How Do I Drug Thee? Let Me Count The Ways

Despite the fact that I take a small handbag of mind-altering drugs every day, I can't seem to get past the depression I've suffered over the past many months. There are a few days, here and there, when my husband and I can find ways to pull my head out of my rectum and I'm able to smell what passes for fresh air; I grab those good days and hold them to me like a three-year-old holding his favourite toy from his little sister: THIS IS MY DAY, YOU MAY NOT STEAL IT! I generally manage to resist the urge to smack people.

Where was I? Oh yes. So I continue to take these stupid pills that seem to have stopped helping me. Each month I visit the psychiatrist (whom I detest for a variety of reasons), and we discuss what we're going to do for the next month or two. You don't get to make major changes when you're in this situation: if you do, you can't tell which change it was that made the damned difference. So ... you make one miniscule change and see what happens. Whoop-dee-fuckin'-doo. So what's the biggest irony in all this? (I need to change font here ...)

I HATE TAKING PILLS.

I hate everything about them. I hate the fact that there is row upon row of bottles upon my bathroom counter and that my life is dependent upon them. At night I go through them and find the "night-time meds". Those are the ones that will knock me out. While I peruse this group, I have to determine how tired I am, or how wired. Do I have to get up early? Am I too keyed up to sleep? Am I anxious? Then I take the "regular" dose of each med, and add to it, according to what I've decided. While it would be easier to say, "screw it!" and not take any extras, there's no question that I need to, or I'm not going to sleep that night. Added to that are blood pressure medication, migraine medication and allergy medication. Isn't this fun, fun, fun!??

In the morning, I do it all again. Some I have to take. Some I don't want to, but again, must assess my mindset and do it anyway. For some people, this isn't a big deal, and that's great for them. For me, it's a huge deal, and it always has been.

Every once in a while, you'll hear someone talk about how they suffer from depression, and they refuse to medicate it. They're NOT allowing the problem to run their lives, and they will NOT take a pill for it, because that would mean they're ill ~ those people find other ways to deal with their pain; I say, if you can do it, all the more power to you. Unfortunately for me, when I read what they're saying, what I hear is, "YOU ARE NOT STRONG ENOUGH!" Or, alternately, "YOU ARE NOT REALLY ILL". When it comes from someone you have had an affinity with, it smarts, whether they meant it to, or not.

The problem is, I don't just suffer from depression. I have bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder. There are mood swings so wild that I invariably end up in tears of frustration; it happens in a heartbeat: one moment, so blackly depressed that I'm staring blindly out a window, thinking only of the escape I desperately need to find, and suddenly a surge of joy, inexplicable in it's advance. I'll grab on to it, and take advantage in any way I can, getting things done, cuddling with my husband, shopping, cooking. But as fast as it comes, it goes: ephemeral, ethereal, mystical.

Unfortunately, it doesn't end there. Those moods, while frustrating, aren't nearly as dangerous as the lack of impulse control I suffer, brought on by borderline personality disorder. This alone is reason enough to medicate me. When one becomes a danger to oneself and others, doctors tend to want to lessen the impact. Unfortunately, nothing seems to be helping anymore. My driving has gone from reasonable back to episodes of road rage and speeding; I started drinking while taking these medications (I've since stopped); the desire to cut is so strong I can taste it, and what's most disturbing is that I have had, on more than one occasion, the very strong urge to bite my husband! Every once in a while, when I'm REALLY lucky, I have a manic surge, and it all goes away for a few days; that in itself is a mood swing, but at least it's an "up" swing. Unfortunately, when you crash, you crash into depression again.

So yesterday I saw the psychiatrist for my regular apointment. While I don't like the woman, I grudgingly admit she's good at what she does. She's a no-nonsense witch who knows her job. In the past, I've managed to run over many health care professionals, simply because I have a strong personality. That doesn't happen with this one. It's rather irritating. But we talked at length about my inability to get past this depressive state, and it's danger to me; so ........

Meggy gets another pill.

This SO does not make me happy. I asked if I could get rid of something else; of course she said no: if there are any changes in my condition, we won't know what caused it.

So now my mind-altering drugs include:
Depakote
Topomax
Seroquel
Abilify

That doesn't include what I take for migraine (x2), blood pressure, allergies (x2) and herbal remedies when necessary. THIS IS SICK.

What I've decided is that I'll give this 10 weeks. Five weeks on this dosage, and if it's working, another five weeks on a higher dosage. If there's no considerable improvement, I want to stop it all. Everything. It occurs to me that I no longer have any idea who I am. Am I this depressed without it all? Will I be just as crazy? Am I FUN? Who knows, maybe I'm more crazy, but an absolute blast to party with! But I need to get my head back. Of course I didn't tell HER that.

For anyone who has ever "lost their head", it's a frustrating experience. Some women describe this during pregnancy. They talk about being forgetful, losing their keys, and not being able to come up with a word during a conversation when in the past it would have been run-of-the-mill. Try living this all the time! I'm so tired of having someone else finish my sentences for me. I'm so tired of trying to come up with relatively intelligent conversation, knowing that I used to be able to do that, but now, because of these stupid drugs, I cannot. I am so tired of saying one thing, only to hear it come out of my mouth, and realizing that I meant something entirely different.

I want my mind back. I need to know who I am again, even if it's some completely crazed woman. Then if I can't do it on my own, I'll start over and see if we can't get it right this time. But dear God, I cannot bear to continue to swallow handful after handful of drugs with names like anti-depressants, impulse control, and anti-psychotics. Meggy needs to come home.

Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most.

Miss Behaviour

Well, I could make an effort to write a lovely post, but I haven't got it in me. I'm having a CRAPPY WEEK.

Why? Because for what ever reason, I'm acting like a damned child. I'm (mumbles something) years old, and still my behaviour is that of a recalcitrant teenager who's taking the family car without permission and driving on the back-country roads with no regard for my own personal safety. What I don't know is what the HELL is making me do it.

As anyone knows who has read this endless missive for any length of time, mental illness is the hallmark of my existence these days. BOOYA. I'm not impressed. Where was I? Oh ya. To help instill some semblance of direction, I live a fairly structured lifestyle. We have a short-list of rules that I'm to follow in order to maintain my safety and security, and the safety of others. Now while that may seem outdated and even barbaric to the feminists out there, quite frankly, I LOVE IT. In many ways, it makes me feel very pampered and loved. Unfortunately, on the downside, in failure I feel like a SHIT. I would imagine that's where the teenager image and I part company. That and the facial lines ...

This would be one of those weeks.

Driving in southern California has always been a challenge for me ~ but maybe not in the way you think. I adore driving fast ... the faster, the better! In this, southern California is ideal. The freeway speed without rush hour traffic is about 75 mph. My average used to be somewhat faster than this (85) until my husband discovered just how fast I was driving. Then he and I sat down and discussed ALL my driving habits, deciding which ones I should keep and which ones needed to be altered just a bit.

Unfortunately for me, I had to confess that I do possess more than my share of road rage. It irritates me beyond belief when people cut me off, just to slow to a crawl right in front of me. I HAVE PLACES TO GO, MORON. My habit has been to stay right where I am in those cases: right on their bumper. This completely freaked my husband out. Then I happened to mention that when they turned off, or sped up, sometimes I followed them for a while. The poor man nearly had a coronary. I had to take his pulse at three-minute intervals for two days after that. Of course it was always necessary to give the "official thumbs up" to these irritants as well.

Some of you might not think this is all that bad. Unfortunately, when you live in southern California, tailgating, flipping the bird and speeding are all good reasons for people to SHOOT YOU DEAD. And it happens with alarming frequency. Therefore, my husband has decided I need not DO these things, as he seems to be genuinely fond of me despite my many faults. But man, this week has been one disaster after another. Despite my best efforts, every time I turn around (or turn a corner), I seem to be angry at someone, or passing someone, or too close to someone. I am filled with the Christmas spirit; unfortunately, my spirit is NOT the same as the moral majority's ...

Then I have to come home and face the music here.

The deal is, I tell the Big Kahuna. Could I lie? Of course I could. But what's the point in that? I wouldn't be helping myself, I'd certainly be damaging our marriage, and I'd be setting a precedent that I really don't want to set. Besides, once you lie, you're branded, even if no one knows: YOU know.

And I have to see the disappointment in his face when he hears that I've yet again indulged in dangerous behaviour behind the wheel of the car. Last night was the worst. I sat in a chair and looked at him and he had one hand on his head and he looked so ... tired and fed up. I know he wasn't feeling well and that probably has something to do with how he looked, but it sure didn't help any.

Why does this matter to me? As he reminds me each and every time: he loves me. And if I continue with this behaviour, I'm going to end up dead, or maimed, and may potentially end up taking someone with me. I don't want that to happen. Nuts or otherwise, I cherish my life with him, and pray that one day things will even out enough that there will be more laughter again. But the fact remains that I'm going to have to be alive in order to do it.

It's now 11:05 a.m. So far I haven't done anything stupid, and I HAVE been out in the car. Here's hoping that I'll make it through the end of this day and count ONE DAMNED DAY as a relatively responsible adult.

Meggy

Happy Anniversary To Us

On Friday, my delightful husband and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary. This is truly a testament to him, and not me, since I don't believe I'm at all easy to live with, and most times he'd more than likely love to bash me in the skull with a Louiseville Slugger (the traditional gift for five years IS wood ...). Not that he's ever said that; it's just a hunch. After all, life with me is rather like a roller coaster ride with Sybil at the switch ...

As always, I'm loathe to write about him because whatever I put down doesn't do him justice. Anyone can say that their husband is loving and caring and sweet. Blah, whoopee. But mine isn't like that. He's entirely different.

My husband lives with a woman who was diagnosed after marriage with two mental illnesses. He's taken them in stride, and no matter how wretched and ugly, no matter which corner of the house I'm hiding in, no matter how deep the depression, he insists on pulling me out and loving me. When there is nothing left within, he WILL find the good, no matter how small. Every single time. And when I'm ranting and raving, raging out of control, he's still calm, his eyes clear, his hand out, waiting for me to stop. And when I do, he WILL find the good, no matter how small. Then when the mania hits, and I cannot stop the running, the chattering, the non-stop yammering about absolutely nothing, he'll laugh with me, and monitor it, keeping tabs on my safety, watching for the crash, and he WILL find the good in me, no matter how small.

And how I love him for it.

You can describe the physical aspects of a man, and it's easy for another to see and understand then: softly-curled hair, kept just long enough to appease me; if he had his way, he'd cut it short and severe. But that beautiful dark, wavy hair ~ such a travesty to cut it all off! His deep hazel eyes, so warm and welcoming, his straight, no-nonsense nose, the tidy beard that teases me lightly, and the lips that kiss me ever-so-gently into arousal, or bite me until I writhe against him; arms that crush me to him in passion, or hold me lovingly when I'm frightened; hands that soothe, or excite; perfectly formed fingers, always so warm, with that one cracked nail that drives him to distraction: I finally have a nail file in my purse for him.

His legs are straight and long, with full calves, made strong from years of hiking and walking. I love his legs. I love his ass! Cute, high, round ... it's been fodder for more than one internet discussion between my friends and I. Even his feet appeal to me: wide, straight across, with high arches. This, THIS is my husband.

Some nights, I'll sit in bed and watch him in the shower at the other end of the room; the glass door will soften his image into a blur, yet he's still so familiar to me. I KNOW every INCH of that body! And the familiarity feels so sweet to me. There's a heavenly comfort in knowing that his body belongs to me. NEVER do I watch and take it for granted! There's always a frisson of excitement in seeing him there, naked, knowing he's mine alone.

There are some women and men who say that the idea of a one-night stand is the very epitome of excitement: that the idea of not knowing is what makes it so titillating. I will never understand that. For me, it's the polar opposite! It's the KNOWING that makes it so wonderful!

Ah, my lovely, delightful husband:

He never lets me take the garbage out. It's "man's work". That's so cute.

He believes it's the "man's job" to take care of the woman in most cases, and does so. He will always ask if I have what I need before we go upstairs to bed and offer to carry it, like water, or my computer, despite me wanting to do those things for him. It almost turns into a competition! These are not "once in a while things". These are EVERY NIGHT things. He's the most unselfish, giving person I've ever met, barr none.

I love that if I climb into bed after getting up to use the restroom, he will, in his sleep, pull the covers back for me, then cover me back up. How unselfish is this? Then no matter how cold I am, he spoons me to warm me back up.

If I begin to rub his back, or head, or chest, he will lay as still as possible, so that I will not stop. He loves me to touch him.

Leaning over the bed without pants on is going to get me molested. Every single time. Sometimes a sure thing is a good thing. Wiggling in that position will get a lovely, healthy smack on the ass. Gotta love it! Ok, so we're twisted. What's your point?

Biting his chest when he is aroused will put him over the edge immediately and in a way that brooks no misunderstanding. Game over. It's a powerful feeling, and I love it!

I love to rub *him* against my cheek, against my face, and inhale. I love his personal scent. No other person has it, and no one else will ever know it. I love feeling him harden in my mouth.

The size 34 boxer trunks look GREAT on him; but they look even better when he's hard.

His butt cheek is the perfect size to squeeze in one hand. Or occasionally swat! He's flexible like no other 47-year-old man should be, and is willing to try anything, anywhere. He doesn't want any other woman but me, and he loves me despite my faults. How damned cool is that?

Being with him isn't just about a man and a woman living together and being in love. It's about two people being together and laughing our asses off; we work really hard at not taking the world too seriously. That's pretty important, you know? Anyone can do the serious stuff, and we have a lot of that, anyway. But the laughter? We NEED that.

And so we laugh. Sometimes we even laugh in bed. There doesn't really have to be much of a reason; it might be a little thing, like he's tickled me in some way and it gets me started, and then I cannot quit. That's baaaaaad news. But it doesn't slow us down much. We just laugh our asses off and continue. In fact I seem to recall one time him telling me to shut the hell up and fuck him! Then we burst out laughing AGAIN ... and I fucked him ...

After all, a girl really should follow orders!

Oh, my dear, I do love you so. Forever and Always,
Your Meggy

Four Thousand Pounds Of Steel

I'm in mourning.

Today, between 8 and twelve, a tow truck from the salvage yard will come and take away my blue car. The "Blue Car" was thus designated soon after I got it, in a slightly mocking manner, by a good friend of ours, because I believe he felt I didn't know what make or model it was, or even that it was an actual car. It's been the "Blue Car" ever since. And I love that car.

The BC came into our family when my now husband came to visit me when we were just dating. My car had died and I was driving a borrowed 1977 yellow honda civic that simply refused to die. There was no rear defrost, so the owner (my exhusband) had mounted (read: screwed) an 8-inch fan into the back deck that would come on every time the car was started. Pieces of the floor boards were missing somewhere under the front, and in the winter, that thing was so cold you had to dress warmly enough that you couldn't turn your head fully to shoulder check. Every frozen ridge in the road was felt as if you were driving on train tracks. There was a radio, sort of.
My fiance had the pleasure of riding in it with me ... once ... and then we went car shopping. We visited three car dealerships; drove four cars, I think, but once I drove that one, it was THAT CAR. I loved that car. I loved that car with a passion that MEN reserve for their cars.

It was sleek and shiny, in mint condition. While not new by any means, it was the newest vehicle I'd ever owned, and it was MINE! And better than that, my fiance had purchased it for me. Every single time I slid down into that car I felt good: not just because I was driving this lovely car that went ZOOM ZOOM, but because someone loved me enough to buy it for me! How damned cool was that? Seriously?

So away I'd go, zipping up and down the streets of S******, beaming with pride and happiness. There's a huge building there with mirrored glass walls. I'd go drive through the circular parking lot so I could see how I looked in my BC. In fairness, that wasn't my idea; the car salesmen taught me that years ago. What a great idea! But that car, simply by it's presence in my life, because someone bought it for me out of love and care for my well-being, improved my self-image immensely.

After I moved to California and my son got his drivers' license, the BC became his. I moved up to driving a jeep. A step up, I suppose, but my love affair with the BC never wavered. I nagged him about keeping it clean, although with the exception of the outside, it looked like a pigsty. Man, that bothered me. He never did treat it like it deserved. But a few weeks ago, on his way home from a soccer game, some yutz lost control on a freeway and slammed into him. The BC has been sitting in front of our house ever since, waiting while we learned the fate of our insurance claim. It looks obscene: the beautiful, sleek front end line so torn and mangled where it once was tapered and slim.

Yesterday we learned the other driver had no insurance, so we're making the claim through ours. Once we found this out, things started moving fast, and they called to set up an appointment to take our BC away. The salvage yard called to tell us they will tow it away this morning. And I immediately cried. It just seems so WRONG. To have it sitting in front of our house is one thing; I know it cannot be fixed, nor driven, ever again. But at least I can see it, and it's a tangible reminder of that time when someone came to me and said, "I will do this for you". Now, they're simply going to take it away and leave it in a dump! It hurts me so. For anyone who does NOT have borderline personality disorder, this makes no sense. It's an inanimate object, and it makes no sense. But for me, there's a wounding pain deep down that doesn't want to go away now that I know they're going to take it away to the "car garbage".

I keep telling my husband to figure out a way to keep it here. I recognize that the only way to do it is to buy it back and that's not practical since we need the cash to purchase a new car for the kid to drive. Right now he's driving mine, and I'm not driving anything. What a pain in the ass. But I cannot bear to have my BC taken away and never be seen again: that reminder of someone's love for me, despite the fact that the man who bought it lives right here in this house and shows his love for me every single day. It's just how I am.

He buys me lots of things, and everything he buys me gets treated the same way: with great respect and care. I can't help but do that: each one is treasured because they're from HIM. But that Blue Car was something special and now it's gone.

I cried yesterday when the salvage yard called, and I'll cry today. I'm going to leave before they come to pick it up because I cannot possibly sit here and watch them cart it away. The one saving grace is that it has to be carried on a flatbed because it will not roll. I figure it's the least that the Blue Car deserves.

RIP, Blue Car ~ I Loved You.
Meggy

The Calming Of The Storm

Since it happens so rarely, and I don't know how long it will last, I figured I should chronicle the calming of the waters this week.

There was a catharsis this weekend, taking place in the form of screaming, ranting, raving, and general nuttiness. What always surprises me is just how much snot the human nasal cavities can produce in a short period of time. Where does your body store it? God bless cotton hankies. While I won't explain how I get to that state, my husband is right there beside me, never letting go, always maintaining he'll stay, no matter what. There's no question, then or now, that I don't deserve him or his devotion. A lifetime of betrayal, broken relationships, abuse and abandonment, both real and imagined, has left me certain that he'll desert me like everyone else will: why should he be any different?

Well, because he IS. He said so. He loves me, and he promised. It needs to be enough. Maybe someday it will be enough. And when I come out of the darkness and back into the sunlight like I am now, it IS enough. It's only during the black times that I truly don't trust him to stay the course. It's so hard on him, fighting tooth and nail to make me believe that what he says is real: that he loves me with all my faults, despite my faults. Maybe part of me refuses to believe it because I really don't know if I could put up with me if I were in the same position.

This past weekend, he sat on the floor beside me, and as I screamed at him to just leave me like everyone else, he screamed right back that he damned well wouldn't. Ornery beggar. And for whatever reason, as time passed, and the crying gradually wore down, a peace stole over me. A healing, warming peace, pushing me back into his arms, where I haven't been able to go near him for weeks. It happens that way: out of control, raging anger, violent outburts of craziness, and then the calm. Thank God.

I'm so different now, and as always, it starts with the apologies, and an effort at understanding. Why is it like this? What the hell goes on in my head? I really don't know. All I know is that suddenly it's as if the wind whipping tropical storm-size waves has dissipated, and the ocean is again gently lapping at the sand. The water, my mind, is clear; I can think, and process.

Oh, the pleasure in physically reconnecting with my husband! The joy of having my head in husband's lap may seem like a small thing to others, but to me is a gift to be remembered on those days when I'm curled up in a ball on the other side of the bed, unable to touch anyone, or worse, in another room by myself. The warmth of his hand against my ribs, familiar and comforting, brings tears to my eyes because I know he's thinking the same things I am: how long will it last this time? Lazy Saturday mornings, awakening slowly to his hand brushing my hair from my face as I lay against the warmth of his body: most of you take for it granted ~ let me tell you that WE never will again. For us, they're stolen moments of joy to be treasured for a lifetime.

I'm trying to do what he tells me to do, and just accept it for what it is. Enjoy the "up" days ~ enjoy him, soak up as much of him as he will of me. It's these days when I resent the fact that there are only four hours of waking time with him during the week. It's simply not enough. I need more than that to make up for the hell that I put him through when I'm acting like an ass and doing my damndest to ruin my life and his, too. More time to show him that even though I'm nuts, I do adore him and am ever grateful to him for sticking by me through this lifetime of crazies. And God willing, there WILL come a time when the good will outweigh the bad, and the sun will shine every day.

Meggy

Busted

In retrospect, it had to happen sometime. And I can't say I wasn't warned. The best of the best in the blogging world warn time and time again: don't put anything down on your blog that you don't want the world to see, because at any point in time, you WILL be found out.

And I have been found out. My carefully concealed identity are no more ... and my readers are left to wonder where it is I've absconded to, as I've simply disappeared off the radar: there one second, gone the next. Well, technically I'm not gone; I just changed the name and address.

It lasted a lot longer than I thought it would. Almost exactly a year since I first wandered into blogspot and decided I needed to start rambling about myself and my mental infirmities and my family and their various and sundry trollops. If I hadn't been quite so specific, I might have been able to pass this blog off as someone else's, but what the hell, I've decided that when it comes right down to it, I might as well just be honest and get it over with. After all, the fear alone should make people leave me be ..... at least it would if they had any sense of self-preservation. Alas, it does not seem to be so.

So now I start over, trying to build my little group of readers back up. I feel rather rotten because there were a few who were anonymous who I will never be able to contact. They were dedicated, and I needed that. It makes me feel rather shitty, actually. Strange, isn't it? I have no idea who they are, what their names are, where they live. Just that they read something I wrote on a regular basis. And now they cannot.

I realize that this is no "safety zone" and that smart people will find me anywhere I go. It's not that difficult. And because I am who I am, I will not run and hide any further than this. My blog was private because I chose to keep it this way, away from those who would use it to flog me in a manner that could create a crisis at worst, or irritate me at best.

Life is Duhkha.

One Way Elevator

Have you ever gone to an Ear, Nose and Throat Specialist, and gone through the tests they put you through while trying to figure out whether or not you have inner ear issues?

They put you in a chair, tip you backwards and tell you to name names of cities. Or they put cold water in your ears while upside down and tell you to count backwards. Sometimes it's warm water, and they tell you to say the alphabet backwards.

The idea is, if your inner ear is working correctly, you'll be able to do these things, albeit slowly, as if looking through mud. However if there are problems, you'll be ... well, retarded. You desperately seek an answer to a question that you KNOW you should know the answer to. It's simple. You knew the damned answer yesterday ~ why don't you know it today? After all, you're only upside down ... what's the difference? So you struggle and strain to see through the mud inside your brain to come up with one or two reasonable responses, hoping against hope that you won't seem as stupid as you feel.

The difference in me, is that at the end of the appointment with the ENT he turns the chair upright and lets you go home. Everything is back to normal. For me, it seems like nothing ever changes.

Maybe if I knew what it was I was fighting for, things would be better. But these days, I'm not even sure what THAT is. I just know that as I sit by myself, hour after hour, life seems grim; the urge for pain is strong. Pain is a cleansing feeling. Being alone is paramount. Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone.

But through it all, I'm trying to figure out why, and where it's going. It's so entirely ... RANDOM. And how the hell do I escape it? Last night, I sat and contemplated hell. What is hell? Is it really as bad as we're taught to expect? Is it worse than this? Can hell possibly beat sitting alone, night after night, wondering if you're ever going to escape the mental illness that's tortured you and your family for years? I've always thought of hell as being subjected to eternal misery ~ angst, emotional pain, turmoil within our souls. So can someone, ANYONE please tell me how this is different than what is going on now?

Seems to me, I'm already there.

Safety First

One of the hallmarks of my life has been a vain attempt to find and maintain a "safe place". For the vast majority of people, their safe place is simply their home, their castle. Mine should be. Circumstances beyond my control have taken my safe place and turned it into a minefield of disasters.

Circumstances: read "LRHM". For those not in the know, that stands for "Little Red Headed Menace", or my son's girlfriend. I've referred to her as such for quite some time. Since she lived with us for so long, and disrupted our lives for many, many months, I had lived mostly in my bedroom. My home was not my own. If she was in the kitchen, or family room, I was upstairs. It's amazing to me that someone who used to feel some semblance of strength could let this mite send me scurrying like a barnyard rat to the hidden anonymity of my room. Her unpleasant demeanour grated on my nerves to a point that nearly drove me to physical violence; her behaviour with my son disgusted me. I do recognize his culpability here: he could have pushed her away, and he didn't. My stomach may never forgive him.

But she has since moved out, and now her visits are restricted to mostly weekends. It still feels like too much, and still like an invasion. When their vehicle is in the driveway, I often don't even enter the family room, but go immediately upstairs; I cannot tolerate seeing them engaged in ... whatever it is they do. It triggers anger, bitterness, sorrow, loss ... all directed towards my son. And I hold her responsible, whether that's right or not.

My psychologist, alternately referred to as Dr. Know and Dr. Ugly, depending on my mood, has told me to take back my home. "Take back the kitchen first; then the family room. Then the living room. Take back your home!"

In essence, he's telling me it's time to make my home my, "safe place". So where is my safe place now, you ask? Well, interesting question.

He tells me that my safe place is his office. I've been seeing him for a year and a half. During that time I ended up with this wicked RHM, and crisis after crisis of my own, and lost my home; I HAD no safe place. While he urged me at one point to continue to help the little witch, I asked him, rather plaintively, "Who is supposed to take care of ME? Where is MY safe place?"

"Here," he answered.

Trust isn't my best thing. Because of the trauma I've endured in the past, I don't trust a whole lot of people. Screw me over and the chances are, you're not going to get a second chance. Once burned, twice shy, blah blah. I can count on one hand the number of people I trust, and oddly enough, the number is shrinking. And you'd think that the one person you can trust is your psychologist. And I did. Finally, I thought that this was the one place where I would, indeed, be "safe". I can trust him; he will not turn on me ............

Last week, I admitted to my psychologist that I'd been drinking. I recognize this is a bad idea, being that I take half a dozen medications. Obviously this is WHY I TOLD HIM. I felt it could be turning into a problem, as I was feeling a "need" to do it, and a couple of times had gotten rather inebriated. Other than that, there were times when I'd just, "had a few". So I told him. But along with that, I told him of everything else that was going on, the gut-wrenching, continuing soft green shit that is swirling in my mind like mental diarrhea; the rage that never seems to end, that drives me to the bottle; and the fear that I am indeed, finally, going over the edge, around the bend, off the deep end. My husband, who had actually stayed home from work to accompany me to the appointment, asked him about having me put in the psychiatric hospital for a time, and how that was accomplished. The dear doc said that it was actually done through the psychiatrist, and that he, the psychologist, just had to mention it to her, and it would be taken care of. With that he said, "I'll consult with her later."

Now foolish me, I assumed this meant he was consulting with her in a way that would AID me. The next day I had an appointment with her, the psychiatrist. Her job is strictly to supply my medications; you know, the ones that stop me from going completely nuts, or killing myself, and from doing most of the damage I would do if I wasn't taking them: driving off cliffs, cutting symbols into my skin that require sutures but don't get them, destroying rooms, screaming at my husband, hyperventilating, major depression. You know, little things like this. I entered her office and was greeted with VERY few pleasantries; then, "You've been drinking? How much? How long? When? How much of this medication have you taken? How much of that one? Why not this one? Or this? WHY AREN'T YOU DOING THIS?" Now I'm not talking about a normal conversation between two people, I'm talking about an interrogation between Bertha the Prison Guard and Bo the Brittle.

She switched tactics very suddenly. "Ok, the first medication to go is the lorazepam. Then we'll take away the depakote. Then the topomax, then the seroquel." Just like that. There was no questioning, no whys or wheres, nothing. Just "I'm taking away the very things that sustain your life, and fuck you, darling".

Her next comment was, "30 days clean and sober or they're gone. Period." Now this might not sound like a bad idea to some of you, but anyone who knows me would recognize that this is just pouring fuel on a fire. And the inward explosion was pretty much ... well, that. Blood pounded in my brain, rage ran through my veins as I realized that the OTHER doctor hadn't helped me, or "consulted" her in any manner to help; he'd simply ratted me out. There was no discussion of hospitalization ~ just a threat to get me to do what they wanted.

Tomorrow I see Dr. Ugly again; it's my first appointment since this has happened, and I really don't know how I'll react to seeing him. I'm angry. Oh, I'm angry! Yes, I recognize that I cannot drink. Yes, I recognize now that it was probably her way of shocking me into doing what she needed me to do, but it was SO WRONG for me. And having been her patient for over a year, how does she not KNOW this? How does HE not know this?

And how does he not know that tomorrow I'm going to come in and think that he's just as big a prick as he is?

I have no safe place left.