Pity, Party Of One

So I’ve just been lying here feeling sorry for myself and what I’ve realized is that, oddly enough, having a little pity party all by myself in my room (which, alarmingly, is looking about one pancaked cat corpse away from a Hoarding: Buried Alive audition) doesn’t do much to make me feel better. I’d even go so far as to say it could make me feel worse.

I used to have a pretty decent life. And then I didn’t. Some of the shit storm was my fault. Some wasn’t. But regardless of what happened, once the storm subsided, I never really managed to rebound to a point where I was even in the vicinity of the life I used to occupy. Now I exist in the weird adult-child world of those who’ve, by choice or by circumstance, moved back in with their parents after many years away.

But the thing that I realized tonight during my pity break was that I don’t feel like a child because I’m treated like one. I feel this way because I kind of act like one. My folks are glad to have me here where they can keep an eye on me and so they have someone to talk to besides each other, I guess. But they don’t ask a lot of me … basically, if I stay sober and don’t kill myself, they’re good.

Now, I know I’m in no shape to try and hold down a regular job right now. Not when I randomly have to sleep for two days straight because I wasn’t able to sleep at all for the previous five, or because there are days when I quite literally can’t leave the house. Also, the regular showering thing … I’m still working on that.

But I don’t help out as much as I should and I know I don’t display the gratitude I feel about them always giving me a soft place to land. But I need to find a way to get at least fractionally better so I can contribute to this household rather than having an anxiety attack about going to the grocery store.

And I still do dumb stuff when the manic episodes hit. Generally involving spending money I can’t afford to spend. I hate that when there’s a problem or situation in my life, it’s more than likely going to be my own fault rather than just fate or one of life’s little road-blocks. It’s so annoying and frustrating that I still create my own dilemmas. And I know the illness contributes, but I’ve got bipolar disorder, not dementia. I’m aware of the stupidity of my decisions, I just have such a hard time not acting on them.

I know this is all vague and cryptic, but I’ll fill in the details as I go along. If I tell you everything right up front, you won’t want to come back and read more to find out what the hell I’m talking about.

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