Unstable

Listening to: “Until I’m Fine” by K’s Choice

I mentioned why I hate my birthday in the last post. I’m not entirely sure if I got into the days surrounding my birthday, so I will with this before I tell what I did today.

The days surrounding my birthday are the days where I am nowhere near emotionally stable which causes me to be unstable mentally. Granted it’s probably a bit better this year because I’ve been diagnosed and subsequently medicated, but it hasn’t seemed different so far.

After this morning, I have decided to give in and go see my doctor to get my lithium levels adjusted. I’ve been putting it off, but I’ve finally admitted that I need to go do that rather than use my current crises and job as an excuse not to. It’s kind of unreasonable to avoid someone who works in the same building as you....

So, this morning I was taking my usual (obligation to my OCD) shower after a surgery. When I was done, I went to my cubby to grab my ratty Maryland hoodie to pull over my scrubs because I was freezing.

Guess who was there? My former second-in-command. He was in a bad mood and packing up his things. I was the conveniently placed thing to vent at.

“You have daddy issues. That’s why you can’t stand that I was better at your job than you were.” I tried my best not to laugh at him. I had received the job (not even two years after my residency) after he had practically run the department into the ground. He was better than me. Riiiiight.

I told him this and he repeated his statement about my ‘daddy issues’.

“I don’t have daddy issues, sweetheart. And if I did, they wouldn’t affect anything having to do with you.”

It’s true. I don’t have daddy issues. My issues require the addition of a prefix. I have step-daddy issues. And not in the ‘I never got any attention growing up’ sort of way. More like in the ‘I got my ass beat and fucked by my stepdaddy on a constant basis’ sort of way.

He then went on to list all the reasons why I obviously had daddy issues. Then he brought my wife and kids into it.

Normally, I’d laugh at him and call security to escort him out of the building. Super unstable me didn’t. Super unstable me kicked his ass. If Erin hadn’t have walked in when she did and dragged me from him, he’d have a hell of a lot worse than a broken nose, missing teeth and bruised face.

My hockey days and childhood “circumstances” still serve me well.

Now it’s hard to make a fist and I’m typing one-handedly with my right. My left hand is swollen and cut-up from his mouth, giving me the week or so out of the OR. My shoulder still hurts from when I slammed him into the wall, but I don’t care. Okay, so I do care. But not too much.

He’s not pressing charges because I have things that could damn him to a longer jail sentence than he’s already getting. He’s not sure exactly what, but he knows it’s condemning. What he doesn’t know is that I’ve already given everything I have to the cops. He will more than likely get 25 or so. That’s fine with me. He’s a pig. End of story.

As for my week off, I have helped the liquor store down the street practically pay their rent for the month (“Bad day, doc?”) and am taking complete advantage by drinking myself into a stupor.

And for the record: my biological father was an awesome guy. The downer is he died when I was little and I had to continue living with my stepdad.

(Now) Listening to: “Big Eyed Fish” by Dave Matthews Band