My mother is profoundly gifted. Super intelligent. To the point of being a liability. I'm glad I'm not that bright.

Mom is...sigh.

So we are talking nicely and she asks about my diagnoses, and she thinks and with real passion and a breaking voice she says PTSD is what those service people who come back from Afghanistan have. And all resources allocated to should go to THEM. And now everyone has PTSD.

I snapped that I have not taken anything away from a combat veteran.

She said, "i know. But it waters it down".

FFS.

The room began a slow spin and only stopped when I realised...I agree. So I said so. It's a dumb diagnosis. The drug dealer in the acute torture facility said the same thing, you have PTSD? You get that from a war. Or a revolution.. Or a good riot. So what a puss I must be to get it from...my life. How sensitive we humans are and what shti we do to ourselves and each other. If I really have ptsd..."what a piece of work is man".

My mother is my nemesis. But she really helped me understand the frustration and shame I feel about this dx.

Then she announced to me that I was an alcoholic. I shot off.

I have been a very heavy drinker. I can drink you and your father under the table. I am most certainly NOT an alcoholic but its not for lack of time and money put into it. I drank as much as I had to. My doctor asked how much I drank and started, then asked jwith gentlecompassion if I showhen I quit. Never. I don't have that gene. My psychiatrist shuddered and said i risked dying of respiratory failure.

I was dependent on ethnol dreamless unconsciousness until I learned from a healthfood store book how to use the amino.acid GABA to restore natural sleep and normal dreams.

I shouted at my mother about the drinking Vietnam vets dad worked with and the boys who came home from wwi and shrieked in the night and the suicides and Cobol related deaths and how medicine can't fix those symptoms but yoga and health food store powered can.

Heavy drinking saved my life. I am here because a friend who hated my drinking paid my rent and liquor bill. I'm here alive for having washed down a second round of sleep med and valium with whiskey before I learned how to use inexpensive GABA powder.

This is the one topic I ALLOW myself to rant and shout about until my voice is hoarse. This isn't hyperarousal. It is grief fueled passion.

My mother understood. She heard. She felt me. She got me. She listened.

I've never felt so understood by my mother or by anyone. It amazes me. She never understood me before. I never had much sympathy for her before. What happened?

I realise this year I am an awful lot like my dad. Dad was my nurturing parent. I am more comfortable with men than women. I don't care for women. There are a few exceptions. I'm glad my mom is one now.

Mom may be borderline. Her siblings all seem borderline. But there is crossover with gifted people and the three of them are far above the posited optimal intelligence some eighties guy described. I needed to spend half a year trying to get along with Mental Health Partners to understand my mother's lifelong experience. Thsts what I've been doing. Gaining an experience and increasing in empathy. I just this second realised that. I'm glad if it brought me reconciliation with my mother.

What a hassle human life is. What are we?