However, that tends to change after you've had someone pointing at you, either in person or during video-chat, and call you "DA!" loudly and repeatedly. The e-cards and dead tree hallmarks only re-affirm that sensation that I am now on the other side of the Father's Day experience.
A big part of the sense of unreality is that I've been extremely disconnected from fatherhood in terms of someone who only provisionally has one. My sperm donor hasn't been in touch with me for nigh on 18 years now, and Skip and I haven't been able to get past my lingering resentment for putting up with his crap while growing up, only to have him clean up his act AFTER I was past the point of caring.
But a migraine took me out Sunday night -- as in I was in such agony by bedtime I would have preferred a large pneumatic gone was shoved up my nose and one of those explosive charges was inserted into my frontal lobes. Only copious quantities of my "special" prescription saved the day (or, to be more accurate, night). In fact, I awoke the next day so pain free I thought that it was a dream.
Since I'm about to finish up for the day, I wanted to get SOMETHING posted. A lot's been going on with so much in my life that I'm starting to feel the urge to withdraw again, but I'm determined to stay involved, no matter how weird the going gets. And yes, I DID get weird. Quite some time ago, to be sure.
Hell, I haven't even found the strength to bitch about the latest, completely baffling political idiocies. A sure sign that I'm over-loaded. And don't even get me started about the medical profession, especially as it pertains to fertility and fat women...
Too. Much. To. Rant. About.
It's like one of these patients from "Awakenings" who weren't catatonic... they were seizing up from an overload of neural impulses. So much information to react to, to parse, to process.
Recently someone suggested that I return to therapy, not realizing why the prospect sends me into a tizzy. The mistaken impression is that I want to avoid therapy, when it's more a case of wanting to avoiding adding One More Goddamn Thing to that invisible list floating around the old cranium. Not to mention that even if I were able to track down Irene Raby, my old therapist, and re-start our sessions, I would be stressed about where to freaking BEGIN.
Before anyone errs, allow me to correct -- a lot of GOOD stuff is happening in my life. But even positive stress, as Irene taught me, is still stress, damn it all.
Feh -- I'm going home and watching more of Lost, Season 1, with Roni. Blame my mother for making me curious, blame the writers even more for apparently putting more than two brain cell's effort into the scripts. One has to admire the DaDa like absurdity of a polar bear on a tropical island. Or not. Anyhow...