My father was a gay, alcoholic, polysubstance abusing psychiatrist with BPD. I can truly sympathize with you.
His moods changed constantly. He would call me at work crying and ask me to come over. Other times I would pick up the phone and hear, “Buy me vodka!” and he’d hang up.
I put him in an inpatient rehab and a few days later, in the middle of the night I got an angry phone call from him that started with, “Listen up, loving daughter!” He’d escaped the Rehab and borrowed a phone from some random person and I had to go get him. He was up, and he wanted to hang out. We’d go to Gay Brunch with the boys, then a few days later he’d call me to tell me how many different pills he’d just taken. I’d call 911 and I drove over there. He’d cry and say “I don’t really want to die!”
Then there was the day I came over. It was after Christmas but the decorations had not yet been taken down and the pine tree made his house smell wonderful. I went upstairs to find him watching gay porn while he was dressed like a sailor, wearing white pants, a light blue wind breaker, deck shoes and a captain’s hat that now laid by his side. He didn’t acknowledge me. He finally exited this world and the way he did it was perfect, not messy and painless. In his room were all sorts of notes to me.
The odd thing, well this is just one odd thing, there were many odd things, he was a whizz at all things to do with computers. He set up some emails so that I would get them at certain intervals after his death. I was at work when I got the 2 weeks post mortem email. It really fucked with my head. But it also gave me the strength to finally leave my abusive husband.
I miss you Dad.
