So, I’m back at this phase in the cycle. Whatever this phase is. Definitely not manic. Definitely on the lower end of things.
When I’m manic, I don’t sleep for days, and I don’t need to. When I’m depressed, I sleep for days. Then every once in while what’s happening right now happens.
I am so tired, but even on all the antipsychotics that knock me out cold, I can’t sleep.
I was asleep, but the self inflicted light wound on my thigh was causing some problems. At some point I rolled onto that side and it got stuck to the sheet, so when I rolled back over it unstuck. I awoke with the flashback of a belly button ring getting caught on the sheets and nearly ripped out.
It hurt pretty badly, but that’s the point. As long as this self inflicted injury is hurting, I know I’m still alive. As long as this is painful, I’m focused on it, and not on what’s in my head.
In the heat of the moment, I didn’t think about how I’d explain it, especially considering that Firstborn isn’t stupid by any means.
“What happened to your leg?”
“I scratched it.”
“That’s pretty bad. Why’d you scratch it? Did it itch?”
“Something like that.”
“Are you okay now?”
“I’m trying.”
Poor little guy. He knows Mama’s got issues that he doesn’t truly understand. He knows that because I do, he has a higher risk of having them as well. And yet, he’s not scared. He’s scared of everything else in the world, but not this.
That’s not because I’m so strong and handle it so well. I think, if anything, it’s because on some level he knows it’s some really difficult, really fucked up shit, but I’m still alive.
I quit the soccer league last night. The kids will still play, but I am no longer involved beyond a parental capacity. I’m supposed to be recruiting coaches. I needed six more. The problem with kids being involved, in anything from school to sports, is that all the parents want their kid involved, but nobody wants to help make it happen.
When somebody’s grandfather lost his shit on me because his number was on the list and not his son’s (the kid’s father), and I was bothering him. Somehow, God I don’t even know how,” I managed an apology for something that is in now way my fault. I have absolutely no control over that.
And then I called the woman just over me. Thank God I formed a camaraderie with her last season. I explained what happened, “I’m sorry, but I quit. I hate to quit three weeks before Opening Day, but I can’t do this anymore. I am deadly serious when I say that I am just trying to survive over here, and this won’t be the first person on my list to chew my ass. I just cannot do it.”
She doesn’t know what is wrong with me, she just knows something is. She doesn’t know what is going on in my life, she just knows it’s some bad shit. She apologized for asking me to hold the position again, knowing all of that, and that she would gladly to take over and to call her if I needed her for anything.
It’s nice. It’s touching. I won’t call.
One of my friends from high school has been messaging. I grew up in a small town where everybody was friends with everybody else because we’d spent out whole lives playing together. I remember her as always being very nice, very sweet. I don’t ever remember her having drama with anyone. I always remember her being happy and friendly. I never would have guess she had any mental issues.
She was diagnosed with Bipolar ten years ago.
She’s living nearby for now, and has been asking me to come over. To talk. To listen. She thinks she can help me. She wants to help me.
I haven’t seen her since I hauled ass to California over ten years ago. I don’t talk to her outside of Facebook, even though I have her phone number. She wants to try to help me, even though I’m mostly sure that that’s a Herculean task at this point.
I finally relented, and will go today. I’m terrified. Terrified because as I said yesterday: I’m hanging on by a fraying thread here. If this damn I’ve built up breaks, I’m screwed. If the tears start coming, they’re not gonna stop.
And if I’m going to start talking about shit, there’s A LOT of shit to talk about. There are things that have to be said that I don’t want to admit to myself, let alone someone else. There are things I keep buried so very deeply because I don’t know what saying them out loud is going to do. I don’t know what kind of shit storm that’s going to kick off.
The Husband didn’t say much to me last night between him arriving home at 6:30 and me passing out at 8. Maybe twenty words total, none of them in response to the previous evening. I hear my mom had a Come to Jesus meeting with him on his way home, but he didn’t acknowledge it. My mom thinks that since it came from her, maybe he’ll really try to educate himself now. Or, at least, he’ll know she ain’t scared of him and will tone down his shit.
He won’t. On both accounts, he won’t.
It’s not important to him. HE doesn’t have Bipolar. It’s not HIS problem.
Over the years, I’ve endured a lot of shit for him. From his mother screaming obscenities at me to her trying to hit Firstborn with her car in the parking area. From her demolishing the kids’ bedrooms to spraying bleach on our clothing. From her slandering me up one side and down to the other to screwing us financially. From his stepmother labeling me a demon summoning witch to his entire family holding an exorcism in my honor. From them trying to force The Husband into a divorce to them trying to steal Baby Bee. And those are just the tip of the iceberg. That’s not half of what they did. Those aren’t the most offensive, most hurtful incidences.
And every time, I was there. I was fighting the fight. I was defending him. I was fighting for him, because he couldn’t or wouldn’t. I geared up in full battle rattle every single day and fought those people. I had to save him. I had to protect our family.
He did nothing then. He does nothing now.
I don’t hear voices, but I have a normally functioning inner voice, and a bipolar version. Right this second, everyone else is asleep. It’s quiet. There is absolutely nothing going on to bother me or trigger me or anything. My normal inner voice is like, “Ah, this is nice. Just relax a bit, maybe fall back asleep on the couch. Oh! You could make pancakes for the kids! Girl Child likes chocolate chip, you could make a batch of those.”
But my Bipolar inner voice is like, “It’s too quiet. Lets thing about all the shit The Husband is doing behind your back that you haven’t found out about yet. He doesn’t want to deal with your crazy ass, so he must be dealing with somebody. You hear that snoring? That’s him sleeping peacefully through your pain. I mean, he only married you for the tax break; if that weren’t true shit would’ve gone down differently. Hey, remember that bitch that cut you off in traffic yesterday? That pissed you off? I’m gonna bring that anger back up now, and throw in the anger at The Husband, then just make some shit up and keep on going, ya weak bitch.”
Then by the time the sun makes an appearance I’ll be fit to be tied. I’ll be so livid I could spit nails. I’ll rain down hell fire and brim stone on this house. And while I’m doing it, my normal inner voice will be in the back, just barely audible, telling me that this is all ridiculous and I should just take some deep breaths and forget about all of it. But, the Bipolar voice has taken over now, and it’s louder and more convincing. It’s really, REALLY hard to get that ball to stop rolling once it’s going pretty fast.
I don’t know if I’m explaining myself clearly, or if I just sound crazy. But, crazy people don’t know they’re crazy right? So, knowing I’m crazy, that means I’m not? Or what?
Confessions of a Minivan Mom of 4 