Dear God

So tonight the sermon at church was, "Where Were You?"

Indeed.

The question alone gave me goosebumps, tears that wouldn't be quelled and a quivering chin.

So many times I've wondered, where were You?

When the husband slapped D, where were You?

When I got that horrible phone call from her preschool to tell me that she had bruises shaped like hand prints on her face, where were You?

When I had to tell my boss why I needed to leave immediately, where were You?

When I drove to the preschool shaking and sobbing, where were You?

When she was lying in the office, vomiting and crying and shaking, where were You?

When I scooped her up in my arms and rocked her while the staff called the police, where were You?

When I called the husband to ask him why, where were You?

When he denied everything, where were You?

When I had to give interviews to the police and CPS, where were You?

When I had to hold D for evidence photos, where were You?

When she was sobbing behind the couch and refusing to answer questions, where were You?

When D and I lay in bed at night and held each other and cried, where were You?

When the husband was banned from the home by the police and I wanted to torture him, bloody him, tear him limb from limb, where were You?

When my sister asked for D back after I had raised her all those years, where were You?

While I asked myself how I had let this happen, where were You?

When I knew that I hadn't been able to protect my precious D, where were You?

God, where were You?













You held D when I couldn't.

When I could, You held us both.

You helped me make the twenty mile drive when I couldn't see through my tears.

You gave me strength to take care of H and A and to shield them from our reality.

You held my hand while I spoke to officers and caseworkers.

You gave me the words to say so they knew how badly I wished I had protected her.

You held me through my shock and despair.

You gave D peace and the incredible gift of forgiveness.

You gave me Your Word and showed me the truth of redemption and the healing of forgiveness.

You sat next to me at the trial and held me up while I spoke at the stand.

You sat with me through those long, lonely nights while the husband was banned from our home during court proceedings.

You comforted D while she cried at the window each time her daddy came to take A and H for a visit.

You were there while D discovered a faith that has brought her through each storm we've weathered.

You gave me the words to say to convince my sister that D would indeed be safe with me. Through any means necessary.













I don't understand Your ways. I don't understand why mental illness exists and why You allow children to be hurt by those that are meant to protect them. I don't understand so many things. But I know that I'm not alone. And that even in my deepest despair, You are there for me and You love me when I'm incapable of loving myself.

And for this I am eternally grateful.

Financial Whiz Kid

I am irate right now. I'm writing so I don't put arsenic in the husband's stupid Dr. Thunder. (I don't really have arsenic. But sometimes I wish I did. Sorta.)

Two years ago we were in great financial shape. Our credit score was somewhere in the high 700's and our only debt were cars with low interest rates and our house. In a year's time, the husband made a string of terrible decisions that fucked us royally and ended with us filing bankruptcy. Welcome to the financial hell of Bipolar.

Now we own our own business. And the Financial Fucktard is back at it again.

I just got off the phone with him. And he's lucky the conversation wasn't it in person. Here's how it went down:


Husband: I just bought lettering for my truck. It was a great deal. Only a couple hundred dollars.

Wife: Dude, that's a lot.

H: It's great advertising. Oh and I also bought (insert stupid technical crap here). They were under a hundred dollars individually. A great deal.

W: Didn't you just tell me yesterday that the business is barely covering bills right now and that there is only a couple hundred dollars extra a month? I think we need to stick to the bare necessities for a while and build up a nest egg just in case.

H: These are the bare necessities. I need them.

W: You can't run the business without them?

H: No.

W: You've been buying a lot of things lately that are not necessities.

H: Like what? (Yelling)

W: Don't yell at me. I can't keep track of all these different stories you keep giving me. It's bullshit. Last week you said we were doing so well that you wanted me to stay home again and you'd pay me to do paperwork. Then last night you said we were barely making it. That's three different stories in just a few days. I don't want you buying anything until we really discuss what the real situation is.

H: Look, we're making a couple hundred extra a week. Not a month. Okay?

W: What's so wrong with building up a nest egg in case there's a bad month or two?

H: There won't be. If there is I'll just work harder.

W: So all the people who have been struggling with the recession just need to work harder?

H: They just made bad choices. I'll work harder.

W: You're not impervious.

H: I don't think I'm impervious.

W: Well you seem to think it can't happen to you. Why didn't you work harder when we had the cars repossessed? Or had foreclosure notices posted on the garage door? You just weren't working hard enough? Why is having a nest egg such a terrible request?

H: I'm sick of your bullshit. I'll talk to you when I come home.

W: I'm so disappointed in you.

*Click*




I hear they're doing great things with cardboard boxes nowadays.

All's Quiet on the Crazy Front

For now.

400mg of Epitol, 200mg of Seroquel XR and Clonazapam nightly and as needed and we're level. The husband is helping around the house, is patient with the kids, and hasn't harassed me about my health in days. (My health blows by the way. The entire staff at my cardiologist's office knows me by name.)

I even kissed the fucker.

I don't kiss.

Ever.

But I did. A full on makeout session (and by full on, I mean more than thirty seconds. Huge, I know.) and I didn't become nauseous. THAT is progress. I held his head in my hands and let myself go weak in the knees. For the briefest of seconds I remembered how happy he used to make me. How I used to wait by the window and run to the door when I heard his car pull into the driveway. How he was always the first person I called with good news. How he used to make me laugh until my sides ached. How tender he was with the babies and the compliments he'd received on how natural he was at fatherhood.

Yet somehow this feels like the calm before the storm.

Because there is ALWAYS a storm. There is always a crisis or a meltdown or some sort of tantrum that I'm left to clean up. Usually while sobbing and using words like "fuck" and "douchebag."

I'm tired of having the rug pulled out from under me. I'm tired of always being sick because I exhaust myself by always being on edge. I'm tired of being angry. I'm tired of having so much to forgive. I'm tired of hiding in the closet so I can cry without my kids hearing me.

I'm fucking exhausted.

The husband will stay level. Even if I have to tranquilize him to do it.

That's a lie. I don't want him tranquilized. I want him healthy. And I want him to do it because he loves himself and he loves his family and he wants us to have the best of him. Because there is so much more to him than we've had these last few years.

This disease is a monster.

Truths

When I was little, I used to dream about the kind of man I'd marry. His looks didn't matter so much (although he MUST be bigger than me. I'm not marrying a Manorexic) but he needed to be kind. I imagined a huge teddy bear of a man who wanted to bring home every animal with big sad eyes and was adored by kids. I imagined someone blue collar with callused hands and a gentle heart. Someone who could build a bookshelf and wipe a tear. Someone who would know to kiss me when I'm ranting, hug me when I'm angry and surprise me with a note when I'm hurt. Someone who reminded me of how amazing my mother is when I'm angry at her and who would take the kids out for ice cream when I was being an ass.

A partner.

Someone who could be strong when I was weak and who would let me be his strength when he had none.

Someone who laughed at my jokes and reminded me to be kind when I went too far. Someone who made mistakes and took responsibility for them. Someone who would rather lose everything else instead of his integrity.

Someone considerate and with compassion.


I have no idea why tears are running down my face. The husband isn't a bad man. I always tell myself that if it wasn't for his Bipolar, we'd be happy. But I know that he really isn't any of those things I just listed. He puts himself first. Always. And sometimes it just breaks my heart.

The Safety Plan

Today The Husband had an appointment with his psychologist at the Marc Center and he asked me to go with him. I was nervous and excited at the prospect of getting things out in the open. Actually, I think the words I used when explaining it to coworkers was, "I can't wait to call him out on his bullshit." Then I'm pretty sure I called him a douche.

Yeah. I'm pretty fed up with his lying.

The appointment did not go as I'd planned.

The first thing she asked was, "Is there any domestic violence at this point?"

I thought for a minute. Then said, "Does hitting his car with my car count if there was no vehicular damage? What about slamming my arm in the bedroom door? Or purposely locking my keys in the car and leaving me without a ride to work?"

Since all of those things are considered domestic violence, (who knew?) she refused to meet with us together. Something about opening a can of worms and then sending us home to fight about it not being a good idea.

She told me that she would set us up with a marital counselor who would meet with him for one half of the appointment and meet with me for the second half. And then when she deemed it safe, she would eventually meet with us both. But only when she felt sure that the arguments wouldn't end with my body stuffed in a freezer.

Then she told me to leave.

Without any sort of help for me at all.

And I started panicking. My eyes welled up with tears and I felt like I was going to vomit. How could she hear how bad things were and then just say that she'll call me in a few weeks? Where the hell is the professional responsibility? I can't wait any longer. I need a fucking life preserver. For reals.

She must have seen my panic because she changed her mind and asked the husband to leave the room instead. Then she asked me if I had a Safe Plan.

What kind of fucking relationship needs a Safe Plan?

Mine. That's whose.

Fuck.

Apparently I should know which shelters I can go to with my girls. Where they're located and what hours they accept lodgers or whatever you call women who are fleeing their husbands. I should have a secret nest egg that he can't access. I should have the Crisis Hotline number memorized.

Which begs the questions: What the fuck is the Crisis Hotline number? What the hell is it and why the hell didn't anyone tell me about it when I was trying to get him admitted back in November? Bullshit.

So now I'm sitting here, trying to figure out what my Safe Plan is and contemplating how I can possibly love someone that I need a Safe Plan for just in case he loses his mind and tries to do unspeakable things to my corpse.

I'm disgusted. I'm dismayed that I'm here. I always insist that I'm not an idiot. But I'm starting to think that I am. I'm starting to think that I must be to even be sitting here writing this in the first place.

I wish this was fiction.

And I want my fucking picket fence.

Childish Tricks

The husband isn't much for talking. It's not that he doesn't communicate, he definitely does. Just not in words.

Here's a few examples so you get what I'm talking about.

Problem: He's tired of being the only one to fold laundry.
Communication Technique: He ties all of my underwear into knots and throws them in the drawer.

Problem: He doesn't like that I left my only work shoes in the garage.
Communication Technique: He parks his car on top of my shoes, ruining them and ensuring that I didn't have heels to wear for an important presentation that day.

Problem: The kids and I left toys and papers on the couch.
Communication Technique: He sweeps everything off the couch and then kick it all into a corner, breaking several items.

Problem: He feels the kids have too many stuffed animals.
Communication Technique: He donates all of them. Including their "lovies" and items they'd had since birth, as well as animals I had saved for them since my childhood.

Problem: He doesn't like that I go for a drive when conversations become heated.
Communication Technique: He lets the air out of my tires.

Problem: He doesn't like that I drove his truck.
Communication Technique: He takes my car, hunts me down and then hits his truck with my car.

Problem: He feels that I've been nagging about his sleep schedule.
Communication Technique: He locks my keys in my car and then leaves with the only spare set. Leaving me stranded when I was just leaving for work. I then had to call my boss to come pick me up.

Oh yeah. The dude communicates all right.

There was a point to this. In fact, this was supposed to be a hope-filled blog about a sweet moment between him and our youngest that I witnessed Monday night.

But fuck it.

Now I'm just pissed off.

We'll save sweet for another day, when I don't feel like introducing him to the wood chipper.