Need special handling...

Huh.

Total breakdown on the freeway today.

No, not my car (fortunately).

Me. Sobbing my eyes out for longer than I can ever remember doing.

I'm not a crier.

I feel guilty about crying, actually.

Because I'm always partway detached from most everything, so even when I'm down and overwhelmed and starting to cry, part of my brain is off, somewhere else, examining things, speaking logically to me, planning the next day... you get the picture.

So I feel as though my tears, my experience, my emotions... they aren't incapacitated. What I'm feeling isn't as real as it is with other people because I don't completely lose control.

I feel false.

Does anyone else feel this way, or is it just me and my constant detachment from the moment?

I really do feel like I'm cheating. That if anyone comforts me, I'm taking advantage of their sympathy because I'm not fully there. I feel like I'm using them for attention, even if I can't control the sobs that break out of me. That if I had more control, if I really, really wanted to, I could stop.

So it's not true sadness. Not 100% grief.

Which brings me back to sobbing on the freeway. For once letting my emotions get the best of my driving ability, as I found myself going about 50 (in the slow lane, mind you) when the rest of the freeway was traveling about, oh, 70-80MPH.

Starting to hit that point of no emotional return, mild control, losing it.

Because of GV8.

Because of my friend killing himself, which brings this year's total to four suicides and one death of natural causes.

Because my father is incredibly unstable right now due to his work environment and is doing what he does best when he's stressed: becoming volatile, projecting, and displacing. Because when he gets upset he has no care for personal space, for territory, for giving respect to others.

Which is probably the major, major reason I am so territorial, why I am so oriented on having my space, and how anxious I become when I do not have that space or when that space is violated.

Which meant, this morning, when I got the phone call that my friend had killed himself, followed within thirty minutes of one of GV8's employees dropping the box of my stuff off, followed with the 5PM phone call I received from my father that rapidly descended into another violation of my property, followed by another phone call from him telling me that I was obviously unstable and needed to put my medication (which, by the way, is minimal and for my anxiety) in his hands because he was a stable individual who knew best for me...

I lost it.

My parents think that I'm being rapidly drawn into the bowels of depression because that's what happens to my father. And that by actually sitting at home and dealing with my grief over GV8 instead of burying it and letting it come bite me in the ass harder, later, I was showing signs of depression and they were both worried for me and want me to up the dosage.

If I was my sister, this wouldn't even come into play.

My father has been bugging me for weeks now to let him take control of my prescription. To let him fuck with my head. Because he knows what I'm experiencing better than I do because, he says, I'm essentially his clone. And since he's depressed, I must also be depressed.

A. That's incredibly scary
B. This is why I don't trust my father
C. Jesus Christ, really?? For a man so smart, he's incredibly uncontrolled and really not aware of himself.

I would never trust my father with any major life choices for me. Hell, not even minor ones.

And this goes back to my basic idea of trust: someone I know who would make the decision I would choose for me should I be unable to do so, no matter how much they disagreed with it. Because of that basic respect and understanding.

My father has no respect for me. Not even as a fellow human.

And why should he?

My life has been a series of bad decisions. He says I love to learn things the hard way and that is accurate. I'm, once more, living at home, under his roof. Admittedly, this is so I can go to school, but because I am pursuing my education goals and dreams, I am going to be unable to support myself financially.

So why should he respect me?

He told me the other night, when doing the "I told you so" about GV8, that women look for their father in their mate selection. That they find the men just like their dad because they're used to that type of man.

I've heard this enough, so it must be true to some degree.

But, really, my father scares the hell out of me.

And not just because he's my dad and he's 6'5" and could beat my ass. Not because I don't think he's human. But because he has no control over his emotions and that lack of control terrifies me. Mindless rage. I grew up in a household where my father would, without rhyme or reason to me, turn into a raging beast a couple times a year.

No warning.

Just ripping and rending pain of manipulation and bestial anger.

Which is why, when I have friends that lose their tempers past a certain point, I never speak to them again.

Which is why I cannot date a man with a temper.

Because I can't relax. I can't trust.

It's why I hate crowds and shy away from strangers. It's what make me anxious, above all, when talking to new people.

That overwhelming fear. Being shoved back into my child-mind helpless state. I can't deal with confrontations because I'm so busy panicking that I freeze.

It's a weakness. It's an incredible weakness.

So he calls me, drops into anger, into manipulation, into passive-aggression that I know he's doing but I'm so low from the week that I let him get to me.

Then he calls me again, tells me I'm imagining things, that I'm unstable, that I need help, that we're the same person and I need to up the dosage, at least for a few months.

This was the same man who told me to go get a sleep test so, when it was proven that I don't sleep well (I sleep like a rock) he could get me on the same medication he is on which, apparently, he is now stuck on for the rest of his life and if he misses a night, he'll potentially have seizures and he put my sister on this.

So I go to my best friend's condo and my sister meets us there. My friend, who wants to be a chef, makes us chicken and dumplings and we sit down and watch Repo Man and then I head home.

I get home at 10PM and my father, who I was hoping was in bed, walks into the entryway and informs me that he's been waiting for me and we're going to watch Slaughterhouse Five so get into my bedclothes and join him.

So I change and find myself in their king-sized waterbed with my father, my sister, he boyfriend, my mother, and a couple of cats.

By this point, I'm emotionally exhausted.

Especially because, between changing, I unpacked the box that GV8 packed full of my stuff in hopes that maybe, just maybe, he left a letter in it, something handwritten, something concrete that I could keep and seek reassurance and love from, and I found nothing.

But when I flipped through the pages of the book I lent him, his scent wafted up to me. And I found my dressing robe, a sheer black thing, in the box... so I held it to my nose and inhaled. Smelled him, his odd combination of scents that I can't quite describe, and started crying.

Again.

I don't know if I've ever cried this much over a guy over such a period of time, unless it was Rick. Usually I just get it out of my system in one go, occasional slow tears at a later date, but not really crying. Not that ragged breathing and accompanying redness.

No note. No last words of love.

Just his scent.

Inhaling, pressing the robe to my face, knowing that as time passes, the scent will quickly fade, engulfed in my own. And one day, it will be the last time I will smell him, and I'll likely never know until the next time I return to it and am left bereft.

It has been a long day.

Now I have two papers to write, a company Christmas party to attend, a mellow cuddle/sex date with RR to get the physical contact I need, a hair appointment... and emotions to let myself drown in, just for a short period of time.

Just long enough to maybe not feel like I'm half a robot, inside. Something cold and disconnected.

Trying to get into that precious moment.