Crazy Like a Fox

It's been a rough week.

And it's only Tuesday.

After some scary and escalating behavior from the Husband, I convinced him to call his doctor last Thursday. Explain to the office staff that it was an emergency. That he NEEDED a call back.

No call.

Friday he called in the morning. Explained again that it was an emergency. That his medications weren't working.

No call.

So I did what I do best. I called and went Mama Bear on their asses and threatened them with a malpractice lawsuit if they didn't get that doctor on the phone within the hour. Took names. Reminded them of his colorful history and their responsibility to their patients. How difficult it is to find a new job in the current economy.

Surprise surprise, he was called within the hour.

Score one for the Masochist.

The doctor told him to take his Clonazepam in the morning, noon and night instead of only at night just to get him through the weekend without committing bodily harm to any of his loved ones. (Don't you love how capricious I can be about this sort of thing? It's an art. I swear.) Then she scheduled an appointment with him for yesterday.

On her day off.

Apparently my threats didn't fall upon deaf ears, eh?

So she put him on 150mg of Seroquel XR at night, in addition to his nightly 1mg of Clonazepam and his 400mg of Epitol. Talk about being in Big Pharma's pocket.

Which is of course better than me being handcuffed to the bed. Again.

Last night he completely crashed after taking the Seroquel. And this morning he was confused and groggy and not making any sense at all. He couldn't figure out how to make cereal for the girls for Chrissakes. Not exactly rocket science. I offered to stay home to keep an eye on him, but he insisted that he was fine. I let him know that I would sneak out of my classroom and call him and that if he didn't answer I was coming home. He said fine.

Of course I couldn't reach him and of course I had to run home to make sure he wasn't frothing at the mouth or making pretty little razor blade pictures on his skin. Happily, he was merely sleeping and I was able to get him up and calling customers before I went back to work. Thank God I work for the school I do, the woman who runs it is a saint.

This stress is so overwhelming sometimes. I have three girls, very close in age and I teach preschool. That's a lot of care taking. Add the husband into the mix and it's just too much sometimes. Most of the time. No wonder I'm always sick.

I don't always know why I stick around. Why I'm fighting for someone who isn't committed to his own well-being. The only reason I can come up with is that I actually meant "In Sickness and In Health" when I said it.

Of course, when I said it I was hoping for cancer or leprosy. And I hoped it would wait until we were at least out of our twenties. But we can't always get what we want, can we?

The Beginning

"I need a lover that won't drive me crazy.
I need a lover that won't drive me mad."

Indeed Pat Benetar. Indeed.

My husband is Bipolar. Not the depressive, danger-to-himself kind of Bipolar. But the manic, impulsive, spend all your money, and don't make any sudden moves kind of Bipolar. I always knew he was "off" but we married young and it wasn't until he hit his early twenties that I realized how "off" things really were.

Still, like many young and naive girls, (read: stupid) I thought I could fix him. You know, love him enough, show him the light and all will be better. Like being Bipolar is a lifestyle choice instead of a chemical imbalance. We recently "celebrated" our six year wedding anniversary and I now know that there is no "fixing" a Bipolar. All you can do is pray that the next cycle isn't as painful and violent as the last.

So this is MY new therapy. Lord knows he has plenty of his own. Not that they do much good, but I digress. You can't tell the truth of living with a Bipolar to anyone who hasn't lived with a Bipolar. No one else gets it. They tell you to leave, they call you a Masochist (which I most likely am,) or they roll their eyes at The Girl With All The Drama.

This is my new venting ground. My confessions. My triumphs. My pain. The sorts of things you can't really share with Aunt Janice and your Cousin Julie on Facebook. Trust me, I've tried.

Maybe, just maybe, this release will keep me out of an institution. Because if there's one thing I've come to understand; crazy is infectious. And I'm surrounded by it.