First, let’s start with the basics: I’ve established a new routine that so far has been effective at controlling both the mania and the depression, which is to move my dose of Abilify to the beginning of the day (alongside the 30mg of Buspar). A dose of 3mg of Abilify is actually too much for me when taken in the morning, as it induces paranoia for some reason, but going back to 2mg on the advice of the candyman ((Psychiatrist. Because they give out the hopefully good drugs.)) straightened the world.
For the first few days I felt incredibly tired, since in Normal Land people don’t get the temporary rush from mania. I got used to it, because it’s either that or go crazy, although I can understand why some choose not to use medication to temper their bipolar. For me, I prefer the medication because my mania isn’t really productive—or, rather, it’s productive in destructive ways.
Still, I need the talk therapy. Getting the bipolar straightened out just means that the talk advice will be more effective (e.g., actually matter).
So what did I talk about with my bartender ((Psychologist. Because you talk to them about stuff.))?
Well. Birthdays. Because mine is coming up on the 28th of this month. Or the 27th. Or the 31st, because I like Harry Potter, who was born as the month died, and because Harry Potter was my first escape from the insanity that was my parents. They should never have let me order from the Science Fiction Book Club… but they didn’t know, since they didn’t have complete dominion over me in college (though not for lack of trying), so they couldn’t have stopped it (and they would have tried). That slim volume, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s ((Well, mine said Sorcerer’s, but bugger that.)) Stone, changed my life… I don’t know exactly why. It must be because he escaped the Dursleys, even if only for a school year at a time. Constant child abuse is not really a topic often covered by, well, lots of authors ((Exception: Roald Dahl.)), even ones that I like. Anyways, I’m digressing because I like Harry Potter better than I like my birthdays….
And who could blame me? Honestly, I think my father resented my birthdays because the expectations of birthdays is that the person with the birthday does not serve other people. Such things upset my father rather much, and when my father is upset, other people get their heads slammed into walls.
Instead of treating my birthday as Just Another Day, which would mean he was a bad father ((Don’t ask me to explain this small piece of insanity, only small because the whole of the insanity is much larger. He claimed to want to be a good father, he might even have believed that, but his base instinct did not want to be a good father and wanted, in fact, all of the attention. Since you must give at least some attention to an offspring in order to be a good parent, this didn’t go over too well in his head.)), he treated it as special… which drove him crazy and every birthday was marked by wonderful cake followed by, for instance, getting pinned to the wall and being screamed at for being weak enough to need to wear glasses, blaming my mother for birthing such a weak child, and then beating both of us.
So I’m not crazy about my birthday. Ever since I fled from them, I try to treat it as just another day, but my memories refuse to do the same. It’s quite inconsiderate of them.
But as I’ve learned from recent experience, denial doesn’t get me very far. Avoidance doesn’t get me very far. It’s two steps backwards when I engage in one or the other or both.
Thus, maybe this year… maybe I can celebrate my birthday, in different ways, or something, I have no idea. I don’t like it, but it’s time to try something different.
And any talk about my parents goes back to the echoes they left in my life and which pervert my relationship to other people, which is the fact that my father acted randomly at times. And by “randomly” I mean “randomly explode into anger, ravings, and beatings”. It was hard to get a read on him; believe me, I tried. And after he smashed my mother’s head through a wall, she acted pretty randomly too, although her randomness was simply sad delusions. It’s tough to choose which was worse, the random beatings or the random delusions, but seeing as I didn’t have to choose between them in my childhood, roundly getting both barrels, well, it was pretty horrible beyond words.
I have to remember that people are not, in general, random. This is hard to remember because it goes against the survival instinct my childhood rammed into me. It’s like learning to skydive; your instincts say “fuck me, that ground is far below” and instead of staying in the plane, you leap, going against them. Unlike skydiving, though, wherein once you’ve made the choice there’s no going back, there is any amount of backtracking I can do, and that, like avoidance and denial, doesn’t help.
I’d do a comparison against putting your hand on a hot plate, but seeing as my father liked to see what would happen when he exposed my hand to hot things, I’d rather not.
Anyways. So. Birthdays. What do you guys do on them?