There’s a Difference…
There’s a difference in dad these past few episodes of mental illness I have experienced. He is kinder, gentler and far, far more forgiving of my foibles. He is quick to tell me he loves me and Johnny-on-the-spot about getting me medical attention.
“You need cigarettes? Don’t you?” dad just called and asked. “It’s been a week since you last asked for any. And be sure to drive over to go get your diet Cokes tonight. It is driving your mother crazy that you haven’t gotten them in days.”
I talked for a minute and dad interrupted and said, “Thank God! You sound like a different man. You’re coherent now! I don’t think you realized it, but you were talking some crazy and wacky stuff for a few days there.”
“What makes you so want to be homeless when you get like that?” dad then asked. “You have such a nice, comfortable home.”
“It’s my social anxieties,” I replied. “Out in the woods is where no one could find me. The phone wouldn’t ring and the constant knocking at my home’s door would stop. I could relax knowing I was a safe human free space for the most part.”
“Well, I am just glad you’re better. You sound so different. I will bring your cigarettes tonight. I love you,” dad said in closing.
Dad’s usual reaction when I get mentally ill is to search my home for signs of beer or over the counter medications. He didn’t do that this time. We both talked about how hard I have been trying with regards to my addictions – that I have been religiously going to AA up until I had this recent episode with my schizophrenia. We both remarked about how my life used to be constantly like it was these past few days years ago – that I had much more mentally ill days than I did good days. So there is hope and I hope I am getting better. We all now know how to better react when these situations arise – no screaming and hollering. No accusations of untoward doings. Just simply getting medical attention as promptly as possible before things get worse or spiral out of control.
Warning Will Robinson!
This is how crazy my mind works sometimes. My psychiatrist weighed me during Wednesday’s emergency visit. I weighed 186 pounds. My last visit three months ago, I weighed 167. I was extremely mentally ill and still freaked out about my weight. Dad was just ecstatic. My bulimia for some reason hits a sore spot with him and he worries about it deeply. All I could think about was that I was getting fat again. At one time in my life, I weighed 277 pounds at it’s highest. I was a chunk! So I have been obsessing today about my weight. I have cut my portion sizes in half and have put myself on a diet. I am going to have delicately break it to my doctor that weighing with every visit is not a good idea for someone who struggles with bulimia. It freaks us out!
Miss My Camera!
The part I need for my camera is only around ten to twenty bucks so why do I still not have a working camera? Because it is an extreme hassle to get dad to get “The Girls” to order it for me. I talked to dad before this recent episode of mental illness and he said he would order the part. I just have to get it together enough to write down the item number on piece of paper so he can get Tricia down at the pharmacy to order it. I could be dastardly and get mom involved. But that would certainly piss dad off. LOL Mom is so obsessive compulsive about such things that she wouldn’t let my father rest until the part got here and was in my hands. She thinks we have already gotten the part at Wal-Mart the other week.