Third Wheel Issues

My family has always been over protective.  We were not allowed to go to friends' houses, birthday parties, or go out.  The first child of three, I was entrusted with taking care of my two younger siblings at the age of ten.  As such, I was placed in a position of authority that I had little to no training for.  However, I was expected to do this and it was an obligation I had to my parents.  Perhaps that is why I took out my anger and frustration out on my sister and brother?  That is speculation, though.  I've never been able to pinpoint what caused me to treat them in such a horrible manner.  It wasn't fair of me.

As a result of this, I am now the "third wheel."  My sister and brother have formed a bond that I have yet to replicate with either of them as adults now.  It is my penance.  Unfortunately, it does not matter how much I have apologized to them and tried to make up to them the horrible treatment I made them endure as children.  I have not, and apparently will not, be forgiven.  Maybe I shouldn't be.

Now I am the family pariah.  It is easy to shift the family's troubles and problems on the person whom they consider the least mentally stable.  I have been accused of a myriad of family financial trouble, the stagnation of profits at our family business, driving away customers with my "outlandish behavior" and generally being a worthless human being.  Since I work and interact with my sister and brother on a daily basis, it gets old after a while.

So why do I stay?  A part of me wants to mend the rifts in the family.  Another part feels obligated to carry on trying and proving them all wrong.  It is no secret that my mother considers me the mistake.  She lets me know on at least a weekly basis.  However, I am "Daddy's Little Girl" and my father still has my back from time to time.  It also doesn't help my relationship with my mother when she sees all the "bad parts" I supposedly inherited from my father.  (There is a HUGE chance he is bipolar as well, but he refuses to see anyone about treatment.) 

It is really my son that makes me try and save these relationships.  He should know his grandparents, aunt, uncle and cousin.  If it wasn't for him, I know I would have left years ago.  Most of my friends have left the area and I have been forbidden to contact a few of them as they were deemed "bad influences" by my entire family.  (Not for illegal activities or destructive behaviors!  They just tried to encourage me to be ME.  Horrible, right?)  It would seem I was 13 instead of 32.  Portland is still calling to me, so I might have to cut my losses and save what's left of my sanity.  Being the defective third wheel is no fun.

Hello, I'm Constantly Apologizing. And you are?

There is a fine line between crazy and genius.  I just wish I tipped over the 'genius' line more.  Crazy probably isn't the most PC term to use, but it's the word my family uses most often when we talk about my condition.  It's okay, though.  I embrace the term with the knowledge that I also call myself this more times than I care to admit.  At this point, it is almost a term of endearment.  That is what I have convinced myself is true.  My 'episodes' are what makes me special.

Mental disorders weren't something we grew up talking about.  That stuff only happens to those "other families."  My parents always told me that my will was stronger than other people and I could single-handedly defeat those inner demons that would cause me to spout out in fits of anger and rage and afterwards cause me to wallow in the comfort of my bed for weeks on end.  They kept insisting I was just fine and that I would eventually grow out of all my moodiness.

I didn't.  According to my psychiatrist of six years, my diagnosis is "Bipolar Disorder, not otherwise specified" - which may or may not mean I actually have 'legit' bipolar disorder, but that I clearly suffer some of the same effects.  It's all rather confusing to me.  Being diagnosed with bipolar isn't the worst thing in the world that can happen.  In fact, I only wish I had stuck to my guns after high school and started seeing a real therapist instead of waiting until I was sitting, sobbing and screaming at the top of my lungs like a spoiled toddler in my parents' living room at the age of 26.  

That part when I stubbornly refused to take the tissue offered to me to blow my nose and decided it would be best to just snort the mucus down my throat, which caused me to choke and cough it all over myself?  Yeah.  That's a memory I wish I no longer had.  If I didn't, I would never have written that for people to share in my disgust. It's amazing how much recollection I have of that specific day to even the birth of my only child.  My aggression/anxiety/mania caused so much hyper-focus that day that I cannot forget it - however much I want to.  I kept repeatedly yelling at my mother, "I NEED HELP!  Can't you see that I'm CRAZY?!"

The 'crazy' part stuck.

It's strange to experience one of these 'episodes' I have.  There is a part of me that seems to stay behind and tries to rationalize with the part that experiences this influx of emotions.  I always-ALWAYS-remember what I said and/or did to someone else even if I have zero control of what I am saying and/or doing at the moment.  The emotional side wins more often than not.  This means that the part of me that knows my behavior is reprehensible, but sees/hears what's happening and knows that I am not supposed to do it.  Inevitably, it also means that I do my fair share of groveling and begging for mercy.  I am constantly apologizing to my family and friends over actions I have little control over.

Some control is better than none at all, though.  I just need to discover how to find more of it.