An aside: spiffy new iPhone app; WordPress 2 appears to rock over the first WordPress app by quite a bit. My first post in this brave new world….

Okay, I need to settle myself more into bed afore posting.

(teethbrushing, so many pills that are not little at all, pjs…)

Okay. So the sixth session, or however many it’s been, was apparently about the upcoming holidays—always a bad tine of year for me—and that my parents, from what little Christianity they had, taught me that, first and foremost, God hates.

For instance, watching tv shows about animals in the wild, comprised of stories that typically do not end well, my mother would end with the morale: “God must hate the [species of the starring animals] because horrible things happened to them.” I wonder now if that was a comment on the lives that she and I lead under the thumbs of my abusive father.

My father had a different riff on the theme that God hates righteously: women suffered under men, therefore God hated women, and really, women aren’t better than intelligent (but retarded) livestock, to abuse, beat, and fuck as men like. It’s a good bargain for the man if the woman looks pretty or excels in school (but as long as it’s not too much).

Naturally this lead to quite a twisted holiday atmosphere at my childhood home. Other things also lead there, such as the gift giving. My gods, ((I’m not Christian. And I’m not here for you to try to convert; I will out and out ban you from this post if you do. That’s really rude behavior.)) the gift giving.

See, My parents tried to “make up” for outrageous behavior on their parts by giving me gifts, while not actually stopping outrageous behavior. I went along and pretended that receiving the entire X library manuals totally outweighed getting threatened with physical violence in my own dorm room. In the end, it became a facade so that my father would keep thinking that all I wanted was goodies.

That made it much, much easier to get away. On the other hand, this betrayal did fuel their attempts to kill me ((Knife, gun, slow death killing. Not “my parents will so kill me” killing.)) later, so I guess it washes out.

I’m not into gifts. Gift certificates, sure. Not gifts.

I forget what the point of this meeting was, but that’s what we talked about. This session is a bit different from previous ones, in that these are topics I’ve only recently had emotional space to think about, rather than brooding over for years.

Some days are good, some are very bad. But I am cooking again, and making lunches, and I may be crazy enough to start taking pictures of my lunches every day. I’m not so far gone as to start making panda-faced rice balls, but it would be a nice reminder of how functional I can be, god damn it, even with this hand life has dealt me.

I want to cry. I think I will in a minute.

G’night. I’ll be better in the morning. I do think it’s fun to cut up fruit. And I gotta replace some BPA food containers and glasses; anything I let hot stuff into. Anything that holds cold stuff for short periods of time, okay. Definitely need to find an automatic steamer (I need a timer and hands off because multi-tasking is hard without clumsy me and accidents). Keeping the foot food processor (I don’t fix warm stuff in it). I love an excuse for righteous shopping.

See? Now if my mood just doesn’t flip flop I really will be okay.

Oh bipolarism. I just can’t seem to quit you. For God apparently hates me.