I mean, I already felt guilty about putting everyone through all this shit. Okay? I was fully cognizant of all the crap that resulted from my inability to keep it together for just a few more hours, until I could see a doctor. I know I fucked up and I already felt terrible about it.
So when my sister came into my room and berated me, saying, "You left your shoes in the family room! You left your stuff on the counter I had to clean off when I got here!" I was already not feeling too good about things. I remained at my computer because I didn't want to blow up or crack up.
She insisted that the house was a mess when she got here. The kitchen was a mess, yes, mainly because I was trying to work full-time and ended up having a nervous freaking breakdown and cutting myself. I suppose I should have tidied up before calling 911? The bathroom was less than sterile. I had stored some stuff in my Dad's old room.
That stuff in my Dad's room had been there since last year at least; most of it had been there for much longer than that and I'd put it in there with Mom's knowledge and permission. Yet now suddenly it's a huge problem and it's All Ed's Fault because my sister had to drive for eighteen hours to come up here to support me, because I got overwhelmed with stress and cracked.
I guess I'm more angry than depressed, actually.
Believe me, I feel guilty for putting my family and friends through this. I regret the fact that I lost an awesome job because of this. I hate coming up against a hard limit to my capabilities in such a spectacular fashion. It's rotten as can be; it's horrible and unfair. I didn't want this.
My sister, on the other hand, was acting as if I did it on a lark solely so I could screw with everyone in my life. If I had just shut up and gone to work like I was supposed to, she wouldn't have had to take two weeks off from work and drive 18 hours to get here!
...her coming into my bedroom and laying her guilt trip on me led me to blow up and scream, "That's right! I'm a fucking failure! I'm a fucking failure!" And after that, the waterworks and the trip to the church.
It kind of makes me glad, though, that my brother and oldest sister--who are eminently intelligent people--are so incapable of understanding what I'm going through. They've never experienced this kind of thing; they've never been held hostage by their brain chemistry and their life experiences.
All I can say is that I am sorry that I have a serious emotional disorder. (I can say "serious" because it did, after all, land me in the freakin' hospital.) Believe me, I am sorry. I'm doing what I can do about it: I'm getting help. I'm not going to be over this in a couple of days; it doesn't work that way.