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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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

Situational Narcolepsy

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

Except when we need to talk.

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

But guess what?

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

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

I am tired of talking to a catatonic brick wall.

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

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

Fuck.

Marital Counseling Part 1

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

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

"Do you love him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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






Here's a quote my friend B posted today:

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

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