Burning in Hell
2005-03-14, 9:49 a.m.
My Friday was good, but maybe I'll write about it later. I have to mess with photos for that first.
In the meantime, I am really fucking depressed.
I went home to the parents again for the first time since the holidays. Now I feel suicidal, homicidal*, all of the above, or just plain wanting to set up an IV of alcohol so I can get totally pickled. I'm debating calling that shrink again, except for the usual "Um, there's really nothing that can be done" factor.
Dad is so much worse. I say that every time, but he is. He spent most of the weekend crying. I shouldn't have admitted that I heard him crying at 1 a.m. one night (well, that was every night), because Mom said, "Why didn't you come out to help?" What can I do at this point? He looked godawful, and Mom's freaking out trying to get him to "stand up" to get into the wheelchair, and he's just falling down as she's yanking. She knows she shouldn't be doing this much longer, but we all know she won't get any help that isn't yours truly. "I just can't put him in a home the way I did your grandparents," she says. I fear they'll both have to be in the emergency room sometime after she drops him because he can't help hold himself up at all.
More guilt that I should be quitting my life here to move home and "help", even as horribly as I "help."
More guilt that he looks so bad I don't even want to look at him or be in the same room as him any more.
Every time Mom gives me the "just talk to him! Just hug and kiss him! He's still in there!" speech, I want to shoot myself immediately. Because I do NOT feel like he's "in there." I look at those vacant eyes and vacant expression and I don't see someone "in there" at all. I can't even pretend a tiny tiny bit that I think or feel that he is still "in there." Maybe a 2-year-old version of him is "in there", but not the adult I knew once upon a time before everything went to hell.
I am going to burn in hell for all eternity for what I have done. And what I haven't done. And I deserve it.
I had one crying fit and two screaming snapping moments on Sunday. I guess this is a "good day" for me at their house. I only have real "good days" there when we spend all of the day out of the house, preferably without Dad. So Saturday was fine, but Sunday, in which we were trapped in the house all day because Dad kept having crying fits or God only knows what going on wrong every hour, was hell.
Mom beat herself up all the time- that she couldn't get every errand done AND get the house cleaned at the same exact time on Saturday. She seemed to think this would realistically happen, somehow. She wanted me to "help her clean." What this translated into on Sunday was "help me shred papers." She has bins and bins of papers collected to shred, because she's so freaked out that *gasp* someone might get our address!. But here's the kicker: the shredder she has will only work for at the max 15 minutes at a time before it stops and she has to wait for like an hour for it to "cool down" and work again. I tried to explain to her that if she was so anxiety-filled about getting the shredding done, and she can't get very much of it done at a time because the stupid POS stops working, wouldn't it be worth the $300 to get a decent scanner? This logic didn't go over well with her. Instead, she needs my help to come home and shred things for her.
Yes, if I just came home every weekend, everything would be perfect. The cleaning would get done, Dad would get his help, Mom would get her errands done, and all would be happy. Except for, you know, REALITY, when that doesn't actually happen.
I finally got home at about 10:15 last night. I had to seriously restrain myself from drinking all of the alcohol in the house (the fact that Heather obviously had another mini-party last night didn't help any), and instead forced myself to take a shower and go to bed. Of course, I laid awake all night.
* For the record, I am not actually seriously suicidal or homicidal. I am not planning what to do with knives and pills or something. But I sure as hell don't feel all life-affirming and "yay life!" at this point. Or "yay being me!"