On top of my recent anxiety attacks, my father attacked me over the phone saying I was drinking was why I am having the attacks. I had called to ask my father to call my brother for something to take that would calm me down -- to stop the racing heart palpitations.
"Your mother gave you fourteen more dollars! She told me!" he screamed. "You can't have any cash money! You always drink with it. Go to your mother for any problems from now on. See if she can help you which she can't. I work all the time and you are about to drive me crazy with your drinking ways."
He hung up the phone. I came in need and hung up the phone flabbergasted. I had a terrible attack -- the worst in years. Sadly, I don't know what to do. I feel so backed into a corner. I mentally can't take all this crap. He never thinks of me and how he handles things has such a profound effect upon me. It all seems to be go back to work which will be terribly hard for me or die ensconced in a form of monetary enslavement hell. My father would totally freak out to know I've had some job interviews lately. I am coming to the conclusion that he is a total control freak. It is all so totally f--ked up.
On the good news front, I did manage to walk this afternoon and that made me feel better. To get out of the house with fresh air and clear, blue skies was wonderful. The furious beating of my heart slowed and went back to normal -- my clammy feeling face and hands garnering a normal temperature. I walked deep into the mill village in search of solace. I found it in little joys. I am not going to let the completely sick relationship with my family upset me any longer. I have a choice whether to participate or not. My heart just can't take it. I apologize to belabor you that read with this junk. I just don't have anywhere else to turn to.
Little joys he said. And they were. The joy of seeing Mrs. Mary comically walking her four dogs -- the four beasts tugging and pulling on their leashes as if almost unleashed hounds. The little joy of a parade of squirrels munching acorns in a front yard. Sitting by the Methodist church and praying vehemently for help with these attacks. I could almost feel God talk to me. "Calm down," he said. "You are going to be okay. You are in my arms." It was comforting and I walked home with my little joys fresh upon my mind. You are going to be okay. You are in my arms. A much better voice than the ones I usually hear via my schizophrenia -- voices of crime and punishment.