Matt and the housemates are out with friends, so I'm alone. Matt wanted me to come, and I said no, so it's not like they left me here on purpose. I just
couldn't.... like I can't do anything any more. I think-- no, I know-- that part of it is that I am isolating myself from him, socially, so that he can have a good time without worrying whether I am comfortable or in pain or having a panic attack. So he can be away from that, and just have fun.
To be honest, I don't even think he really loves the person I am now. I think he loves the person that he caught glimpses of a few years ago, the person I could be if I ever got better. He doesn't understand that I'm never going to get better. It's all downhill from here. There's only going to be little breaks in the clouds, here and there.
I am in a serious emotional crisis. I am writing in order to keep from doing anything that would necessitate calling 911 and having the squad haul my ass to the psych hospital. I should have listened to my psychologist's warning, and my own gut feeling about having that IUD placed just over eight weeks ago. It seems like everything has been worse since about 48 hours after insertion. My current physical symptoms (some related to Mirena, some not) include migraines, poor temperature regulation, vertigo, painful IBS, and even more extreme fatigue than usual. On top of that, there's the mystery of my "disappearing-reappearing" kidney stones and bladder irregularity (I pee when I don't want to, and can't when I do.) All this, plus the usual aches, tremors, spasms, and strange nerve pain I have grown used to with fibromyalgia, and back and neck pain related to degenerative disk disease that is, well, degenerative, and is not going to improve.
But all that stuff sounds like a bunch of lame, hypochondriachal excuses, doesn't it? I don't look sick. Compared to our hardworking roommates, I look like a fat, lazy fuck. I fear that they think I am a weakling, or a liar, or both. I feel that they have done more to earn their places here than I have, and that I'm more trouble than I'm worth. I'm just one problem after the next, and Matt is so patient, and he is so kind, and he tries so hard not to lose his temper, but it's starting to wear on him. I fear that pretty soon, I will be too much to handle. I'm little more than a roommate to him now. We don't even have sex, because I'm always in too much pain or too anxious or I feel too ugly or whatever my brain is telling me today.
I really feel that any sane person would have left me by now. Any smart person would have left me by now. Any idiot would have left me by now (not that Matt's an idiot.) I am in a co-dependent relationship, and Matt's taken on the role of caretaker, not husband... that isn't what he signed on for. I don't deserve him.
He deserves someone like I should have been. Brilliant, energetic, a hard worker who takes pride in her craft, "an enthusiastic and dynamic individual possessing a powerful mind, who would be an asset to any organisation," one of my ancient letters of recommendation read. Yes, I memorised it, because even then, I couldn't imagine someone could think so highly of me, let alone a professor of philosophy.
And look at me. I'm nothing. I'm no one. I could have been a writer, I could have been an artist. I could have been a therapist. I could have been an optician. I could have been an anthropologist. I could have been a teacher. Everyone expected me to be this great person, do these amazing things, and I can't even fucking take a shower and get dressed every day.
Every day? Try every week. Going off on a tangent for a moment. I seem to have developed an outright phobia of bathing. Just thinking about having to take a shower the next day in preparation for going out actually triggers anxiety. I have to take a Xanax before I hit the shower. It then becomes apparent that I have sabotaged myself, because, though I hate to bathe, I also hate germs. So, the shower, itself, takes much longer than it normally would, becoming highly ritualized. I wash my hair three times and scrub every inch of skin with a coarse bristle brush as if preparing to go into surgery. By the end of it, I am so tired, I just want to go back to bed.
I waste a lot of time feeling overwhelmed, and I have convinced myself it's time I really don't have. I am obsessed with my own mortality. I feel the rest of my life could be five minutes, or five years, but it doesn't matter, because I'm a high school graduate trapped in a middle-aged body. I've never held a job for more than a year, and I haven't worked at all for the last seven-ish years because of disability. Oh, but, since I've never worked enough to actually earn disability, I've never had any kind of a steady income. I worked the academic system for as long as I could, fooling myself into thinking I could actually graduate without serious psychiatric help. Now, here I am, two years shy of 40. I'm out of chances, out of tricks, and out of time.
Matt, he's just beginning. He followed the yellow brick road and connected all the dots just like a brilliant student should, got some great references and ended up in a decent career, where he's on his way up. He's quite responsible, while still being able to enjoy the fun, nerdy stuff that we shared an interest in initially. Now he owns a house, has a handle on his finances, and... keeps a wife.
He shouldn't have to keep a wife, like some sickly pet. He should have someone who can give him at least as much as he's given me. Honestly, if I had anywhere other than my mother's or a mental institution to go, I would go there, because he didn't ask for this stone around his neck.
I love him with all my heart, but I don't have anything left to show him that. I'm spent. I'm barely alive inside. He might as well be married to some comatose vegetable. If I could flip a switch and erase the errors of my last ten years, then maybe I could be the kind of partner Matt deserves. As it is, though, we're codependent, and it will end badly if nothing changes.
So, I was hoping against hope that having the IUD removed would return my brain chemistry closer to normal operating conditions, even if "normal," for me, kind of sucks. So, I called my gynecologist's nurse, explained to her what was going on, and told her the medications I was taking for depression and anxiety. She agreed it sounded like it was best to have the IUD removed, and she scheduled me an appointment.
When I got to my appointment, expecting to have the IUD removed, a doctor (who was not my usual doctor) refused to do it. I hit my breaking point, then. I admit it. I made a scene at the office. I don't remember exactly what I said to the doctor next, but it was something along the lines of...
Wait, so, you're NOT taking this out of me? Oh no. You ARE taking this out of me. I have not stopped bleeding, I've had suicidal depression, terrible migraines and unbearable pain. If you're not taking this out of me, why am I half-naked under a paper sheet? You ARE taking this out of me, that's what this appointment was for. I did not come here for nothing!
She threatened to call the squad because of the "s" word. I told her that I was under the care of both a psychiatrist and a psychologist who could vouch for me. She said she'd need papers from them in order to proceed, then continued to downplay my symptoms. She argued with me that I had the "wrong kind of migraines" for this kind of drug. I asked her if she even looked at the list of medications I was on and knew of all the possible interactions. Eventually, she told me I was "making her uncomfortable," and that she would be in the other room. Shortly, she returned, informed me that my visit was over and to "please leave." I did leave, in a blur of rage and humiliation.
Sidenote; feminist question: Why the fuck does an adult woman need papers from her shrink to get an IUD removed? Do they think I am going to go all crazy-cakes hypersexual and have a litter of bipolar babies I can't take care of?
And the final insult to my injury was a letter from the practise banning me from their premises for "threatening staff," or something like that. Rather than risk another snooty-arse lady parts practise chosen randomly from the Internet, I decided to contact Planned Parenthood. The only good thing that has happened all week is that, when I explained the circumstances, they agreed to remove the device, and reassured me that, even if they were not able to, for some reason, they would refer me to someone who could. My appointment is on Monday.
Okay. Off the subject of my lady business, and back onto the subject of me being bad at being married to someone who actually treats me well. There's a lot of childhood stuff I could get into, but for now I'm going to focus on my adult life, and sum up my childhood as a grilled shit sandwich in which I knew, from toddler age, that my parents didn't love each other but pretended to "for my sake."
It's funny. I've spent my whole life running, taking all the blame in relationships, rather than listening to my intuition, that told me to shatter illusions before it was too late. But those mirrors and smoke were, for the time being, providing something I needed. I let myself settle into my false security. Illusion after illusion, the time in between spent seeking out my next escape route, a new town, a new state, a new school, a new country -- anything but home.
Now that I'm finally safe, I can't accept it. My brain can't believe it. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm sure Matt will hate me when he sees what I really am, or even if he loves all of me, he won't be able to "handle" me, and he'll just drop me off in the middle of the hell hole where he found me. I know this is irrational, but I can't stop scheming and planning my next stop on the road to survival. I am always looking for cracks in the foundation. Always ready to bug out. Always listening for the dreaded phrase, "we have to talk."
I don't know how to be married. I don't know how to be domesticated. I have to learn, or I am going to sabotage everything, My instinct is to isolate myself if I think I've been a burden. I imagine that others mentally keep score of my flaws, and every time I screw up, it gets struck in stone. When I think that score is getting pretty high, I assume that my partner must be angry at me almost all the time. So I isolate, and I break it off, cut my losses, and leave. It's what I've always done. "No hard feelings, no regrets. It's okay. We just didn't work well as a couple, but we can be friends." And, indeed, I am friends with a number of my exes, just not the assholes.
But now is different. My name is on the deed to an actual house. We aren't going anywhere for maybe even a decade. I can't fathom it. I've not stayed in once place for more than two years since I moved back from England in 2004, and I usually only kept an address for six months to a year before I met Matt. And this unconditional love thing, how does that really work? How sick can I get before he can't take it any more, or worse, bears the burden in silent misery?
And for all of this paranoid, maniacal shit, I can thank my abusers, from my parents, to bullies at school to some of my partners, and the great American healthcare system that gave me too little, too late. Oh, I am long overdue for some vitriol. Well-directed anger is so much more productive than turning inward and tearing myself down. I just don't know where to direct it. I need focus.
Which is why I went running back to my old friend, Academia. Oh, silly me, applying to Otterbein's communications program as an adult student. What a joke. I couldn't even get transcripts from most of the schools I attended, because I owe them money, and I'm behind on my student loans as it is. Why should this time be any different? I'm grasping at straws, trying to find something for my brain to do, trying to find meaning, be that star student again, and online classes from a diploma mill ain't gonna cut it. Hah. I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeVille.
*Footnote, Valentine's Day is also the day of my first ex-fiance's mother's funeral in 1998. I've lost touch with my ex, but I will never forget how his mother treated me more like a daughter than my own mother ever did. I had just begun to trust her when she died of a massive heart attack at the age of 49. So there's that. February has never been a good month for me.
