Yesterday I was sitting in dad's den as he watched the Bama game.
"Why are you so quiet?" he asked as I sat with my head hung low. "You're on one of your mental illness cycles."
"Can't I just feel emotion without it being a symptom of my mental illness?" I asked sincerely.
It offended him.
I had asked for six more Diet Cokes and dad firmly and almost vehemently said no. I didn't want to use my cherished $20 dollars from Mrs. Florene when mom had 20 cases of cokes in the basement. My parent's control of me seems to be tightening over time and not lessening. Dad says I get "high" off the caffeine in the drinks. He only sees me fifteen minutes a day so how would he know? We've had several uneventful years as far as I am concerned, the drinking, and my "episodes," and I would think things would be improving as far as my autonomy is concerned. It has not.
Dad gave me my medications. I took them and sat quietly. He was quiet as well. My fifteen minutes was up and dad said I could go. Dad locked the door as I left.
The first thing I did when I got home was get on the computer. I emailed a trusted friend about this and it made me feel better. "It is hard to believe I am 37 years old!" I wrote my trusted friend. She wrote me back within minutes and said, "Leave! Sell all your shit and get out of there! You don't have to live that way!" It was rash, but I entertained the thought. I've often thought of putting a sign in my front yard saying, "Everything in the house is for sale! Name your price!" I would get enough money to leave town, m0ve to Nashville, and sleep and live in the Rescue Mission. Sometimes, it seems my freedom is so wanted and so coveted that I want to go to almost any length to re-attain it. Even homelessness seems a better alternative.
Later in the day, my father pulled up in front of my house. I opened the door which is our custom so Maggie can see him, and he was smiling as he walked through my yard.
"Here's you some cokes, a carton of cigarettes, and some supper. I cooked just for you," he told me as I stood at the door. "I love you, son. I hope this makes you feel better."
I was shocked. My father is not prone to do such things for me. I am rarely thought of by him unless it is time to take my medications which is a way he uses to modify my behavior. Well, it made the evening much better. It was a reprieve in the storm. I could then drink my cokes as I smoked cigarette after cigarette due to this windfall. I usually have to ration them they've gotten so expensive. There is good in my father, but he can be a hard man. Especially when it concerns me. He's given me so much over the years, yet he has taken so much away. I am conflicted by it all and his show of concern yesterday evening.