Parte the Seconde

Since Saturday went so well, Mom invited my Partner & I over on Sunday. She promised that no surprise guests would turn up, so Partner & I duly drove over to that bastion of dungeonliness.

Ma, Pa, & Stanley were watching the third Fast & Furious movie at an incredibly high volume. They refused to turn it down or turn it off, so Partner & I were a bit confused. Surely, we thought, they're completely clueless as to how rude this must seem. If they're busy, we can come at another time...

Partner & I sighed, collected bowls of food, and trooped off to the living room to dine together in [relative] quietude. Looking around for something with which to entertain Partner, I spotted a family photograph album. Intrigued, I turned the pages slowly, marvelling at things like stamps collected over decades, pictures of my parents when they were young, a picture of my molester --

This is where that screechy sound of brakes being applied for all they're worth comes in.

I freeze, and at that moment my mother walks in. I ask her, "Can I rip him out of the photograph?"

She Flips Out.

She says NO!, that she doesn't want her pictures ripped up. I am shocked. Literally. I can't even move; all I can do is stare at her face, mouth flapping open & closed as she spews vile all over me. I think that, although mommy-slapping is not usually my thing, I would nevertheless savour the opportunity to slap the shit out of her at this moment. I say to her, "Oh, well, that's fine then. He's just the person who molested me. He only ruined my childhood, my adolescence, oh yes and my young adulthood --" She interrupts me by shouting (yes, she is shouting at this point -- and beginning to sob rather uncontrollably) that she tried her best, that I did not tell her what happened so how could she possibly have known? I should have told her! Because blaming the victim is what mommy does best.

Life is and always has been all about Her. She doesn't know how I am feeling; she doesn't care. She saw that interaction as, "You failed as a parent." Not as, "This picture hurts me. May I get rid of it?" When I called her this morning to see if she'd come to her senses, she still defended her decision to protect her precious photographs.

I have made an executive decision: My parents win the Defective Parenting Award.

Whee!

A joyful day in the life of bipolar disorder. I awoke with a burning desire to invade Ye Olde Navy with my particular brand of Celtic spearing, despite the fact that so doing would erode the very funds I promised my love I would save for him. Last night we exchanged rings on our blanket-swathed plaid couch. I've always felt that couch had character simply for choosing to remain upright in the face of its plaidness. To celebrate the couch's stellar sense of identity, I chose long ago to festoon it with a pink plaid blanket. (My, but that does look more purple than pink!)

So to make a long bout of musing short--did the exchange of rings trigger what turned out to be a hellish, emotionally volatile day? I nearly threw up again this afternoon for the first time in months. I'm glad I didn't, but I still feel a deep gnawing at soul level. And after I so graciously... erm... graced Ye Olde Navy with my funds (rust-coloured corduroys are SO the bomb), I couldn't enjoy what I'd bought because I felt wracked with guilt over spending money I'd promised to lend to my love. The sight of them, all cutely folded in their wrinkly plastic bag (I. Love. Clothes.), was enough to make my stomach lurch. (Unrelated to the near-bulimic episode, however; that took some ice cream to not-quite-accomplish.)

Did I do something dishonourable just to ruin something that was so good, so pure, last night? Is that my MO? (GEE, is it?)

I wish I had someone to talk to about this. Yes, ladies (and the rare gentleman) who stumble across my blog, I have no friends. I am such a loser, such an abhorrent weird undesirable, that I literally have not one friend to my credit. I wonder--what happened to cause that, anyway? I used to have literally dozens of friends. Not quite at my beck and call, but still. Friends. If I was having a day better relegated to amateur Gothic novels, I had people to talk to. Today was so horrible, I went out and created my own blog just so that I could "talk" to it. Which obviously includes an element of exhibitionism, as I own multiple paper journals.

Which means one thing: I've become so lonely that I've opened myself to the Interweb. Do me a favour and just don't even post.