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Tattoos and Suicide Series VI: Mental Health is a fickle bitch

When you love someone who has issues with their mental health, some days can be a long hard battle. When you also struggle with your own demons it can make it more of a challenge. I am solar powered. I suffer hard when the weather changes, and the last few months of cold and yuck were taking a huge toll on me. I have been feeling horribly unmotivated and I have been struggling to find and keep my inner peace and keep my cool. I seem to have gotten into a roll of being awesome at work and a total bitch at home, or awesome at home and so off my game at times my boss has sent me home. Twice. So today I woke up blessed to an amazing weather day. I had prayed for a break and a resolution, and woke up to sun on my face.

My husband was sort of…out of it, but I figured he was just tired. He asked us to go out for a big family breakfast road trip, which we have not done in ages. I was thrilled he was motivated! After the ride south and fat bellies, he stayed home while we all hit church. I had a great day with the kiddos in my program, they were all so awesome today, and well behaved!  I felt like the day could not get any better. I started to feel recharged. I made plans to clean my van while the boy broke in his new scooter he got for his birthday. It shoots fire, so what 8 year old wouldn’t be itching to break it in? But when I came home, it hit me. I went to talk to my husband and he was just…there. He was really out of it. He was moody, non communicative. Monosyllables. I could see he had been crying at some point. But as always he didn’t know what was wrong and didn’t want to or could not talk about it.

Heaven forbid he talk to his fucking wife about what is on his mind. I wish he would talk to me. Even if it made no sense. I do listen when I need to, and it is never a burden. Damn him. It makes me feel like he has no faith in me or trust. I know the reality is he does not want to burden me. But I married him for better or worse. Fucking talk to me!

He went and took a nap, so I went about my day, chalked it up to being tired. Got done with the van and watching the boy and having a good rebuilding day with him. Hurricane and I had a tough week. Hubby was awake and just rocking in his recliner. Eyes glazed over, still looking like hell. I asked if he had taken his pills. He then told me he had been out of them for a few days. After a call to the doctors office, and a call back from Dr. Giggles, came the battle. Here take these pills. Yes you need to take them. Because Dr. Giggles said to. Yes I called her. Because it’s been 3 days and I wanted to know how to dose you. Yes you DO need to eat. NO you are not getting fat. No, you do not need to get under 200 again, when you were that thin everyone thought you had cancer or AIDS. Yes you will. Ok now here take this one. YES the fucking yellow one again. (BREATHE MOM-T) Here honey, yes you do need the yellow one again now that you ate. Trust me. Thank you.

Seriously? I love the man but he is nearly 40 fucking years old and he can not remember to tell me to refill the damn pill box? I can not remember to do it on top of everything fucking else and 3 damn jobs. I guess I have to set an alarm on my cell so I can keep on top of this. If he had not pulled the suicide thing I wouldn’t HAVE to control his pills and keep them under count and key. But his dumb ass tried to OD before the BIG attempt and the madness started. Fuck you didn’t take your pills. And this is somehow my fault. Because even though I hear him in his sleep talking to his dad, telling him he hopes I know how much I am appreciated, how he does not know how I am doing it all, working my ass off at 1 part time and 1 might as well be full time but being paid for part time good thing I love it, job, and home schooling our son, keeping on top of most of the housework, he no longer can manage his own meds, that is my fault.

So, magic pills on board, and a small power nap later, he came back to us. He told me he felt weird and wondered if he had an episode, asked why he was so tired. I told him the yellow pills make him tired, and he had to take 2 of them today.

But now I worry about myself. Selfish bitch that I am. But how will this affect me tomorrow? All the calls, stress, pacing, pulling my hair out while talking in the calm therapist voice and trying to get him to do what he is SUPPOSED to do without it being an argument or me being a bitch. My IBD is going to kick up into high gear tomorrow. Fun time ahead. What? Why am I on the couch being lazy? Well, my stomach flares intensify when I am stressed. Why would I be stressed? Fucking wonder why.

Someone told me the other day, well his legs don’t work but he is still fine, he should get a desk job. Why are you applying for aid?  But he couldn’t. He is surviving day to day with this, because of his routine. Breakfast the same daily, watching the same shows while he eats, play the video game for a bit, run the vacuum, help Hurricane with homework, daily nap, working on his cards. It has to be the same, and changes have to be his idea or it throws the whole universe into a tail spin. He has to have some control. He can not control his legs anymore, really. He can not control his racing thoughts. He has finally started writing again. He let me read some of it. It was hard to swallow. His pain and his sadness come from years of scars he held in. One reason I let Hurricane explode out his anger and boil over with tears. I want him to deal with emotions and not be wearing the scars in  30 years.

Maybe. He will someday be there. But unless you LIVE with it, don’t judge it. Don’t pretend you know what is really going in here. Mental illness and health can be a powerful and painful experience. Don’t think I have not heard the quiet whispers behind my back that this is maybe on me. He was fine, and it was me that made him the way he is. These issues were bubbling long before I came around. I hear whispers that I am making too big a deal and trying to make myself a martyr. Until we moved in here even my AMIL (Awesome Mother In Law) had no idea how hard things were at home. She came to me last week and apologized. She has now seen some of the mood swings and the scary “black out” moments where he is totally not there and I am on the verge of calling 911.

Yes, I am lucky as hell to have her. But the comments about how it must be nice to live with someone who is taking care of 70 percent of the bills and the mortgage payment, how it must have taken SO much stress off of me? Yeah. No. Because every day we wake up not sure WHAT mood he will be in, how my IBD/Crohn’s is going to be affecting me, and how we are going to power through the day. But I never ask for help from friends or family, because I don’t need it. It’s my cross to bear, with a lot of help from God. I have recently exploded into my faith. Because it’s coming back to me. I am facing demons I have been running from for a long time.

I am seeing the strength in my corner. And seeing who I can count on vs. who I need to cut loose. I don’t like how things are. I could take a new job, be better off financially and more stable in other areas of my life. But money will not replace time. Time is what we need. Money will help. And it WILL come through soon. But every moment I am away from them already is pain. My husband tells me his secrets in his sleep. He told me his worries. He misses me when I am at work. He hates that I have to be the one to work and to be away from home. He knows I have days I love my job and others I want to walk away. He wishes he could see me more. He understands my time is being monopolized by Hurricane and home school in the mornings, and by work at night and when I get home I am just wiped out. But he misses me. I am working on that.

We are still struggling along. Suicide “survivors” is what I was labeled as. What we really are is suicide zombies. Day to day getting by. I hold a lot together on the inside, few of my closest friends know who I “really” am outside of this little internet world, and have told me my facade is much like in the movie MirrorMask. Which is why I identify with it so much. I have an ideal in my mind but allow the darkness to consume me. All while trying to be the light for two people who need me more than I ever thought would be possible. It’s like yin and yang, only in a spin that makes it all gray.


I am not ready to be a mom…

I had an interesting day and came to a totally honest revelation on my way home. I am not ready to be a mom. Which kinda sucks ass, because I have a 5 year old son to raise. But I have decided, I am not ready to be a mom.

I had a decent day with him but he is in a weird, whining about everything temper tantrum, baby/big boy stage. Which makes me want to strangle him on a frequent basis. But heaven forbid I raise my voice to him or anything in public. I might be called a bad mom.  But then, he did it. He did the one thing that horrifies me to the point I am ready to find a hole and hide and never come out. I yelled at him to “Get over here RIGHT NOW” and as he approached me, he cowered down. Like he thought I was going to beat him soundly. And my son gets spanked so rarely I almost died. As a large group of people stood staring, hands ready to call Child Protective Services on me, I froze. And decided, I am not ready to be a mom.

Emotionally, I do not think I am cut out to be a parent. I go from loving him with every fiber of my being so hard it hurts, to being so horrified or disappointed when he makes a mistake, in under 3 seconds. Being a parent is enough to make anyone understand what it is like to be bi-polar. You can be happy as hell one minute and sad as hell the next. Every single day he comes home with a report about being too much in class. Too loud, too wiggly, too talkative. And it drives me INSANE. Because he has it in him to be a good…no GREAT kid. So maybe the issue is not him. It’s me. Because I am not ready to be a mom.

I went over this with a friend of mine. Bless her and hand her the wine, because she has FIVE boys. FIVE. Ages 14 down to 2. And the best news I heard all day, was her telling me… she is not ready to be a mom either. I have another friend, I call her my Martha Stewart friend. Because everything in her life has gone perfectly and planned. (Only no jail time for her, LOL) But even she was not ready. Being a parent SUCKS. Honestly it does. Anyone who thinks it does not is full of it. It also is AWESOME. It is heartache and headaches and love and intensity and chaos and happiness and love and hate. It is amazing. It is awful. But heaven forbid you EVER mention the awful. Because when you do…you prove…you are not ready to be a mom.

I am not ready to raise someone and turn them into an amazing human being. I have not even figured out what the hell I want for and from myself.
I am not ready for the struggles of parenthood. The hugs and heartaches. The tears. Being torn between tough love and wanting to wrap up and protect.
I am not ready for the nights without sleep when night terrors rock his little body, and the pain that comes from knowing there is NOTHING I can do to make it better.
I am not ready for being looked at and made to feel like a failure as a parent because he can not stay in control in school.
I am not ready to face he might have an issue like a learning disability, ADD, or other special needs.
I am not ready to face any of it.

But then again, I have found strength for him I have not ever shown for myself. I spent YEARS with my own health struggles and never ever fought for my doctors to really hear me or look at me.  Then he got sick. And sicker. And I fought tooth and nail for them to hear me. Something was NOT right with my son. Finally, after 2 years, someone listened. Turns out this mommy was not crazy. He was not textbook but he DID have a problem. (Severe GERD which he still has now at age 5)  Because I knew something was wrong. He was being bullied by a kid in our neighborhood. I helped him learn to stand up for himself. He got the bloody lip to prove it. But now the other kids do not pick on him. I taught him to take care of his friends, and when a bully was pushing around a friend he thinks of as his little brother, he came to his defense. He struggles to be brave, while still being so little. But he is getting more and more confident each day. He is well spoken, and intelligent and full of energy and enthusiasm. So maybe, just maybe I have it it me.

I do it my own way. My mom, my family, none of them get it. But he has been doing ok. So maybe I am not ready. But I think I have it in me to keep trying. Because, lets me honest. Even if you have 5 kids or 15, you are never really ready.


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