I’m still breathin

I was breathing again.

Apparently I got drunk on date night and said some things I shouldn’t have.

Apparently I got drunk on date night and did some things I should have.

I was touchy-feely playing miniature golf. That’s a plus for someone whose love language is physical touch. Mine is acts of service, however I abhor physical touch; wanna take a wild guess why that might be? Give you a hint: it starts with rape.

Anyway. We got home and I almost spilled the beans on some other psychological problems I’ve been having since early childhood that have been exacerbated since I started working in this field – more so over the past 3-4 years or so. I’ve never spoken of them to a soul and, honestly, they’ve become so ingrained in my everyday life that I don’t think about them much. If I were to summarize these issues/behaviors in a nutshell, they would fall, broad spectrum, in the category of Anxiety Disordered behaviors. I could do without yet another diagnosis – as the behaviors I’m exhibiting as I age would definitely fall under that umbrella.

I’m over it. My doctor has treated me for something similar to no avail. I’ve lost hope regarding this particular set of behaviors. I will not discuss them, they continue to serve a purpose, they are not harmful to me or anyone else – just mildly inconvenient to me. When it becomes overwhelming or I develop more behaviors, I’ll worry about it. I do realize the behaviors cause undue mental anguish and stress at times however it’s, again, something I’ve been dealing with several times A DAY since I was 7 years old. I will not address this issue any further and will not disclose any further information regarding my behaviors.

Last night and this morning were also a shitshow. Again, I seem to not display the appropriate emotions or use the appropriate language. I thought I was doing better with things but I guess I wasn’t. My husband said he almost prefers me in a manic state. I’d be more touchy-feely, more loving, more horny.

I don’t know how to respond to that. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore. With the sweet comes the sour; with the mania eventually comes the depression. Don’t get me wrong – I love my mania. I absolutely love it… well, most of it. I’m productive (until I’m so frazzled that I’m not), I’m focused (until I’ve lost so much sleep that I’m physically unable to focus) – I’m on top of the world (shit, I think I AM the world). It’s an amazing feeling – to live on the top of a roller coaster, like you’ll never come down.

Until you come down. Straight down. All the way down. You wake up and the feeling’s gone. No warning, just pain. You think about taking a shower, but the idea of leaving the bed makes you wince in pain. It takes effort to change channels on the TV. All you can think of to do is cry until your eyes burn, and then until you’re out of tears. Then you try to cry but there’s nothing left.

That’s rock bottom. The emptiness. The thoughts come creeping in about your inadequacies, how you and your disease are nothing but a burden. Then more thoughts come until you complete the cycle in two ways: pull yourself through the pain (survival) or out of the pain (suicide).

Hopefully you, dear reader, find a way through every time.

In any case, I’ve found myself trapped mid- cycle. I’m at what is called “baseline.” The problem is I have a pretty flat affect*. Many psychiatrists would consider this “stable” considering my past, however my husband does not. He knows I’m capable of more vacillations in my mood (see: drunken golfing). I know that tweaking my meds could mean more than just a “vacillation” – it could mean mood lability.

Do I risk my certain stability and new job? Do I stay an automaton and risk my marriage? He shouldn’t have to live like this. And I don’t know how to fix it.

*until a situation arises and then I tend to respond appropriately.

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Without you everything falls apart

In 12 years of marriage, he’s never looked at me that way before.

Ever.

I’m not going to go into extraordinary detail here, but we were horizontal and that’s when I saw his face. His eyes were gentle and dark and they never stopped looking at mine. His face was calm and relaxed.

Look, my dad writes for a living – I don’t – I can’t describe his face. But he’s never looked at me the way he did last night. Like he was admiring me. Like he was in awe of… something. I don’t know.

It made zero sense. We’ve clearly been here before. In that very position, literally hundreds of times. After 12 years, you’ve seen my face before. You’ve seen my body. You’ve seen them change – for better or worse.

What the fuck are you glaring at?!

I actually got uncomfortable. I had to close my eyes and focus on the task at hand. There was stuff that needed accomplishing if we were ever going to get some sleep.

Why was that the first place I went? Why couldn’t I enjoy the adoration and, what looked like, love that was going on there? I’m fucking broken, y’all. Bro. Ken.

When it was over, I asked him what that was all about. ‘Cause I’ve never seen that face before and I just spent 30 minutes watching it out of the corner of my eye and it started to wig me the fuck out. I saw what looked like pure, unadulterated, unequivocal love.

I didn’t get that look on our wedding day.
I didn’t get that look when I told him I was carrying his child. Why did I get it right then? While we’re going at it like rabbits? What the what? What gives?

He tells me he doesn’t say it enough. That he loves me more than life. That I’m gorgeous. That he truly appreciates me and he’s sorry for not saying it more.

And everything else in the world disappeared, if just for those few brief moments. Everything I thought I was, who I thought the world needed me to be, how I thought it saw me and everything else that fell in between just melted away. All I gave a damn about right then was being in his arms, breathing his air – his scent, for as long as I could. Everything in my life feels like it’s so wildly out of control right now. But this.

Him. Him and I. Us. The only solid ground I’ve ever had.

It’s hard for someone who’s learned to trust no one to open their eyes and be loved. He’s the only person I trust – but I still can’t look him in the eyes. Not like that.

The eyes are a scary fucking place, y’all. Have you ever seen a textbook antisocial personality disorder? I have. I’ve worked with them before – all ages – and the one thing they all have in common is empty eyes. It’s like pools of black ink with nothing in them. No spark, no light. I don’t look in people’s eyes much anymore unless I have to. I know – it’s considered rude and people consider you untrustworthy if you don’t, but I’ve seen scary things in people’s eyes. I don’t like the emotional vampirism that comes with eye contact.

So I closed my eyes and felt him love me. I love him more than life – the same as he loves me. I just watch him sleep; there’s no pressure there.