the life of zooey who happens to be Bipolar 2
Ah the drama that it is life. Yesterday was Lucy’s birthday. It started out well enough with cards and gifts before school. The day went as the day went at work. When I got home, Lucy seemed ok. She didn’t really mention her day and we sat and watched TV until dear hubby got off of work to meet us for dinner. Driving over to the Chinese restaurant, she played songs and we sang with them.
At the dinner, though, she shut down instantly getting into the booth. I was astonished. WTF. We’d planned a good three days of fun for her and this is her ACTUAL birthday and she was acting like a bitch giving us the silent treatment. Some words were exchanged. I got up quietly in the middle of eating when the fury died down and went to the bathroom to get a grip on myself.
Apparently it was boy problems. The crush who had been hanging with her turned rude after school. I found this out later as when I went to the restroom, dear hubby got her to disclose. She then noted a bad stomach and stopped eating her dinner based on a ‘dogfood hamburger at lunch.’ Of course this stomach ache she placated after school with left over steak and several handfuls of jalapeno pretzels. She didn’t want to eat, but powered down most of the cheese cake from the restaurant wishing her a happy birthday instead of taking it home. Whatever.
Mood sour, we left and went home. She made it clear there would be no homemade cheesecake in celebration of her birthday. We could eat it, but she was not. I said, “This is your birthday cake, we’ll wait.” I honestly don’t think it will be eaten and will rot in the fridge. Whether rational or not, I feel like she is punishing me in some way. I said that in the car after she went into the house. Hubby said it wasn’t true. Fine, I’ll keep my thoughts to myself. Perish the thought that I actually have the luxury of expression.
The night progressed. I was picking up the house for the cleaning lady today. In the process, I was hand washing a new knife cut my ring finger pretty bad. Not enough for stitches, but the flap was pretty ugly and it bled a lot. I cried. For the day, for my finger all of it. At least it gave me excuse to do so freely. Bandaged, the day ended. At least I can still type, although taking a shower was an adventure. Fortunately (I guess) I had an accident with a quilting rotary cutter which required 8 stitches at the end of my index finger. So I know how to deal.
I’m tired of this bout of depression. I’m tired of triggers, which sometimes center around my relationship with Lucy. I’m tired of trying to redirect thinking and wrestling to get it under control. I just don’t fucking want to anymore. I’m beat down from all of this. Fuck it. I need to stop expecting birthday celebrations = good times.
P.S. Now Lucy is texting me to shop for a ‘onsie’ this weekend. Nice. Abused and used. I guess I am good enough to buy her shit.