Situational Narcolepsy

Manics typically don't sleep much. They're usually pumped so full of adrenaline that sleep isn't an easy thing to come by. According to the husband, he can lay in bed for hours and never feel tired.

Except when we need to talk.

The second we sit down to talk about us or the children or anything that doesn't involve daily schematics, his eyes start closing. If I'm looking for emotion or any sort of participation other than the occasional grunt, he loses consciousness.

But guess what?

The second I say "fuck it" and leave the room, his eyes pop open and he can magically play computer games again! It's a genuine fucking miracle!

In short, the guy is a douche. And if he is too rough with my kids or tells me to fuck off one more time I'm going to do things to his body that will ensure procreation to be an absolute impossibility for him.

I am tired of talking to a catatonic brick wall.

I deserve so much more than a self-absorbed selfish child who can't treat his family with respect for more than a week's amount of time.

I am so full of venom toward that apathetic asshole that it's frightening.

Fuck.

Marital Counseling Part 1

"Your husband is a very angry man isn't he?"

The therapist's opening line was more of a statement than a question. Jeez. She zeroed in on Mr. Liar Liar Pants on Fire after one session? This chick is good. I nodded with my head down. "Very," I said.

"Do you love him?"

Her stare was piercing while I squirmed. What the hell kind of question was that? Of course I love him... don't I? I mean, why would I put up with everything if I didn't? "Fear," said my head. "Of course I love him," said my mouth. "Sometimes, anyway. He makes it very hard sometimes. Most times."

She nodded. I had the feeling that nothing I could say would surprise her. Just looking at the other patients in the lobby was enough to confirm that suspicion. Adult men rocking and twitching uncontrollably while their elderly mothers made soothing sounds or ignored them entirely. People who smelled like they belonged in the Victorian era where bathing was an option. Women with fewer teeth than limbs, who shouted at staff, other patients and the murals on the walls. They eyed my jewelry hungrily and I had an urge to say, "Fashion Bug, $4.75. Knock yourselves out."

It was an intake session. One of those wasted hours where you sign endless consent forms that are swiped by you too quickly to read and where you answer questions like, "How often were you abused as a child?" and "How would you kill yourself?"

My favorite question was, "If you ate or drank too much of something unhealthy, what would you do?" Shit. How does she know I usually spend Saturday nights eating a plate of Filiberto's nachos the size of my head? I said, "Wait for it to pass. Take an Alka Seltzer. I don't know." What the hell kind of question is that anyway? Does she really think I'm going to eat arsenic pellets or something? Oh wait, look at the rest of her clientele. No wonder she's asking me these inane questions.

Finally she asked THE questions. The ones that determine the truth about my household. "Do you feel safe? Do you think the kids are safe?"

Fuck I hate those two questions. I can either lie and waste everyone's time, or I can answer truthfully and reveal what a shitty mother I truly am. I chose to be truthful. I've been feeling a lack of time lately. Wasting is no longer an option.

"Sometimes I feel safe. Sometimes I feel like there's nothing I could do that would make him hurt me, or us. And sometimes he's a completely different person. The quintessential Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Those are the days that I feel like I could do the smallest thing and end up with a concussion. Those are the days we leave. I usually pile them in the car and we drive around or stay with a friend. He never leaves. He's too stubborn and never admits that he's done wrong until his manic episode has passed. It's best to leave and let him come to his own conclusions. So sometimes I feel safe. Today I feel safe. Tomorrow I might not."

She gave me that piercing stare again, "Do you believe that you need anything for your mood or emotions at this point?"

"No, I don't. Everything else in my life is great. My girls are wonderful, work is fantastic, my friends are supportive, money is getting better. It's just him. It's just him."

I held my breath while I waited for her to disagree. I thought for sure she was going to tell me that I'm crazy just like the husband does whenever he's angry with me. "I agree with you. I think you are handling a very hard situation the best way you can."

And we ended the session. She said it will be at least a couple of months before he joins us. She said that he obviously needs to work on many things himself and that she and I needed to come up with solutions and strategies for me.

So there you have it: A clean bill of mental health and one completely fucked marriage.






Here's a quote my friend B posted today:

Unless it’s mad, passionate, extraordinary love, It’s a waste of your time. There are too many mediocre things in life. Love shouldn’t be one of them.

Which of course begs the question: What the fuck am I doing here?