I am not a static character.
Sometimes I'm so completely at peace with who I am, where I'm at in life and the choices I've made. Sometimes I can look back at the things that happened during my marriage and focus on the lessons I learned and the strength I gained from it all.
On really good days, I can focus simply on the good times so I can be grateful that they happened at all.
Other days, I'm just so sad. Overwhelmingly sad.
Have you ever seen someone survive something and be in complete awe that they made it through?
Because that's what I feel when I look back.
A little more than two years ago my grandmother passed away.
Two days later The Husband asked for a divorce. I cried.
And then The Husband left bruises all over D again and I was finally forced to make a final choice between being with him and possibly never seeing D again and putting myself at risk for losing A and H, or having the police remove him, putting an order of protection in place and starting our lives over.
The day I called the police and fled to my mom's until the order was finalized, D's mom took Destiny and filed for mine and The Husband's removal of guardianship. It took much pleading to have D returned to me until our court hearing.
Soon after we were able to move home, The Husband began a series of such escalating intimidation behaviors that his best friend came to stay with us for a couple of weeks to keep us safe. I got to know many members of the police force quite well. CPS case workers, Guardian ad Litems and child abuse investigators were a constant presence in my home. During that short time, The Husband had my car repossessed and I received notice that I would be losing my home in as soon as sixty days. (Luckily it ended up being ten months instead of two, but I didn't know it at the time.)
When The Husband's friend left, I kept our beloved dog by my side as my constant companion and protector. A few weeks later, she had a sudden and massive seizure. Since I had walked out of the marriage with forty dollars in my pocket, I had no way of saving Duchess. By the next morning she was brain dead, and my neighbors and friends chipped in so I could have her put to sleep. She died in my arms.
The first month alone was eventful to say the least.
Two months after I left The Husband, my dad passed away after a nine year long battle with cancer. I had court the day he died, the day of his funeral and the day after his funeral. At court I learned that I would keep guardianship of D and The Husband would lose his rights and his ability to have contact with her until her 18th birthday. I also learned that she would no longer be living with me once the school year was over. The beautiful little girl who I had raised from seventeen months until she was nine years, three months and twenty four days old would be gone.
In two months, I had lost nearly everything that my adult life had revolved around.
I don't remember much of how I felt then. I remember a few nights where I would wait for the girls to finally fall asleep so I could sit out on the back porch swing and sob until I couldn't breathe.
But mostly I remember numbness.
I walked out of my father's funeral after I was publicly reminded what a small part I had played in my father's life.
Instead of going to his wake, I dropped my girls off and went to court instead so I could plead for temporary orders for child support. We had been left with nothing but past due water and electricity bills that a friend stepped in and paid.
Friends from all over flooded my mailbox with cards and small tokens of love. Many days, those cards were the only reason I could get myself dressed and out of the house. They are all displayed proudly no matter where I live.
People that I'd never met contacted me wanting to know how they could help. Many were friends of The Husband and wanted to secretly do whatever they could for me. They were a wealth of resources. It was because of them that domestic violence shelters helped me complete my legal papers and gave me coaching lessons on how to represent myself in court. They helped me pay for my heart medications. They helped me find a pro bono lawyer for the final trial. They bought me cleaning supplies, toiletries and anything else I was struggling to provide.
I had so many unexpected people cheering me on that quitting or being weak wasn't an option.
I walked through every bit of hell that came my way that year.
I survived.
A little more than two years after it all began/ended and I am ticking off my "Moving Forward" checklist one at a time. The next step is to purchase my own home for the girls and I. Once investors stop poaching the houses I bid on, we'll be moving the moment the title company can close. A new chapter will begin.
But I am not a static character.
I still get angry, I still get sad, I still get gleefully happy whenever I look around and take notice of my freedom. All of that's okay. I'm allowed to feel a range of emotions when I look back at the last ten years.
For the first time in my life, I realize that it's okay to be human. That no one can tell me how I ought to feel about anything. I'm allowed to have differing opinions. I'm allowed to stand up for myself. I'm allowed to express hurt, anger and betrayal. I'm allowed to ask tough questions. I'm allowed to choose who I bring closer and who I keep at a distance. I'm allowed to protect my daughters when I feel they're in danger, regardless of where that danger may be coming from. I no longer have to feel numb in order to survive.
No one has control and no one ever will again.
I need to remember that I've achieved the most important goal of all.
I'm free.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Down the Rabbit Hole
I will not get sucked back into this vortex.
It has been two years since we spoke by phone. It has been two years since we have been near each other without an officer or judge present.
I don't want to know you. I don't want to hear about you. I certainly don't want you to share intimate details about your life with me.
But in spite of myself, I respond to your chatty text messages and emails. I ask how you're doing. I make myself crazy and neurotic wondering what you're up to, who you're seeing and whether or not you've changed enough for me to ever fully trust you with my children.
In spite of myself, in spite of everything; I still miss you sometimes.
I haven't gone on a date in over nine months because I don't trust myself or my judgment. I've been learning the pleasures of being alone, and there are many. But today, for the first time in a very long time, I'm lonely. I miss someone knowing my intimate details. I miss being able to share my every thought. I miss someone understanding the dynamics of my family. I really miss someone knowing my body and how to make it respond. I miss everything we had together during the good times.
And I sometimes wonder if you ever miss me, too.
I know that most likely, I'll find someone when I'm ready. I certainly haven't been looking because I know I'm not there yet. And I also know that if I never find that person, then I'll be just fine on my own.
But I still wish we had made different choices, been different people and had the outcome I always wanted.
But mostly, I wish I had a clean slate where you never existed. I wish I was free.
It has been two years since we spoke by phone. It has been two years since we have been near each other without an officer or judge present.
I don't want to know you. I don't want to hear about you. I certainly don't want you to share intimate details about your life with me.
But in spite of myself, I respond to your chatty text messages and emails. I ask how you're doing. I make myself crazy and neurotic wondering what you're up to, who you're seeing and whether or not you've changed enough for me to ever fully trust you with my children.
In spite of myself, in spite of everything; I still miss you sometimes.
I haven't gone on a date in over nine months because I don't trust myself or my judgment. I've been learning the pleasures of being alone, and there are many. But today, for the first time in a very long time, I'm lonely. I miss someone knowing my intimate details. I miss being able to share my every thought. I miss someone understanding the dynamics of my family. I really miss someone knowing my body and how to make it respond. I miss everything we had together during the good times.
And I sometimes wonder if you ever miss me, too.
I know that most likely, I'll find someone when I'm ready. I certainly haven't been looking because I know I'm not there yet. And I also know that if I never find that person, then I'll be just fine on my own.
But I still wish we had made different choices, been different people and had the outcome I always wanted.
But mostly, I wish I had a clean slate where you never existed. I wish I was free.
The Six Year Anniversary 4/26/2009
I found this in my unpublished drafts. I was too scared to post this. I didn't want police or anyone else notified.
I had completely forgotten about this night. Looking back, I think it speaks volumes.
The night before our anniversary, I went out for sushi with a couple of girlfriends. It's the first night I'd really been out in almost two years. My friend Kristina and I had been talking about it for months. She knew I desperately needed the break but I either didn't have the funds for it or couldn't get away. (My issues with getting away are another story entirely.) When my Dad received more bad news from his Oncologist, she swore she was kidnapping me if I didn't agree to go, so April 17th I went to Ra for a night out with the girls.
We laughed and joked and drank Saki Bombers and shared a bottle of Sparkling Saki while we delighted in the deliciousness that are Viva Las Vegas Rolls. At some point I remembered that our anniversary was the next day. I groaned that I'd forgotten yet again while I was sure he'd remembered, and joked that I was the man in this relationship when it came to things like anniversaries and birthdays.
It was already ten at night and I had NO IDEA what I was going to give him. We went through the list of places that would be open.
Gas Station.
Walmart.
Sex shop.
Bingo!
We decided that we would go back to Heather's house since her roommate had some friends over that Heather needed to say hi to, then we would head to Castle MegaStore for some "toys."
Perfect.
At some point, I texted the Husband to see if he had remembered the anniversary. It was apparent that he had not, but was trying to pretend that he had. For some reason, I found this to be hilarious and started to quiz him on what he had planned so I could eventually call him out on his fib and laugh together at how scatterbrained we were to both forget our anniversary.
Bad move Masochist. Bad move.
He did not appreciate the light-hearted ribbing. He finally told me that since I was "making fun" of him, there would be no anniversary celebration and I could simply sit at home by myself. This promptly brought me to tears which caused Kristina to take my phone from me while she shook her head at another night ruined by the Husband's anger. I begged her to take me home and she obliged.
We stopped for food at Filiberto's as a peace offering, but he wasn't home. I sent him a message and waited. When he finally showed up, he was holding a bottle of Tequila. So I asked, "Plan on doing any drinking?"
Bad move again, apparently.
He started slamming doors, stomping around the house and yelling at me for being gone all night. He was angry that I had been "making fun" of him. The more I tried to explain, the angrier he became. He told me I was crazy and drunk.
Drunk, yes. Crazy, not today Sir.
Then he told me to get out of the house, go for a drive.
If anyone else had tried to kick me out of the house, I would have told them to fuck off. But when a 230 lb. Bipolar who has left you bruised and bloodied before tells you to get out- you get the fuck out.
Here's where I act like an idiot:
Instead of taking my car, I took his truck. His precious truck that he loves more than he does our children.
Stupid stupid Masochist.
I grabbed my Filiberto's (which I was NOT going to share with him anymore thankyouverymuch,) some water and drove 2mph to the next street over and ate my food. Twenty minutes later he came screeching down the street and HIT his truck with my car. Not hard enough to damage it because that most certainly was not the point. Just hard enough to try to intimidate me.
Normally he would have, but being intoxicated and therefore somehow invincible, I started laughing. He leapt out of the car and walked on top of the hood of my car to get to me. I laughed even harder. He flung the door open and ordered me out. I continued to laugh and then laughed some more when I realized that I'd spilled sour cream all over his seat. His precious seat.
I got in my car, he got in his truck. He left, I sat there and debated on where I should go.
Home seemed like a very stupid option.
Driving anywhere on a main road seemed like an even stupider option seeing as how I still wasn't exactly sober.
So I slept in the parking lot of the local Mormon Church.
Happy Anniversary Masochist. Mazel Tov.
I had completely forgotten about this night. Looking back, I think it speaks volumes.
The night before our anniversary, I went out for sushi with a couple of girlfriends. It's the first night I'd really been out in almost two years. My friend Kristina and I had been talking about it for months. She knew I desperately needed the break but I either didn't have the funds for it or couldn't get away. (My issues with getting away are another story entirely.) When my Dad received more bad news from his Oncologist, she swore she was kidnapping me if I didn't agree to go, so April 17th I went to Ra for a night out with the girls.
We laughed and joked and drank Saki Bombers and shared a bottle of Sparkling Saki while we delighted in the deliciousness that are Viva Las Vegas Rolls. At some point I remembered that our anniversary was the next day. I groaned that I'd forgotten yet again while I was sure he'd remembered, and joked that I was the man in this relationship when it came to things like anniversaries and birthdays.
It was already ten at night and I had NO IDEA what I was going to give him. We went through the list of places that would be open.
Gas Station.
Walmart.
Sex shop.
Bingo!
We decided that we would go back to Heather's house since her roommate had some friends over that Heather needed to say hi to, then we would head to Castle MegaStore for some "toys."
Perfect.
At some point, I texted the Husband to see if he had remembered the anniversary. It was apparent that he had not, but was trying to pretend that he had. For some reason, I found this to be hilarious and started to quiz him on what he had planned so I could eventually call him out on his fib and laugh together at how scatterbrained we were to both forget our anniversary.
Bad move Masochist. Bad move.
He did not appreciate the light-hearted ribbing. He finally told me that since I was "making fun" of him, there would be no anniversary celebration and I could simply sit at home by myself. This promptly brought me to tears which caused Kristina to take my phone from me while she shook her head at another night ruined by the Husband's anger. I begged her to take me home and she obliged.
We stopped for food at Filiberto's as a peace offering, but he wasn't home. I sent him a message and waited. When he finally showed up, he was holding a bottle of Tequila. So I asked, "Plan on doing any drinking?"
Bad move again, apparently.
He started slamming doors, stomping around the house and yelling at me for being gone all night. He was angry that I had been "making fun" of him. The more I tried to explain, the angrier he became. He told me I was crazy and drunk.
Drunk, yes. Crazy, not today Sir.
Then he told me to get out of the house, go for a drive.
If anyone else had tried to kick me out of the house, I would have told them to fuck off. But when a 230 lb. Bipolar who has left you bruised and bloodied before tells you to get out- you get the fuck out.
Here's where I act like an idiot:
Instead of taking my car, I took his truck. His precious truck that he loves more than he does our children.
Stupid stupid Masochist.
I grabbed my Filiberto's (which I was NOT going to share with him anymore thankyouverymuch,) some water and drove 2mph to the next street over and ate my food. Twenty minutes later he came screeching down the street and HIT his truck with my car. Not hard enough to damage it because that most certainly was not the point. Just hard enough to try to intimidate me.
Normally he would have, but being intoxicated and therefore somehow invincible, I started laughing. He leapt out of the car and walked on top of the hood of my car to get to me. I laughed even harder. He flung the door open and ordered me out. I continued to laugh and then laughed some more when I realized that I'd spilled sour cream all over his seat. His precious seat.
I got in my car, he got in his truck. He left, I sat there and debated on where I should go.
Home seemed like a very stupid option.
Driving anywhere on a main road seemed like an even stupider option seeing as how I still wasn't exactly sober.
So I slept in the parking lot of the local Mormon Church.
Happy Anniversary Masochist. Mazel Tov.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Reflections
I have pitied you so much these last couple of months.
You were my confidante, my aggressor, my best friend, my abuser, my lover and yes, at times; my victim.
I have spent the last eleven months coming to terms with the last third of my life. I have examined the mistakes that I made, the choices that I should have and given myself credit for forgiving so much and trying so damn hard. Let me be clear... I am fully aware of the damage I caused in the beginning of our marriage. I was ready to divorce and run at the slightest transgression. I was belittling. You didn't make enough money, you didn't dress the girls how I wanted you to, you drove the wrong car... I didn't praise you enough.
I know my transgressions fully. They are numerous.
You have had eleven months as well. Eleven months without a family, without responsibilities and I was hopeful that you would have examined your mistakes as I have mine.
And today? Today I want to hate you. I can only pity you for your inability to learn from your mistakes. I don't believe that you will ever evolve because you are incapable of truly examining your actions. Rewriting history, blaming medication, blaming a lack of medication, blaming me, blaming your parents, blaming children... you have learned nothing except that if you don't admit your mistakes than you never have to take responsibility for them.
J, I am sorry. I am so sorry for the pain I caused you. For emasculating you and tearing your apart when I should have been your greatest supporter and partner. I didn't believe in you enough, and for that I am ashamed. Looking back has taught me to ask myself, "Would I want to be with me?" And being able to do so will make any and all of my current and future relationships better. I am sorry that I had to hurt you to learn that lesson.
Our children are watching us. They are learning how to handle a mistake that can have devastating consequences. And you are teaching them to bury it. To lie. To make sure that everyone you come into contact with knows that you are not to blame.
They don't buy it J. They left you and told me that you lied. You blamed your Bipolar medication. When you were sentenced for Child Abuse, you blamed a lack of medication. Now you're telling our children that you were never ill. That your medication made you angry and aggressive. A is old enough to remember what you've been like off of your medication. She knows the truth. You are not fooling her, you are simply reaffirming her belief that you can't be trusted.
Reflect J.
Learn.
Grow.
It's the only way you'll ever get your girls back.
You were my confidante, my aggressor, my best friend, my abuser, my lover and yes, at times; my victim.
I have spent the last eleven months coming to terms with the last third of my life. I have examined the mistakes that I made, the choices that I should have and given myself credit for forgiving so much and trying so damn hard. Let me be clear... I am fully aware of the damage I caused in the beginning of our marriage. I was ready to divorce and run at the slightest transgression. I was belittling. You didn't make enough money, you didn't dress the girls how I wanted you to, you drove the wrong car... I didn't praise you enough.
I know my transgressions fully. They are numerous.
You have had eleven months as well. Eleven months without a family, without responsibilities and I was hopeful that you would have examined your mistakes as I have mine.
And today? Today I want to hate you. I can only pity you for your inability to learn from your mistakes. I don't believe that you will ever evolve because you are incapable of truly examining your actions. Rewriting history, blaming medication, blaming a lack of medication, blaming me, blaming your parents, blaming children... you have learned nothing except that if you don't admit your mistakes than you never have to take responsibility for them.
J, I am sorry. I am so sorry for the pain I caused you. For emasculating you and tearing your apart when I should have been your greatest supporter and partner. I didn't believe in you enough, and for that I am ashamed. Looking back has taught me to ask myself, "Would I want to be with me?" And being able to do so will make any and all of my current and future relationships better. I am sorry that I had to hurt you to learn that lesson.
Our children are watching us. They are learning how to handle a mistake that can have devastating consequences. And you are teaching them to bury it. To lie. To make sure that everyone you come into contact with knows that you are not to blame.
They don't buy it J. They left you and told me that you lied. You blamed your Bipolar medication. When you were sentenced for Child Abuse, you blamed a lack of medication. Now you're telling our children that you were never ill. That your medication made you angry and aggressive. A is old enough to remember what you've been like off of your medication. She knows the truth. You are not fooling her, you are simply reaffirming her belief that you can't be trusted.
Reflect J.
Learn.
Grow.
It's the only way you'll ever get your girls back.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Six Months Later
Dear Fatbear,
I dream about you sometimes.
We sit and talk about everything. The future I wanted us to have. The mistakes that were made. The choices I still wish I could stop you from making.
You are an open book. Full of more honesty and integrity than you've ever possessed outside of my subconscious. I wake up feeling cleansed. It's cathartic.
I spoke to the prosecutor's office last Friday.
I called because D keeps asking me when all of this will be over. She's terrified that she'll have to speak in court. It doesn't matter how many times I reassure her that she won't have to see you, no matter what, it's just not enough.
I wish you had to see her tremble.
The prosecutor assured me that you were still being reviewed. That you hadn't fallen through the cracks. The police have charged you with one count of child abuse and one count of violating the Order of Protection. The prosecutor will then decide to keep, modify, drop or add to the charges. I'm still expecting a Violation of Probation charge and probably more Violation of a Court Order charges for the week you just couldn't seem to stay away.
Everything is done by chronological order. Did you know that? From the time you're charged, that's when they get to you. So no matter how horrible your crime, you still have to wait for the people who were charged before you. Seems like a silly way to do things, but I guess it makes sense.
Here's what I want you to know: I don't want you to go to prison. I never did.
Not after your first two Domestic Violence convictions.
Not after your first Child Abuse felony conviction.
Not after you gave me a concussion. I lay there crumpled on the floor, sobbing until my throat was raw, and all I could think was, "I can't tell. He'll go to jail."
So I didn't.
This time, If I'm asked my opinion, here's what I'll say: You have completed over two years of court ordered Anger Management. You started counseling in 2003. You began medication in 2005. You have been on supervised probation since 2007. You have been treated by renowned doctors at Mayo. You began and quit group therapy. You've had every opportunity to receive help. You've been given THREE chances to avoid prison.
I cannot stand by you anymore.
It kills me.
This time, I will not organize a letter campaign, lauding you for being an exemplary father.
I will not speak on the stand for you.
I will not hold your hand and reassure you that we will make it through together.
Most likely, you are going to prison.
Most likely, you will not see your daughters for a very long time. D is no longer yours at all, and you will only see her if she decides to contact you as an adult.
What a shame Fatbear.
I look around, and there are memories everywhere. We had the cozy house with the caring neighbors, and the lucrative business and the three beautiful little girls that everyone envied. You were my high school sweetheart. You built me my picket fence and I would have followed you anywhere.
And now you're someone I don't even know.
You don't ask about your daughters.
You don't pay child support.
You pretend like we never existed at all.
I will be in court, when you are finally convicted.
And I will stare you in the eyes.
Because we do exist.
Everything happened.
And I will never let you forget.
I dream about you sometimes.
We sit and talk about everything. The future I wanted us to have. The mistakes that were made. The choices I still wish I could stop you from making.
You are an open book. Full of more honesty and integrity than you've ever possessed outside of my subconscious. I wake up feeling cleansed. It's cathartic.
I spoke to the prosecutor's office last Friday.
I called because D keeps asking me when all of this will be over. She's terrified that she'll have to speak in court. It doesn't matter how many times I reassure her that she won't have to see you, no matter what, it's just not enough.
I wish you had to see her tremble.
The prosecutor assured me that you were still being reviewed. That you hadn't fallen through the cracks. The police have charged you with one count of child abuse and one count of violating the Order of Protection. The prosecutor will then decide to keep, modify, drop or add to the charges. I'm still expecting a Violation of Probation charge and probably more Violation of a Court Order charges for the week you just couldn't seem to stay away.
Everything is done by chronological order. Did you know that? From the time you're charged, that's when they get to you. So no matter how horrible your crime, you still have to wait for the people who were charged before you. Seems like a silly way to do things, but I guess it makes sense.
Here's what I want you to know: I don't want you to go to prison. I never did.
Not after your first two Domestic Violence convictions.
Not after your first Child Abuse felony conviction.
Not after you gave me a concussion. I lay there crumpled on the floor, sobbing until my throat was raw, and all I could think was, "I can't tell. He'll go to jail."
So I didn't.
This time, If I'm asked my opinion, here's what I'll say: You have completed over two years of court ordered Anger Management. You started counseling in 2003. You began medication in 2005. You have been on supervised probation since 2007. You have been treated by renowned doctors at Mayo. You began and quit group therapy. You've had every opportunity to receive help. You've been given THREE chances to avoid prison.
I cannot stand by you anymore.
It kills me.
This time, I will not organize a letter campaign, lauding you for being an exemplary father.
I will not speak on the stand for you.
I will not hold your hand and reassure you that we will make it through together.
Most likely, you are going to prison.
Most likely, you will not see your daughters for a very long time. D is no longer yours at all, and you will only see her if she decides to contact you as an adult.
What a shame Fatbear.
I look around, and there are memories everywhere. We had the cozy house with the caring neighbors, and the lucrative business and the three beautiful little girls that everyone envied. You were my high school sweetheart. You built me my picket fence and I would have followed you anywhere.
And now you're someone I don't even know.
You don't ask about your daughters.
You don't pay child support.
You pretend like we never existed at all.
I will be in court, when you are finally convicted.
And I will stare you in the eyes.
Because we do exist.
Everything happened.
And I will never let you forget.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Beautiful Disaster
I think the hardest lesson I will have to learn as an adult will be that I can't save everyone.
I wish I could say that I will leave him a little better, a little happier, a little stabler and a little more hopeful, but I don't think I even achieved that. He's still troubled and angry and I'm a little less shiny, a little less innocent and a little more jaded.
I can't help but want to stay stubborn... not strong... stubborn, and refuse to let this disease win. But maybe it was never meant to be my fight. Maybe I'm not meant to slay this dragon.
It makes me sad. It makes me weary. And it makes me angry.
During my hardest times I can usually sit by the water or under the stars and talk to God and feel like I really get an answer on what I should do. This time He feels so, so silent. And I feel so alone. I wish I knew what the right answer was.
But every day I fight this fight for my husband's sanity and our marriage, I find myself further losing my spark. I feel myself becoming duller. I miss being shiny, and I don't think I can find it again with this constant barrage of discontent.
Either way, I'll miss you my Fat Bear. You were my first love, and I loved you deeply and I tried so hard to hang on for us both. I hope you fight the good fight and don't let this disease ruin my best friend and his true potential for greatness. I will always believe that you can find happiness and that in the end, you'll start controlling your destiny.
I'm not sure where I go from here.
Beautiful Disaster
Lyrics
He drowns in his dreams
An exquisite extreme I know
He’s as damned as he seems
And more heaven than a heart could hold
And if I try to save him
My whole world could cave in
It just ain't right
It just ain't right
Oh and I don't know
I don't know what he's after
But he's so beautiful
Such a beautiful disaster
And if I could hold on
Through the tears and the laughter
Would it be beautiful?
Or just a beautiful disaster
He's magic and myth
As strong as what I believe
A tragedy with
More damage than a soul should see
And do I try to change him?
So hard not to blame him
Hold on tight
Hold on tight
Oh 'cause I don't know
I don't know what he's after
But he’s so beautiful
Such a beautiful disaster
And if I could hold on
Through the tears and the laughter
Would it be beautiful?
Or just a beautiful disaster
I'm longing for love and the logical
But he's only happy hysterical
I'm waiting for some kind of miracle
Waited so long
So long
He’s soft to the touch
But frayed at the end he breaks
He’s never enough
And still he's more than I can take
Oh 'cause I don't know
I don't know what he's after
But he's so beautiful
Such a beautiful disaster
And if I could hold on
Through the tears and the laughter
Would it be beautiful?
Or just a beautiful disaster
He’s beautiful
Such a beautiful disaster
I wish I could say that I will leave him a little better, a little happier, a little stabler and a little more hopeful, but I don't think I even achieved that. He's still troubled and angry and I'm a little less shiny, a little less innocent and a little more jaded.
I can't help but want to stay stubborn... not strong... stubborn, and refuse to let this disease win. But maybe it was never meant to be my fight. Maybe I'm not meant to slay this dragon.
It makes me sad. It makes me weary. And it makes me angry.
During my hardest times I can usually sit by the water or under the stars and talk to God and feel like I really get an answer on what I should do. This time He feels so, so silent. And I feel so alone. I wish I knew what the right answer was.
But every day I fight this fight for my husband's sanity and our marriage, I find myself further losing my spark. I feel myself becoming duller. I miss being shiny, and I don't think I can find it again with this constant barrage of discontent.
Either way, I'll miss you my Fat Bear. You were my first love, and I loved you deeply and I tried so hard to hang on for us both. I hope you fight the good fight and don't let this disease ruin my best friend and his true potential for greatness. I will always believe that you can find happiness and that in the end, you'll start controlling your destiny.
I'm not sure where I go from here.
Beautiful Disaster
Lyrics
He drowns in his dreams
An exquisite extreme I know
He’s as damned as he seems
And more heaven than a heart could hold
And if I try to save him
My whole world could cave in
It just ain't right
It just ain't right
Oh and I don't know
I don't know what he's after
But he's so beautiful
Such a beautiful disaster
And if I could hold on
Through the tears and the laughter
Would it be beautiful?
Or just a beautiful disaster
He's magic and myth
As strong as what I believe
A tragedy with
More damage than a soul should see
And do I try to change him?
So hard not to blame him
Hold on tight
Hold on tight
Oh 'cause I don't know
I don't know what he's after
But he’s so beautiful
Such a beautiful disaster
And if I could hold on
Through the tears and the laughter
Would it be beautiful?
Or just a beautiful disaster
I'm longing for love and the logical
But he's only happy hysterical
I'm waiting for some kind of miracle
Waited so long
So long
He’s soft to the touch
But frayed at the end he breaks
He’s never enough
And still he's more than I can take
Oh 'cause I don't know
I don't know what he's after
But he's so beautiful
Such a beautiful disaster
And if I could hold on
Through the tears and the laughter
Would it be beautiful?
Or just a beautiful disaster
He’s beautiful
Such a beautiful disaster
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
It's Hard to Tell Where Truth Ends and Illness Begins
There are a lot of resources that are limited. Tears, I have discovered, are not one of them.
J and I had a conversation last night, where he was saying that being Bipolar was like being a superhero. I retorted that if that was true, he had unfairly cast me as the villain.
"Why, what do you want to be? The hero?"
"No. I just want to be the wife."
In this round of mania, it seems that I am the source of all of his unhappiness. Except he wasn't happy when he met me, and since Jerry Maguire was full of shit and it's actually impossible to complete a person, he's still unhappy. And as he says, he loves the feeling of being angry, so how on earth can you be happy if you're choosing anger every day? You certainly can't have both.
He wants a divorce. Or so he's said for the last few days.
I buried my grandmother just five days ago. Well not me personally, I don't mix well with physical labor, but you get my point. He didn't even wait two days after her funeral before he became the bully once again. I didn't know that I could get any lower emotionally than I already was, but he's proven me wrong.
Over and over and over.
Now all I can do is cry. Cry for the man that I've fought so hard for. Cry for how hard it must be to be so angry all the time. Cry for myself for once again being the proverbial punching bag. Cry because I didn't even have time to grieve before I had to once again become counselor, defender and protector.
Why does he want a divorce?
It depends on what time it is when you ask him.
Sometimes it's because I've done nothing positive for him.
Sometimes it's because he doesn't find a single part of me attractive.
Sometimes it's because I can't go hiking with him or keep up with him physically because of my health problems.
He wants someone to make him happy. He wants someone who can take his anger away. He wants someone who doesn't challenge him to find a better way to live.
I've made a choice to stay with someone with severe mania. I know there will always be manic episodes. I know that life will never be consistently peaceful. I know that I will always have to fight for his mental health. I stood before God and said, "In sickness and in health," and I meant it.
To hear him say that I'm not enough, that I'm not worth it, that my illnesses make me un-want-able is like a punch to the gut that I just can't handle. Even though I know that none of this is true, I can't stop crying and I can't stop thinking about every horrible situation he's caused that I've faced head-on out of love for him.
My seven year old found his wedding ring; thrown in the laundry room like it was some tin tchotchky from some God-awful pizza place. I wore it on my thumb and told him that I would give it back when he knew he wanted to be with me. That if he couldn't wear it, I would wear it for both of us. And I did, for three days. Today my hand just felt heavy. Like it was a weight I just couldn't bear anymore.
I'm not strong enough today to carry this relationship for us both. So I hid them somewhere safe until I'm ready to carry us through again.
I don't know what the truth is. I don't know if his mania is like alcohol, and all of the truth is coming out, or if it's simply his anger talking and he really does love me. All I know is that my heart is broken for us both and I don't know how to fight this battle alone anymore. My heart is so full of pain that it's hard not to pick up something sharp and fall into old self-harming habits.
I wish I could put my heart next to our rings, until it was safe to take it out again.
J and I had a conversation last night, where he was saying that being Bipolar was like being a superhero. I retorted that if that was true, he had unfairly cast me as the villain.
"Why, what do you want to be? The hero?"
"No. I just want to be the wife."
In this round of mania, it seems that I am the source of all of his unhappiness. Except he wasn't happy when he met me, and since Jerry Maguire was full of shit and it's actually impossible to complete a person, he's still unhappy. And as he says, he loves the feeling of being angry, so how on earth can you be happy if you're choosing anger every day? You certainly can't have both.
He wants a divorce. Or so he's said for the last few days.
I buried my grandmother just five days ago. Well not me personally, I don't mix well with physical labor, but you get my point. He didn't even wait two days after her funeral before he became the bully once again. I didn't know that I could get any lower emotionally than I already was, but he's proven me wrong.
Over and over and over.
Now all I can do is cry. Cry for the man that I've fought so hard for. Cry for how hard it must be to be so angry all the time. Cry for myself for once again being the proverbial punching bag. Cry because I didn't even have time to grieve before I had to once again become counselor, defender and protector.
Why does he want a divorce?
It depends on what time it is when you ask him.
Sometimes it's because I've done nothing positive for him.
Sometimes it's because he doesn't find a single part of me attractive.
Sometimes it's because I can't go hiking with him or keep up with him physically because of my health problems.
He wants someone to make him happy. He wants someone who can take his anger away. He wants someone who doesn't challenge him to find a better way to live.
I've made a choice to stay with someone with severe mania. I know there will always be manic episodes. I know that life will never be consistently peaceful. I know that I will always have to fight for his mental health. I stood before God and said, "In sickness and in health," and I meant it.
To hear him say that I'm not enough, that I'm not worth it, that my illnesses make me un-want-able is like a punch to the gut that I just can't handle. Even though I know that none of this is true, I can't stop crying and I can't stop thinking about every horrible situation he's caused that I've faced head-on out of love for him.
My seven year old found his wedding ring; thrown in the laundry room like it was some tin tchotchky from some God-awful pizza place. I wore it on my thumb and told him that I would give it back when he knew he wanted to be with me. That if he couldn't wear it, I would wear it for both of us. And I did, for three days. Today my hand just felt heavy. Like it was a weight I just couldn't bear anymore.
I'm not strong enough today to carry this relationship for us both. So I hid them somewhere safe until I'm ready to carry us through again.
I don't know what the truth is. I don't know if his mania is like alcohol, and all of the truth is coming out, or if it's simply his anger talking and he really does love me. All I know is that my heart is broken for us both and I don't know how to fight this battle alone anymore. My heart is so full of pain that it's hard not to pick up something sharp and fall into old self-harming habits.
I wish I could put my heart next to our rings, until it was safe to take it out again.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
In the Cold, Cold Night
Numb.
That's all I'm allowed to be.
Every forty days or so for the last several months, the husband becomes manic. He scares the kids with his energy and rage. He can't sit still. He fidgets. He comes up with wild ideas that he will defend with violence if necessary. He yells and argues and slams doors and breaks whatever happens to be in front of him when the rage hits. If I leave the room, he will hide what he broke and insist that it never happened.
He will do anything to try to convince that I'm crazy.
And sometimes it works.
Around him, I am zen. I am calm. I am acutely aware that arguing with a crazy person only makes you crazy. It doesn't always work, but I try pretty damn hard.
Sometimes I scream and rage myself when I'm alone, just to get all of those feelings OUT. I walk to the canal and sit and argue with God and throw rocks in just to watch the ripple effect. I chain smoke clove cigarettes that make me wheeze and hack but are heaven in that they allow me to focus on something other than the chaos surrounding me. I rehearse my various escape routes so I always know how to get out in an emergency.
Right now it's the calm after the storm. He's level and loving and I want to injure him. I want to hurt him until he knows what it's like to be hurt by the person who swore to love you the most. I want him to see the rage that he has inflicted upon me so often. I want to see my pain on his skin.
I'm not allowed to talk about his episodes. Once they're over, I'm supposed to pretend like nothing happened. There's no discussion, no restitution, no apologies, no responsibility. Just a facade of perfection that I'm supposed to embrace because, as he says, "it's over." It doesn't matter if it ended last month or yesterday, once a new day has begun, we're not allowed to discuss anything that happened before.
Like being Bipolar is simply an excuse to mangle people's lives every forty days.
He wants to hug me and hold me and all the while I taste bile every time he comes near me.
I have divorce papers nearly filled out. No one knows this. Every time he becomes manic, I fill out a little more. Soon it will be complete and then I'll have to make the real decisions. I don't know if it's what I really want, or if it's just something for me to do that makes me feel like I have at least a little bit of control on the situation.
All I know is that this anger, this waiting for hell to begin again, this game of pretend he insists we all play is killing me. I've given him everything. What's left for me?
That's all I'm allowed to be.
Every forty days or so for the last several months, the husband becomes manic. He scares the kids with his energy and rage. He can't sit still. He fidgets. He comes up with wild ideas that he will defend with violence if necessary. He yells and argues and slams doors and breaks whatever happens to be in front of him when the rage hits. If I leave the room, he will hide what he broke and insist that it never happened.
He will do anything to try to convince that I'm crazy.
And sometimes it works.
Around him, I am zen. I am calm. I am acutely aware that arguing with a crazy person only makes you crazy. It doesn't always work, but I try pretty damn hard.
Sometimes I scream and rage myself when I'm alone, just to get all of those feelings OUT. I walk to the canal and sit and argue with God and throw rocks in just to watch the ripple effect. I chain smoke clove cigarettes that make me wheeze and hack but are heaven in that they allow me to focus on something other than the chaos surrounding me. I rehearse my various escape routes so I always know how to get out in an emergency.
Right now it's the calm after the storm. He's level and loving and I want to injure him. I want to hurt him until he knows what it's like to be hurt by the person who swore to love you the most. I want him to see the rage that he has inflicted upon me so often. I want to see my pain on his skin.
I'm not allowed to talk about his episodes. Once they're over, I'm supposed to pretend like nothing happened. There's no discussion, no restitution, no apologies, no responsibility. Just a facade of perfection that I'm supposed to embrace because, as he says, "it's over." It doesn't matter if it ended last month or yesterday, once a new day has begun, we're not allowed to discuss anything that happened before.
Like being Bipolar is simply an excuse to mangle people's lives every forty days.
He wants to hug me and hold me and all the while I taste bile every time he comes near me.
I have divorce papers nearly filled out. No one knows this. Every time he becomes manic, I fill out a little more. Soon it will be complete and then I'll have to make the real decisions. I don't know if it's what I really want, or if it's just something for me to do that makes me feel like I have at least a little bit of control on the situation.
All I know is that this anger, this waiting for hell to begin again, this game of pretend he insists we all play is killing me. I've given him everything. What's left for me?
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Surviving isn't enough.
Sometimes it feels like everything is crashing down. Even when it’s not. Sometimes it feels like the whole world is turning upside down. You’re supposed to realize that your problems are nothing when compared to the bigger issues. Realizing this doesn’t help. It makes you feel smaller and ineffective and even more worthless than you already feel.
I can’t fix my dad. I couldn’t make him love me the way I needed to be loved and I can’t cure his cancer so he can live long enough to maybe figure it out. I can’t make him want to know his granddaughters and I can’t make him interested in my life. I can’t make him hug me in a way that doesn’t make him lightly shove me away like my very touch burns him.
I can’t forgive him for never being there and I can’t stop wishing that he was.
For my dad, there is no cure. There’s only postponing the inevitable. Which only makes sense if you’re actually living in the interim. I wonder what living is for him. For me, it means being grateful for one more chance to lay next to my husband watching a movie or playing Name That Song. One more chance to talk to my mom for hours about nothing and everything. One more chance to cause a ruckus with my best friend or rub her back and reassure her as we always do for each other during a crisis. Mostly, it would mean one more chance to giggle with my kids, to tell them I love them, to whisper the incredible experiences they’ll have whether I’m here to witness them or not. In short, living is family and people and giving more than you take.
I wonder if he goes through these awful treatments over and over in the hopes that if he sticks around long enough he’ll actually figure out how to live.
I can’t fix my dad. I couldn’t make him love me the way I needed to be loved and I can’t cure his cancer so he can live long enough to maybe figure it out. I can’t make him want to know his granddaughters and I can’t make him interested in my life. I can’t make him hug me in a way that doesn’t make him lightly shove me away like my very touch burns him.
I can’t forgive him for never being there and I can’t stop wishing that he was.
For my dad, there is no cure. There’s only postponing the inevitable. Which only makes sense if you’re actually living in the interim. I wonder what living is for him. For me, it means being grateful for one more chance to lay next to my husband watching a movie or playing Name That Song. One more chance to talk to my mom for hours about nothing and everything. One more chance to cause a ruckus with my best friend or rub her back and reassure her as we always do for each other during a crisis. Mostly, it would mean one more chance to giggle with my kids, to tell them I love them, to whisper the incredible experiences they’ll have whether I’m here to witness them or not. In short, living is family and people and giving more than you take.
I wonder if he goes through these awful treatments over and over in the hopes that if he sticks around long enough he’ll actually figure out how to live.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Parenting for Fucktards 101
1.) When you are told that your four year old child has Pneumonia, do not respond with, "Annnnd what am *I* supposed to do about it?"
2.) DO ask if the child is alright.
3.) DO show an interest in the child's treatment. Does the child need to go to the hospital? What medications is the child supposed to be taking? What other special instructions did the doctor give? If you don't know the answers to these questions, you are a completely self-centered douche bag and should surrender all parenting rights now.
4.) DO NOT refuse to come home because the child's mother is being "touchy." If you had to live with someone of such small empathy and compassion, you'd be a little fucking touchy too.
5.) DO NOT bounce from friend's house to friend's house just so you don't have to actually fucking be a parent.
6.) DO NOT say that the reason you didn't ask about your child's well-being is because your wife is SuperMom and can handle anything. If she can handle anything, then she doesn't need your sorry ass. Take your walking papers and go move in with your parents like every other failure.
7.) DO NOT say, "Call me when you think I won't be an ass anymore." You sound like an idiot. And guess what, she won't call you because she KNOWS that day will NEVER come. And as you mentioned before you fucktarded asshat, she's SuperMom and doesn't need your worthless "help."
8.) DO NOT say that you will stay at home with the child as long as you don't have to work. You own your own fucking business A-hole. You make your own fucking hours. And your wife only works five hours. And it's fucking Wednesday. You can't tell your customers that your kid has Pneumonia and there's a total of ten fucking hours that you can't be at their beck and call for the next two days? Your business is open 24 fucking hours you ass! Prioritize!
9.) When your sick child is crying and asking for daddy, don't tell your wife that she can handle it. Get your sorry ass home and comfort the child who is so naive that she can't yet tell that she has the sorriest piece of shit father to ever walk the earth.
10.) If you are such a prick that your wife has to make a list like this, reexamine your methods of parenting and make changes immediately. Because you Sir, are a Fucktard and don't deserve to lick the dirt your child pees upon.
2.) DO ask if the child is alright.
3.) DO show an interest in the child's treatment. Does the child need to go to the hospital? What medications is the child supposed to be taking? What other special instructions did the doctor give? If you don't know the answers to these questions, you are a completely self-centered douche bag and should surrender all parenting rights now.
4.) DO NOT refuse to come home because the child's mother is being "touchy." If you had to live with someone of such small empathy and compassion, you'd be a little fucking touchy too.
5.) DO NOT bounce from friend's house to friend's house just so you don't have to actually fucking be a parent.
6.) DO NOT say that the reason you didn't ask about your child's well-being is because your wife is SuperMom and can handle anything. If she can handle anything, then she doesn't need your sorry ass. Take your walking papers and go move in with your parents like every other failure.
7.) DO NOT say, "Call me when you think I won't be an ass anymore." You sound like an idiot. And guess what, she won't call you because she KNOWS that day will NEVER come. And as you mentioned before you fucktarded asshat, she's SuperMom and doesn't need your worthless "help."
8.) DO NOT say that you will stay at home with the child as long as you don't have to work. You own your own fucking business A-hole. You make your own fucking hours. And your wife only works five hours. And it's fucking Wednesday. You can't tell your customers that your kid has Pneumonia and there's a total of ten fucking hours that you can't be at their beck and call for the next two days? Your business is open 24 fucking hours you ass! Prioritize!
9.) When your sick child is crying and asking for daddy, don't tell your wife that she can handle it. Get your sorry ass home and comfort the child who is so naive that she can't yet tell that she has the sorriest piece of shit father to ever walk the earth.
10.) If you are such a prick that your wife has to make a list like this, reexamine your methods of parenting and make changes immediately. Because you Sir, are a Fucktard and don't deserve to lick the dirt your child pees upon.
Monday, July 6, 2009
All My Loving
I don't write when I'm happy. I get so caught up in savoring the blissful moments, that I forget to commemorate them. Looking at my journals, blogs and diaries over the years, it looks like I've had a pretty hellish life. Really, I've had a loved life spotted with hellish moments. I guess I just don't need the cathartic release when I'm content.
Things have been good. So good that our fights have been normal (mostly) husband and wife arguments and have occurred in a mature (mostly) manner. I'm not on edge. I'm not thrashing through the night with nightmares. I'm not crying over nothing. It's a decent place to be.
A few weeks ago, I was rocking our four year old H to sleep. It's something I hadn't done in months so when she asked for the extra cuddle time, I was eager to oblige. She had just drifted off to sleep when the husband did something completely unexpected- he sang to me.
I'm a musical girl. As a kid I could pick up any instrument and pick out a familiar song within the hour. I sang for talent shows and in community musicals. I was always attracted to anyone who could play an instrument or carry a tune. I always had the fantasy that some special guy would randomly jump up on stage (or a table) and belt out a tune dedicated to me. The husband is terrified of singing, so the dream died a little when I married him.
I had just rocked H to sleep when "All My Loving'" started playing on our stereo. It's always been a favorite and I was feeling so loving towards the husband at the moment that I thought it was fortuitous. When he actually sat in front of us and started to sing it (loudly!) to me, I giggled. When I realized that he was REALLY singing and the whole thing was planned, I cried.
Moments of such unselfishness with him are rare. It took him a week to memorize all the lyrics (he's not exactly musically inclined) and he was waiting for the perfect moment. It may seem small to anyone else, but it was a dream fulfilled and one of the sweetest moments we've ever shared.
Things have been good. So good that our fights have been normal (mostly) husband and wife arguments and have occurred in a mature (mostly) manner. I'm not on edge. I'm not thrashing through the night with nightmares. I'm not crying over nothing. It's a decent place to be.
A few weeks ago, I was rocking our four year old H to sleep. It's something I hadn't done in months so when she asked for the extra cuddle time, I was eager to oblige. She had just drifted off to sleep when the husband did something completely unexpected- he sang to me.
I'm a musical girl. As a kid I could pick up any instrument and pick out a familiar song within the hour. I sang for talent shows and in community musicals. I was always attracted to anyone who could play an instrument or carry a tune. I always had the fantasy that some special guy would randomly jump up on stage (or a table) and belt out a tune dedicated to me. The husband is terrified of singing, so the dream died a little when I married him.
I had just rocked H to sleep when "All My Loving'" started playing on our stereo. It's always been a favorite and I was feeling so loving towards the husband at the moment that I thought it was fortuitous. When he actually sat in front of us and started to sing it (loudly!) to me, I giggled. When I realized that he was REALLY singing and the whole thing was planned, I cried.
Moments of such unselfishness with him are rare. It took him a week to memorize all the lyrics (he's not exactly musically inclined) and he was waiting for the perfect moment. It may seem small to anyone else, but it was a dream fulfilled and one of the sweetest moments we've ever shared.
Close your eyes and I'll kiss you,
Tomorrow I'll miss you;
Remember I'll always be true.
And then while I'm away,
I'll write home ev'ry day,
And I'll send all my loving to you.
I'll pretend That I'm kissing
the lips I am missing
And hope that my dreams will come true.
And then while I'm away,
I'll write home ev'ry day,
And I'll send all my loving to you.
All my loving I will send to you.
All my loving, darling I'll be true.
Close your eyes and I'll kiss you,
Tomorrow I'll miss you:
Remember I'll always be true.
And then while I'm away,
I'll write home ev'ry day,
And I'll send all my loving to you
All my loving I will send to you.
All my loving darling I'll be True.
All my loving All my loving ooh
All my loving I will send to you
Tomorrow I'll miss you;
Remember I'll always be true.
And then while I'm away,
I'll write home ev'ry day,
And I'll send all my loving to you.
I'll pretend That I'm kissing
the lips I am missing
And hope that my dreams will come true.
And then while I'm away,
I'll write home ev'ry day,
And I'll send all my loving to you.
All my loving I will send to you.
All my loving, darling I'll be true.
Close your eyes and I'll kiss you,
Tomorrow I'll miss you:
Remember I'll always be true.
And then while I'm away,
I'll write home ev'ry day,
And I'll send all my loving to you
All my loving I will send to you.
All my loving darling I'll be True.
All my loving All my loving ooh
All my loving I will send to you
Saturday, June 13, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, June 12, 2009
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:
Which of course begs the question: What the fuck am I doing here?
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?
Sunday, May 24, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
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?
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?
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