If I'm not exactly sad or SAD, then what am I? If I'm not exactly showing the usual signs of depression, like crying bouts, than what am I showing? I don't feel like crying, smashing anything, eating everything in the fridge, downing a bottle of bourbon or tequila so badly that I would do it. I'm not wishing I was doped up on painkillers and lounging in a hot tub, smoking, with my iPod.
Ok, maybe that one's a stretch... If I'm not being affected by triggers of bad PTSD shit that I can't pretty easily wipe out, like I'm used to, then I'm not feeling traumatized? If I'm not shaking like a chihuahua, and my heart isn't pounding at 100mph, I don't have to go anywhere...no need to worry about going anywhere just yet... If I'm able to sneak out by the light of the moon and get coffee (free - I save the starbucks bags) then I'm not 100% agoraphobic. If I can enjoy (?) some tunes on my iPod or online, then I'm not numb to the effect of music.
I did enjoy seeing the beginnings of spring blossoms of daffodils and such on the way back home this morning... "Enjoy"?!
Everything was going OK until the spouse got up, grabbed some coffee, said he couldn't talk for an hour because he just woke up. So what does he do? He starts talking to me, expecting me to respond, so when I do, somehow it's not what he wants to hear? He ends up telling me that I'm "sat there on the couch with my laptop and earphones in all the time", which is not true. I only have one and don't always plug in to anything, and I'm not always watching something online.. I asked him if he was avoiding me by hanging out in the bedroom so much, coming out for food, tv, and to smoke. He mentioned the earphones again, and that I'm
hard to live with. I tell him that he's also hard to live with. He says "Good comeback. Now you're just going to sit there and feel sorry for yourself." I said that I don't feel sorry for myself. At the time, I certainly didn't, I only felt rising anger, but remained cool as a cucumber.
How hard is it to live with someone when you spend so much time in a different room from them lately? I accept no blame for his boredom or lack of work. He's been laid off for too long, is bored, doesn't want to do anything outside of the home, so it feels like he takes his shit out on me. Can boredom turn someone into a monster?
He should think more before he says such cruel shit such as "now you're just going to sit there and feel sorry for yourself". No, I'm going to sit here and think about what a cruel, thoughtless, asshole you can be, as well as moody. A few days ago, he told me he loved me and that money didn't matter, that there wouldn't be another me. Or some shit like that. Lies or just the beer talking? Did he mean it at the moment, or does he have worse MH problems than he lets on/admits to? He actually apologized a while ago for being "mean" to me, and now I get some really shitty words from him.
I am not the kind of person to really argue, put down, yell, do the name calling thing, etc, that it seems most people do, including him. He hasn't always been that way. So when someone acts like he does, it just blows me away how easily someone can sling some real shitty, cruel, and potentially deadly words around like they're nothing. I've decided that I'm not upset by his words, but angry and really disappointed that he can easily flip a switch and turn so ice cold. Or is it that that is how he secretly is in the mornings? A big baby bitch? Again, it hasn't always been like that.
"...feel sorry for yourself..." I feel more sorry for him, that he can be so heartless and cruel when it's totally uncalled for. That maybe he can't feel love in the way that two people are supposed to when they are married? That maybe he's so fucked up from his unaddressed, unaccepted MH issues, he can't communicate with anyone in a deep and meaningful way, let alone have a long, deep, and meaningful relationship with someone? That he's too afraid to open up for fear of some undiagnosed reason? That maybe he's spent so much time alone that he doesn't even know how to really love someone else on a more mature level? All these are questions now...
I've said from the beginning that I'm hard to live with, but I've already told him that he's hard to live with too, so that exchange was not that big of a deal, just a dickish thing to say, especially when followed up by other insults. So if I feel so sorry for myself, does that mean that I should leave? Does it mean that I should off myself? Does it mean that I'm just not good enough for him? That he resents me and my laptop when I'm on the couch and using it? Was he trying to make me cry and go hide out in the bedroom all day long? Does he want me out of sight and mind for as long as possible?
You know, them's fightin' words, what he said, and I think he wanted to do some damage, and make me cry. Well, I'm going to skip the treadmill today and spend the day in the bedroom after all.
I started migrating toward the bedroom, had to make a stop in the kitchen along the way to cut a pill, and he just had to re-start the battle he created. So I had to respond to some of his accusations and such: "you don't even want to move and get a bigger place" (I don't have the money) "you have no interest in getting new furniture" (I don't have the money), "you ever thought about getting a job?" (how can I when I can't set foot outside in the daylight by myself?) "I don't always say you just don't want to work" "why don't you get a night job?" "You're never going to have the money if you don't get a job" "I help you with your prescriptions and pay an extra $100 rent when I'm working (not this month nor last)" "I only got $2000 worth of work done on the car because I was expecting a big return, and now we're not going to get it" (he still hasn't signed the forms, so he gets nothing at this point) "You never make plans because you never know how you're going to feel" (duh, it's called Bipolar) "You just pick and choose what you want to respond to" "You never want to go for a walk or anything" (I have asked. He said what for? Where to? I have a car.) "I have a car. Where would we walk to?" (omg/wtf/etc)
All this from the same person that said to me, while sober, that he would drive me to see my daughter any time on a weekend. All I had to do was ask. I think he meant beg, crawl, cry, kiss his feet, cook him dinner every night. I'm afraid to even ask him to go to the store, something that we BOTH need to do. I'm afraid to ask him to walk me to the bus stop to get to the therapist. I think he takes some pleasure from this. There's just something instinctual that tells me this, not paranoia. I am unable to drive EVER (due to PTSD partly caused by being in a car crash as a little kid and crawling up to the front of the car, on top of my mother, who was covered in blood, and who would not "wake up", etc, long time ago, no sorry for your loss, please, thank you.).
I have said before, if you want to buy some new furniture, go right ahead. I have also said that I can't move to the suburbs because I will fucking die out there, and be even more isolated than now. Also, I will have to take several buses to get to my shrinks, causing me way more anxiety and shit. I fucking can't work right now. I can't set foot outside alone in the daytime. I nearly ran home this morning because it was getting light out after I got my coffee. I said before that I don't want to move before my daughter graduates. I can't remember the reason I gave, possibly because I wanted to send her money, which I do.
And now I'm pissed at myself for letting a few tears spill. Pissed as fuck.
At one point, the cat got in between us, jumped on the back of the couch and began meowing and meowing, wanting nothing more than for it all to stop, from what I guessed. I walked up and patted her on the head. The landline rang, and I knew it was going to be long distance from the UK, so I got to walk away, and get to the bedroom. The cat followed me, and curled up on a corner of the bed.
I'm pissed as FUCK at myself for letting that fucker make me feel bad about myself. He was on the phone long distance with his mum as I made my escape. I said to myself quietly on the way into the bedroom, "How'd you like it if I just shot myself in the fucking head right here and now, asshole? How'd you like to clean up that fucking mess? How'd you like to be all freaked out and not know what the fuck to do, asshole? How'd you like to see a fresh corpse? How do you like blood, tissue, and bone splatter?
What is it? You want to see me working? In the hospital? Playing the good wife? Dead? Don't fucking push me, motherfucker, because if something happens to me, and it's because I feel you've pushed me, I'm going to let a few people know this about you, mainly family, and although I may be the blackest of black sheep in a family, blood is still thicker than water when it comes down to it with my peeps, and you will learn this. You will end up being the white guy begging to be deported. You will be nothing more than an ugly stain in people's memories if you don't change your ways.
Phone call was over too quickly. The spouse came in afterward and asked me if I wanted tea. I did, but not made by his filthy hands. I guess he made some for himself, and sat down and called his brother in the UK.
My face is burning from anxiety/frustration/anger/stress/I gotta pee. My armpits are sweating lightly. I just noticed that my teeth are clenched. No surprise. I don't want to leave this uncomfortable spot, yet I must.
Yes, "suicide" has popped out of the file drawers at the back of my mind again, no surprise. The spouse went for almost all my buttons he could try to push, but didn't push. Instead, he played fucking "Whack-a-mole" on those motherfuckers. Does he know? Did he do it on purpose? Does he have a clue? Will I clue him in? How could I clue him in without sounding weak, or looking like I'm just feeling sorry for myself, like he thinks? Should I have to even clue him in? Shouldn't he know all of that shit he said was horrific and damaging already? Do I fucking bother to inform him again?
Fuck no. Let dozing assholes lie, drink tea, and yack on the phone. Fuck 'em.
Sing it, Aretha.