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.