  He proceeds to look down her shirt and make a comment about her breasts. 

I am staring him down. …You ever watch one of those Nat Geo shows about the snakes? I’m terrified of the fuckers myself, but I imagine my look was one similar to that of a rattler in a coil; my eyes were following his every move, waiting for him to make one more step in the wrong direction before I bit his fat ass.  

I wanted nothing more than to lay his ass out onto the floor, but then I realized that is my husband’s father. As much as I cannot tolerate that man, I have to respect the relationship he and my husband share. So as I sat in my chair, wringing my hands together with my knuckles turning almost white, I just kept repeating ”I am married to your son,” which I’ve come to find out makes no fucking difference to him.  

Anyway, my BIL and husband attempt to get him to sit down, when he yells out, “I don’t give a fuck what Alice thinks!” That’s when I get up from the table, go to my bedroom, take a Seroquel and 2 Xanaxes, and try to go to sleep. Hubs attempted to calm me down but I screamed at the top of my lungs for at least an hour (so much for chemical intervention, eh?).  

Now the incident has taken on a life of its own since then. FIL has since banned me from his property, is refusing to participate in any family functions, will not apologize, and despite all of that still has designs on my mother.  

To be honest, I’m kinda delighted I won’t have to have anymore heated exchanges with him; his 50s morals and beliefs, inability to see past the end of his nose and refusal to accept reality is fucking draining. I deal with people who are medication non-compliant and self-medicate with booze for 12 hours a day; why the FUCK would I want to spend the holidays doing the same thing and NOT get paid double time? Are you shitting me? This is a man who stops his vehicle in traffic to look for dead bodies underneath, won’t “allow” his 25-year-old son to have a smartphone because he likes controlling him (his words, not mine), owns 9 guns and can’t shoot a one because he gets too nervous and loses his focus, has cirrhosis yet drinks 1/4 – 1/2 gallon of vodka a day, yet has no problem calling other people with mental illness “crazy, unpredictable, and dangerous…” Yeah. OK.  You first, pal.

I tried calling him to settle this bullshit; he basically told me there’s no problem and banning me from his life because my mother won’t fuck him is easiest for him (mind you, not easy for his son) so he’s gonna keep doing it.  

You know one of the biggest slaps in the face? It’s actually my friends. I’ve heard these lines from several different people and I’ve had enough:

“If being with him makes your mom happy, wouldn’t you want her to be happy?”

“How does this define your marriage? Why are you letting it? You’re not related by blood.”

“It’s none of your business.”

OK, let’s answer these, shall we?
1. First, I would find it completely ironic that out of the millions of people walking around on this twisted blue ball, she would find happiness with the one person I would consider off-limits. Why ironic? Because I’m finally happy. I’m overjoyed. My marriage, even the ups and downs like any marriage, is amazing and I couldn’t have found a more amazing man. Wouldn’t it be just swell that she would find “that special someone” in MY family tree?! I would love for my mother to find happiness, but why does her happiness have to ride sidecar to mine? Why can’t we be individually happy? If she were to pursue a relationship with him and it failed, family gatherings would be forever affected. At that point, her attempt at happiness directly affects not just my life, but my husband’s and my future children.  

2. It doesn’t define my marriage, but think long term. If they were to get married, I’d be married to my stepbrother, my children would be cousins. How fucked up is that?! It doesn’t define my marriage more than it identifies my FIL and mother’s lack of respect for my marriage. Relation by marriage, to me, is sacred just as relation to blood (sometimes even more so). I forget that I’m talking about 2 people that don’t respect me or my husband; I don’t know why I bother.

3. I never said it was my business. But to tell me it’s not my business than proceed to gossip about me, my husband, or anything pertaining to things unrelated to your functioning lets me know that this is a one-sided deal. Don’t you have other shit to do? Like darn socks or count carpet fibers or something?  

Dear Buddha, when I retire… Don’t let be become useless and an overall pain in the ass to my kids, flirting with the idea of getting involved with their lives instead of finding part time employment. Or just gluing my head to my kitchen floor. Amen.