Premeditated Misconduct

Ok, so yesterday didn't go exactly as I planned.

I'm getting really frustrated at everyone. I'm the one in the house who is having the least amount of problems with Derek-- the day after Christmas fight aside-- and yet I'm really getting the message that I should be the one to handle him and the problems he's causing everyone else.

Ok, on one hand, yeah, as the calmest, most rationally sane person in the house and as a good friend who cares compassionate for my other housemates, I probably should be the one to deal with the mess.
On the other hand, I'm not the one having the majority of the problems, and my housemates are (supposedly) adults. They should take care of their own problems. It is not responsibility to look after them.

Wendy won't say much to Derek's face, and when she does, she seems to do it with the deliberately childish impetus to annoy him as much as he's annoying her-- whining, snapping, muttering.

Tom's run away from the whole situation, and called me yesterday with what seemed like the sole intent of asking me if I'd thrown Derek out yet. Tom will not confront Derek, makes absolutely no effort to do anything besides freak out, break down, and hide other places, and throws the entire burden on me and Wendy-- which, in reality, means me.
And I can't do anything because I have no idea what Tom's real problem is. Tom's freaking out even when Derek isn't doing anything and is leaving him entirely alone. I've never seen anyone so completely cowed by someone else for what seems like no apparent reason, and I don't know what to do about it. Everytime I ask Tom, he's just like, "I can't live with him! I can't stand being in the same house as him! I just can't do it!" which leaves me with no clear answers as to what the real problem is and suggests that Tom isn't even willing to try, which annoys the hell out of me. Tom's also said things about Derek reminding him of his mother, and about the problems of two bipolars living in the same house together, and I can understand all that when Derek is acting up...but not when Tom's breaking down and Derek isn't even there.
To be honest... *sigh* ...and this sounds harsh, it's seems like Tom's completely losing his mind. Literally.
I can't get anything out of him except fear and anxiety. He won't-- can't--- listen to anything besides his own terror, and I don't know what he's even really afraid of. The worst Derek can do is scream at us, maybe try to beat us up, but there's three of us in the house, there's three phones in the house (and it's easy enough to dial 911), and honestly, I don't think it would even go that far provided Derek was sober. And if he did start screaming at us or getting violent again, his ass would be grass in no time flat and then Tom wouldn't have to worry anymore.
And I understand that the mechanics of fear are such that reason itself isn't reasonable, and that it's easy to get trapped into a cycle of victimization because even the prospect of getting screamed at is terrifying...but I don't know what else to tell him or do for him. Again, it's harsh, but I wish Tom would make more of an attempt to be strong. He can't keep breaking down every time he runs into an obstacle; he can't keep running away from people like his mother and Derek-- if there's a cosmic lesson here, it's that he needs to learn how to deal with this kind of stuff and free himself from this cycle.

*sigh*
I really don't like being the most not-crazy person I'm living with.

Annie, Marybeth, Angela, et al. call me if you still have my number. I'm anxious to talk to other (relatively sane) people.
(Oh, and Marybeth, I did get your Christmas present, love! In all the lunacy I've been forgetting to mention that and give you a big thankies hug and kiss! Thank you!)

This morning, taking Derek to work-- who, even though he's been going to the same place for three weeks, did not know the way there... This is at the two hour mark (to a place that is twenty minutes from home):
Wendy, on the phone with a woman at Derek's work: Yeah, well that's part of our problem. We don't know which direction east is.
The Lady on the Phone: Follow the sun.
Wendy, repeating: Oh...follow the sun!
Me and Derek: *fall over laughing*

____
So.
Two nights ago while having an extremely pleasant time with Jenny, Owen, David, and their friends Mike and EJ-- Ok, so Jenny wasn't having a good time, but dammit, I sure was-- I called home to see if Jenny would be able to get in and get some files off her computer.
Heard Wendy and Derek screaming at one another.
Went home.
Owen wanted/s to moderate so that 911 doesn't have to be called and work it out so that Derek comes up with the idea "on his own" to move out. By the time we got that established and got back home, Derek was in bed, so we let it slide.
Tom, of course, heard about this, and the next day had an anxiety attack bad enough that he spent most of the day in the hospital. They sent him home saying, "maybe you should trying eating and sleeping." No shit, you dumb bastards; I didn't realize you needed a medical degree, millions of dollars of equipment, hundreds of dollars in payment, and six hours to figure that out! I thought that might be self-evident.

Yesterday was a complete wash.
Didn't get internet. Don't have a new working computer. Didn't get to check my email (which is ok, because what I'm waiting for wasn't there anyway).

The only up-side is that Derek came home only minutes after Tom (who began shaking the minute he saw Derek), and so went I was escorting Tom into his room and making sure that he ate and got situated, Jenny was executing Owen's plan, and by the time I got out to the living room, Derek was proudly announcing his plans to find his own apartment. He went out with Jenny, and they already got some apartment guides.
(Really, I want him back in PA... as far away from me and mine as I can manage...but at this point, I'll take what I can get.)

Oh, my fucking God.

( My raging bipolar lunatic roommate )

I should cheer myself up by emailing Teresa-san, but...the last thing I need right now is something else that would make me nauseous, even if it's in a good way.

So.

Last Thursday morning I met with the psychiatrist, who seemed to not believe that I have depression but gave me a trial packet of Zoloft anyway and told me to come back in three weeks. Cool. I was a third of the way home when I got a call from Wendy saying that they would be arriving in about an hour and a half, and then I had to worry about whether or not I would be able to beat them home.
I did. Barely. I was walking out the outside stairs, and I took one last glance at the street, and a dark blue car rolled by and I grinned 'cause I knew it was them.
Wendy had driven straight out-- no stops for sleep-- so she crashed out on my couch and Derrick and I sat around and talk for a bit, then walked to a liquor store, got a bottle of vodka, and went home, all the while talking.

(~Stories of mine should stop involving vodka, ne?~)

Tom came home late from Ashland and he went to bed, and a fairly drunken Derrick asked me to "cuddle" up with him on the floor. So I did. I suppose I should have known better, but I really wasn't thinking about being groped. o.O!
("What in the hell are you doing? Stop that, stop... What? No, I will not have sex with you! ...why? Um, lessee: we just met, Wendy's sleeping less than a foot away from us, I'm not on birth control, and oh yeah, housemates shouldn't fuck!)
O.O;;;;

This kind of stuff needs to stop happening to me.

Right. So after I convince him that trying to have sex with me is not in his best interest, I manage to get to bed. It was about 4 am.

The next day we get up, and thinking about the night before was kind of embarrassing, but whatever. At least nothing much actually happened. We went for drives around the city; we talked; we made plans to move shit.
Really, I don't remember most of what we did on Friday...

On Saturday, we rented a Uhaul and moved all the heavy big stuff. A friend from seminary gave us tons-- I think literally-- of furniture, so first that went in, and then all our old stuff. In the process of moving one of the dressers, my pinkie finger got crushed between the dresser and the edge of a stair, and I heard it go "crunch." I don't think it's broken-- I wouldn't be able to move it if it was-- but it's been completely numb since Saturday so I think I squished some nerves pretty damned bad.

I hurt myself a LOT that day. I crushed my finger, twisted my ankle, bruised and scraped up one shin, whacked my knee... I look like I went ten rounds with Mohammad Ali.

We're still moving some odds and ends over, but almost everything is done. (OK, except Wendy's room, but that's completely understandable. Wendy-- along with Derrick-- did most of the heavy lifting; I mean, she worked like a mule moving stuff in, and then she began work at Wal*Mart already yesterday. She hasn't really had much of a chance to get her crap together.)

As for Derrick, who I describe before as excessively heterosexual stereotypically male... well, I can see why Wendy has a hard time dealing with him sometimes. Sexist pig? Oh, yeah, and what really clinches it is the fact that he doesn't think he's being sexist.
("Me and Tom will handle the big stuff, and you girls can take care of the littler things...Short hair is a boy's haircut; women should have long hair...you could be beautiful if you just tried, Jess..."
Now is that a helluva backhanded compliment, or what?
Crap like that. All the time. Depending on how he say it and what it's about I have handled these kind of statements with out and out violent protests ("Oh hell no, you ain't stickin' me on bitch detail! I can carry heavy things; who do you think helped Tom get all the furniture into this place?!") to placid shrugging off ("That's your opinion. I disagree.") to good-humored sarcasm ("I 'could be beautiful'? Oh my, thank you ever so much; I feel like putting on a pink dress and high heels and make-up and groveling for you!")
He really hates my sarcasm. ^_^ I don't give a flying fuck what he hates. He's going to have to learn how to deal with it.

Yeah, and he's a Crispie. Believes in the literal truth of the Bible. Went to the Unitarian church with me and Tom though, and he was ok with that, but he doesn't really get how UUism is a "real" religion.

(I think I've decided to become a minister, btw. I ain't got nothing else better to do, right?)

...
Tom's waiting for me to go, so I guess I'll continue this tomorrow or something. We gotta go move more crap.