Now

Three weeks ago my dad called me. This wasn't a normal occurrence. He just wanted to talk. We talked about the weather. I was excited. I thought maybe the meds were finally helping. That maybe he could really live a normal, even life, like everyone keeps saying that properly medicated bipolar people can do. I called my mom the next day to ask what was really going on. She sounded scared. Yeah, he was "up" but not good kind of up, crazy kinda up. I'm not gonna lie, I was crushed.

It feels like a lot longer than three weeks ago. Everyday is a little scarier than the last, and I live thousands of miles away from this man. It's beyond painful to think of what my mom must be going through. I guess I don't know for sure though...since this started the amount of phone conversations I have with my mom has gone way down. I think she's trying to protect me. I appreciate that...and it is easier to function if I'm given the chance to forget my dad. I am such a wimp. I got a birthday card from them today. My mom made it. It's beautiful. The back is covered in my dad's handwriting. Dad's handwriting is painful to look at. It's like seeing something written in a handwriting belonging to some one who's been dead for a long time. It's come in and out of my life since I can remember. My dad has always been obsessed with paper and pens and writing things down. His messy cursive/printing style is written in all my childhood memories and only in a few painful adult ones. I called him to thank him for the card. He said he wanted to drive out here. He has some pretty grandiose travel plans. Listening to them was like going back three years. It's like he was frozen for all that time and suddenly he's back and still has all the crazy plans he did then. My poor mother.