Debating My Mental State

Last night I asked my roomies if they noticed any difference in me since switching meds. I feel better and more stable, which is always a good thing. I'm taking a mood stabilizer for my extreme downs that make me contemplate how sharp the knives are in this rotting heap of a house. I've had 2 shrinks now that have said I'm bipolar. I don't have much of the manic highs, but I get the extreme lows, and they both said that is a form of bipolar disorder, and who am I to argue? I don't know hockey pucks about poop when it comes to all this mental diseases stuff, so I have to take their word for it.

Honestly, I expected glowing reviews about how I'm doing on my new meds. I was prepared to hear about how much better I am to live with. How life with me makes the idea of heaven pale in comparison. That I am so much better they are astounded by my progress and envious of my new found peace and lack of mood swings. Ha ha and HA! My little sister said that I am still a pain in her (huge, dimply, looking like she is smuggling cottage cheese in her pants) arse. That I am still an asshat whose extreme stubbornness and lack of willingness to share makes any changes in me hard to discern. Really warming up to the subject, she told me that she thinks I may be borderline like she is, because I am such an overgrown ass clown. I was/am deeply offended that she thinks I may be borderline too. I see how she is and I see no resemblance in our mental problems' manifestations. She, being an expert on the subject, said that my depression and troubled relationships are part of being borderline. I bristled. My hackles standing on end, I challenged that whole theory because I don't think having to get a divorce, when divorce is so common, qualifies as "troubled relationships," it being only one bad relationship. She then outlined my past relationships and how they would fall under the category of "troubled." While I was drawing in a HUGE breath (and Princess and Sugarbowl's bf/f cowered under the kitchen table, preparing for one of our fights) to unleash a torrent of negativity down her self-righteous person, she said that she didn't really think I was borderline, she just wanted to mess with me. I hate when she so successfully gets my goat -- and an ugly goat it is, not being the best out of my goat herd; I'd never part with you, Billy! Wanting to return the favor of annoying the crud out of her, I sang the following song, loudly, off key, and repeatedly throughout the rest of the night:

Jingle bells,
Sugarbowl's crotch smells
Like 50 rotting fish eggs!
Her sh*t mobile lost a wheel,
And she can't throw a thing away, HEY!

Her sh*t mobile did just lose a wheel: she had a flat and is still driving on a donut. She also hoards stuff to the point that it makes me claustrophobic to look in her room. That and her car is a traveling city dump -- she never cleans it out. If I have to ride in it, I always grab a trash bag so I can get rid of enough crap to put my feet as near to the floor as possible so my knees aren't up against my chin. She tolerated my song, knowing that if she showed her irritation it would only egg me on, but got a trite pissy when everyone else laughed. Now I have her goat to add to my herd.