Moving Home

Obviously I'm having a hard time going through talking about the last few years. So I'll start with today. And take it from there until I get bored with that.
I am back at my parents house again. One thing about having anxiety and being bipolar, you always manage to end up right back where you started. And that's ok. Especially when your mom is as good a cook as mine. I joke that they won't ever have to go through empty nest syndrome with me around.
 My parents don't mind. In fact, sometimes I think they like it, now that all their children are growing up and going off in their own directions, it's nice to have someone home to do all the chores, at least when I can manage to get enough energy to get out of bed.
 I think the only thing they don't like is the amount of stuff I manage to accrue in the short months away. I'm pretty sure I've brought back a bookcase every time I've come home. They've somehow all magically disappeared though...
Generally, when someone from a good family goes home, they feel safe. They have all these people around that love and support them, they have a roof over their head and food to eat. I am grateful for all of that. But the only time I feel like I can survive, like I can be safe from myself, is when I am truly and completely alone.
The times I've conquered myself have been the times where I've been so far away from everything familiar, that the only thing I know is me. That's when I become a survivor. Here at home, I lean on people until I fall and can't get back up. But I do because someone always puts their hands under my armpits and keeps dragging me along. The cycle just keeps going. Sometimes I wonder if the best thing would just be to disappear. But wherever I go, things will eventually become familiar. New friends will eventually want me to lean on them. And I'll have to leave again. Sometimes I have to wonder if the only two choices I have are to be sick my whole life, or get sick of my life.
I've always enjoyed traveling.
Today at least I've managed to take most of my meds. It's easy to take the ones that make you feel sick if you miss a dose. Why it's so hard to take the others, I don't know. I use the excuse that my parents can't really afford to buy them ($300 a month is a bit much for anyone) but really I think it's that sometimes I like the excuse to be the way I am. If I take the meds it means I have to try, and trying is so exhausting.
Someone once gave me a quote, the context in which it was given and who exactly gave it to me are a bit fuzzy, but it's penned on a post-it note right above my bed, for me to either glower at or have hope in. Whichever mood I feel like being in.
Blah blah blah, I've lost patience for this now. More later!