I’m flying home. My therapist called me. On Christmas Day. And my mom changed my flight and I am going home back to Newark. I can’t believe it. I feel so guilty. It’s so expensive to fly me here in the first place but I need to go home. I’m in pain. I need to go inpatient. I need to be safe. I can’t stop drinking.
My dad is picking me up from Newark. But just to go on a cruise. And then go to Chicago. And I’m an orphan with bipolar disorder and I’m going through an episode and I’m alone.
My therapist called me on Christmas Day while I drank and ate shrimp cocktail. Not at all completely glamorous and not at all how I expected to eat my Christmas dinner. On the phone, drunk, with my therapist. But it’s because I’ve hit rock bottom. I can never explain how appreciative I am that she called me on a holiday because she is worried. I told her that she’s the only one who worries and cares and it means so much to me. I pay her her weekly fee but she really plays the most huge role of my life. Without her, I would not be here writing this post.
I will never be able to explain the amount of love I feel towards that. I’ve never felt cared for and here I am being seen care of, in a different *country* and a diff time zone etc. I am so grateful. I am so grateful. I can’t wait to get home and sleep forever. My dad keeps texting me like see you then and blah. I wanna get to this airport and damn this stupid plane and be back in Princeton, This is a merry Christmas. Xoxoxo *all in sarcarism*
This is a Christmas that will be written in my future memoir. Merry Christmas. Never been a fan of holidays and now I never will.