February 14th , 2003

I was willing to try. Up until that night, I was willing to try. I would have gone to counseling, tried to work things out with him, given it my best efforts. And it would have succeeded - at least for a few years. But it all died for me that night.

Two weeks earlier - February 2nd - I had just gotten home from a dinner out with my mama-friends, when he confronted me, saying he knew about C & me. It was dark in the kitchen where we were sitting; there was a small stove light on, and some light from the spots in the back yard, but that was it. But I could see his face clearly. He looked squarely at me, with very little emotion showing.

My first thought upon hearing this was, "Duh... of course you did." My second thought was "You've got to be kidding me. You HAD to know." My third thought was, "Oh shit, you DIDN'T know." What I said was, "Oh." That night lasted forever, and most of the details have been lost in the weary mess that is my brain. I do recall saying that I would go to counseling with him, if that's what he wanted; that I would do whatever it took to fix this. In retrospect, there was no fixing it; leaving was the only solution. But of course I didn't know that then.

So for the next two weeks, we sat. We talked. We cried. We yelled. We tried to figure out what to do. I had been serious about seeing a counselor, but things in our house never moved quickly -- always so much analysis before doing ANYTHING - so no referrals were ever gotten, no appointments ever made.

Still, I was making an effort. I think he was, too. It was tense and painful, but I hadn't lost hope. And then came Valentine's Day.

It fell on a Friday that year. I knew that it was going to be low key. After all, this was the worst pain our relationship had ever seen, and even in good years, Valentine's Day was never a big deal (I tried to believe that, anyway). And we didn't have a lot of money, so even HAD things BEEN good between us, it still wouldn't have amounted to much. It's not like he ever thought to save up to surprise me, or anything. BUt that's another story. So yeah, I wasn't expecting much. I wanted to do SOMETHING, though - if only to mark the fact that it was also the anniversary of when we started dating. That Valentine's Day made it 14 years.

So I planned dinner for us: Coquilles St.Jacques, bread and salad. Wine. Something for dessert. I made sure that everything was done in advance, so that when he came home, I wasn't up to my elbows in breadcrumbs and vermouth. All I had to do was pop the dish in the oven. I also made sure there weren't a bunch of dishes for him to have to do afterward. I got the house cleaned. I had the kiddo in bed. It wasn't a romantic overture, although I did put candles on the table. I t was just that I wanted to show him I was making an effort.

Everything was ready by 6:3o or so, and I got the girl to bed right around 7, the time he usually got home by. Then I sat down to wait. The TV was off. The house was quiet. There was neither chaos, nor coldness. At 7:15, I poured myself a glass of wine. At 7:30, I thought, "OK, Friday night rush hour, busses get tied up. Not unusual. And maybe he stopped to get flowers."

He walked in right before 8. He put his coat and umbrella down, took off his shoes, and said "Sorry, the freeway was a mess." And that was it. Nothing else.

We ate. He made small talk. I think he made some comment about all the men in his building getting hosed by buying flowers from the expensive florist in his building's lobby. I felt smaller and smaller.

At some point he asked me what was wrong. So I told him. I felt like an ass for making the dinner, for putting out candles, for even trying. He told me I shouldn't, that the dinner was fine, and he appreciated it.

"Gee thanks," I said. "I go to the trouble of doing this, and you walk in late, no flowers, not even a card. I see I'm not worth the expensive flowers from the florist in your building, but for God's sake, there's a fucking grocery store across the street. "

He replied that he COULDN'T have gotten me any flowers because - get this - I told him not to use the debit card until the 15th - when his check was direct deposited. I just stared at him. He knew full fucking well that when the 1st and 15th fell on weekends, his checks were deposited on the friday before. And since he saw all those men getting hosed for flowers, he knew it that Friday was the 14th.

I asked him if he'd even thought using his credit card. He hadn't. But I knew that, already. I wasn't worth the thought. I wasn't worth planning ahead for.

After that night, I withdrew from him almost completely. We barely spoke a word to each other until the night, two weeks later, when I told him I didn't think there was any progress to be made.

Would flowers have saved my marriage? For a time. But it was inevitable, our break-up. What I needed, it never occurred to him to give - he was unable or unwilling to see outside himself that way. And I felt so guilty about what I needed that I couldn't just ask.

Fucked up, huh?

Tired.

My shrink wants me to up my Lamictal dosage. She says I sound depressed.

SIGH.

Dammit, I don't want to be depressed anymore. I don't want to have bipolar anymore. I want to be normal. I'm really tired of feeling low. Yes, on a minute to minute basis, I'm OK. But shit falls in my path, and i don't skip over it any more. I stand and contemplate it, trying to figure out why it fell in my path. Did I do something to cause it to fall? Then I look behind me and see all the other things that have been in my path, and I suddenly feel tired and resentful that there is YET another thing to deal with. And I poke and prod at it, trying to move it outta my way, trying to push it off to the side so I don't have to deal with it, trying to deconstruct it so that it's just dust. In the end, I just edge around it. It would be so much easier if I could just climb without thinking, like I used to.

Yeah I'm tired. And sad. And tired of being sad. Tired of feeling like I never get cut a break. Tired of never being able to cut myself a break. Tired of feeling like a shitty parent. Tired of feeling like a shitty student. Tired of feeling like a shitty girlfriend, and sister, and daughter, and friend. Tired of feeling old and fat. Tired of having to put on a happy face. Tired of recursive thinking. Tired of PMS. Tired of the pain in my body.

Dammit, I was doing SO well for a while.

And I have no one I can share this with. Over the past year or so, I've laid too much on the people who care about me, and I can't afford to see my regular therapist. My shrink is mostly for meds recommended by my therapist. The one (non-paid) person I could share this with is tired, too.

Oh well. This is how it goes. Maybe the boost in meds will help.

A Spear Through My Heart

The other night, my beautiful, smart, amazing four year-old daughter, sat crying on her bed after a time out. As she sobbed, she told me that she's always "just bad," that she'll "never fit in anywhere," and that she doesn't "belong here in this world."

Oh. God.

I cannot describe the pain and dread I felt when she said that. Obviously I tried to reassure her that she is wonderful and that she DOES belong in this world and that she WILL fit in, but she didn't seem to believe me. I'd chalk it up to melodrama and hystrionics, but with my history of depression-heavy bipolar disorder, complete with those very same albeit unspoken feelings, I can't bring myself to just dismiss it.

My heart is breaking right now and I don't know what to do.

Things to Remember

When I have PMS, I will not:

• Read about the aftereffects of massive hurricanes which devastate cities, paying special attention to NOT reading about: the foot-draging, racist inefficiency of the government; the smarmy, disingenous, classist tripe that comes out of a CLEARLY incompetant president's mouth; the obnoxiously overprivileged statements of victims who had the really bad fortune of being holed up in 3 to 5 star hotels, complete with food, water, and beds with relatively clean linens; frankly feral actions of some of the victims, who are so base as to express their anger by firing weapons at aid workers; and the religious fanatics who believe that the residents of the city brought this down upon themselves because gawd wanted to wipe the city clean of sinners.

• Go see movies which involve the brutal death of both main characters at the hands of thugs hired to prevent them from telling the truth about a pharmaceutical company using Africans as human subjects for drug trials.

• Think about how all my friends have interned, or have jobs, or have family in the field, whereas I am just floating along, with no relevant experience, no networking skills, and a graduation date looming in the not too distant;

• Talk to my friend about a mutual friend's hunt for a wedding dress, which I was not invited to assist;

• Look in the mirror;
  

• Think about how I am, once again, close to flat broke due to my inability to maintain a budget;

• Discuss the fact that my boyfriend slept with someone not me, in an attempt to assuage the skin hunger stemming from the 3000 miles between us;

• Look at my grades for the summer which, while not bad by any means, are not what I'd hoped they'd be;

• Think about how my best friends went camping and I couldn't go;

• Admit my fear that said boyfriend is subconsciously dragging his feet about moving out here;

• Think about the fact that my mother has withdrawn from me over the years;

• Look at or think about the dime-sized, red-edged scaly patch on my leg, which appeared out of nowhere and which I think might be a sqamous cell carcinoma;
  

• Think about how badly I may be screwing up my daughter with my anger and control issues;

• Think about how I can't afford to see my therapist.