I wish I could have a heart attack

I wish I could have a heart attack. Or a car wreck. Or some serious disease. Probably not a fatal one, but then again...

I'm so angry lately. And resentful. And tired. Little things just set me off. I have no patience anymore. I've skipped a lot of what's happened since her last hospitalization. OK, I've skipped everything since then...maybe I'll fill in the gaps later, if I ever decide I give a shit about it. Right now I just need to vent.

She actually did pretty good after the last hospital stay, which was about 5 days. The first week home was uncomfortable, but then we settled down and things were really good, better than they've been in a long time. But under it all I still felt dread, because I've convinced myself she's on about a 2 month cycle now. So I figured if we could just get through August, it'll be a breakthrough.

Well, here it is, almost the end of August, and sure enough, we're going back down that road. She had some really major accomplishments along the way - going back to group; going back to church; going to the jubilee; calling JM and offering support; calling and getting together with JD; helping me get through my recent 4-day deep blue funk - and I really had hope that this time would be different. IDIOT! Now she's back to her old self (maybe not all the way back, but closer to her old self than the new one she's been teasing me with the last 6 weeks). She's uncertain about work, feels people exclude her...she doesn't want to go back to group because "it's too hard"...she's nervous about seeing her psychiatrist...she's changing her own medications (or was about to, before I caught wind of it through her sister and confronted her with it)...she's back to not sleeping, and has asked for her Ativan a few times, which is still locked in the safe...she feels bad asking me for the Ativan, so now she's taking her old prescription for trazedon (?) even though it gives her headaches...she won't talk to me about anything, and when I try to draw her out, she just gives me pat, non-answers (How was your day? Busy. What's bothering you? I'm just tired. etc)...she's not eating properly, often wants ice cream for dinner...generally lots of feeling so sorry for herself, boo-hoo, the world is awful, nobody understands, its so hard, yada-yada-yada.

I'm tired of it. I'm tired of being the one who has to stay strong. I'm tired of being the one who has to prop her up when she's down. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of feeling like I have a roommate instead of a wife. I'm tired of feeling disconnected from everything that used to give me pleasure - everything I do "for me" lately has just been a way to fill the time, to count the ticks of the clock until its time to go to bed. I'm tired of spending most of my time just going through the motions. I'm tired of this burning knot of anxiety in the pit of stomach, and I'm tired of not even knowing what I'm anxious about anymore. I'm tired of having to fill the time with small talk, because any time we try to talk about serious things, it turns into a fight. I'm tired of being made to feel like so much of this is my fault, because I'm just not understanding enough. I'm tired of H telling me I have to do more "active listening" and her not hearing me when I say there's nothing to actively listen to, cuz SHE DOESN"T TALK TO ME!!!! I'm tired of all this. I'm tired of not knowing anymore if I even want to be here, in this relationship. I'm tired of not knowing anymore if all this is worth it. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of being patient, and understanding, and supportive, and sympathetic. I'm tired of holding my tongue. I'm tired of being bitch-slapped by your mood swings, of slowly, cautiously feeling like things have turned a corner, only to be blind-sided by another setback. I’m tired of not being happy. I’m tired of swinging between feeling numb and empty, and feeling hyper-sensitive and full of negative emotions.

And I'm resentful. I resent that she's taken the 25+ years we've been together and pissed all over it. I resent that everything we've worked toward is now nothing but pain, with a few brief flashes of happiness thrown in, just to remind me of what we had, and could have had. This is the time of our lives we should be reaping the benefits of what we've worked for, but instead, we're teetering on the brink. I resent that she seems to think all she has to do is not kill herself; THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH! I'm not going to be satisfied with just having you alive, I want you to be happy about it! I resent the concept that I have to be the one to change in so many fundamental ways to accommodate you: all my life I’ve been a fixer – its what I do for a living, its what I do for friends and family – it’s the deep core of what I value in myself, and the value others place in me. I fix things, and I’m good at it. But now we sit in H’s office and I hear time and time again that “You have to stop trying to fix things”, implying that somehow I’m making your situation worse.

We were lying in bed the other night, and she asked me a simple, innocent question: "Are you still proud of me? Because I'm still trying?" I reset that she's got me so confused that I couldn't give her an honest answer. "Of course I'm proud, you've been through a lot" is what I said (gotta be positive, right? Gotta be supportive and reassuring, right? Yeah, right). What I really wanted to say was No! I'm not proud of you when you take all the progress you (apparently) made and throw it all away because somebody looked at you cross-eyed. I'm not proud of the double-standard you live by, where it's OK for you to ignore your worried, caring mother's phone calls for a week or two, but expect other people to respond to your e-mail within a few hours, and if they don't, you're ready to write off the whole relationship with them! I'm not proud that you occasionally rise to great challenges, and then let the smallest thing defeat you. And then the flip side: you fight when you don't have to, and surrender when there's something worth fighting for. Its not enough to just try...there has to be results. It's like my situation at work...its not good enough that he puts the printer out on the desk if the thing is filthy and the ink's dried up; the effort isn't nearly as important as the results. Trying isn't what matters, making a difference is what matters.

I resent that I'm not enough for you. That what we have (or should that be "had"?) isn't valuable or important enough for you to finally decide you've had enough of this, and beat it once and for all. I'm tired of your "schemas" being the excuse for your defeats.

What set me off this morning? $11.19 is what. You had group last night, and you usually call when you get out, and ask if I'd like you to pick up something for dinner on the way home. Lately, it's been Dairy Queen - a burger and fries for me, a Blizzard for you. Last night, you said you weren't planning to stop, but would for me. I said not to bother, just come home. I had a Hot Pocket and a can of green beans for dinner, you had some ramen noodle soup. Fine. No problem. Then, this morning I pull out the checkbook to see if we had enough money so I could buy gas on the way in to work, and what do I see? An entry from yesterday for Dr. M, which I expected, and an entry after that for $11.19 for DAIRY QUEEN!!! So that's why you didn't want it for dinner, you already had it for lunch! Here I am, fretting about spending $20 for GAS, and you're treating yourself to DAIRY QUEEN! Here I am, skipping lunch for the last 3+ weeks, eating friggin' leftover cookies from the bakery, and YOU'RE TREATING YOURSELF TO DAIRY QUEEN!!!! And thisis after we agreed to limit ourselve to eating out just once a week, so we could save money. I know, $11.19 doesn't sound like much, but that could have been my lunch for a whole friggin' week! I'm worried about every damn dollar, and making real sacrifices, AND YOU’RE TREATING YOURSELF TO DAIRY QUEEN because you had an appointment with that awful ogre Dr M who makes you feel all uncomfortable because he talks low and goes on vacations and has a tan! And then the thoughts start to snowball...here I am, worried on a daily basis that we're going to have to sell the house soon, because we just aren't bringing in enough money, but you go ahead and order all the nice stuff from Foster and Smith for the dogs. Here I am, working 50-60 hours a week in a very high stress job, and I'm walking around literally for weeks with no cash at all in my pocket. You're working 20 hours a week in a library, and I'm supposed to feel sorry for you when you've "had a hard day." Then you say things like “I wish I was bringing in more money”. This should be a positive, right? But instead, it infuriates me, because it’s said with a mindset of defeat. It’s not: “I can’t wait until I can bring in more money.” Or the even more positive “I’ll be bringing in more money soon”. No, it’s “I wish I could…”. Like “I wish I could fly” It’s based on the assumption that it will never happen. You want to bring in more money? Do it! Ask for more hours. Buck up, deal with the anxiety, and go work more hours. How many times do you have to be shown that 99% of the rejection you feel at work, that makes it so stressful to you, is only your perception, and not the reality? Once you accept that, work isn’t so stressful, and you can begin to feel more comfortable there, and maybe actually start bringing in more. But you see it as a dead-end, you’ll never be able to bring in more, because you’ll never be strong enough to work more hours, because everybody rejects you. It never seems to go anywhere, the cycle never ends.

I'm rambling. My hands are trebling cuz I've just got so much anger in me right now. I drove to work this morning way too fast, swerving all over the place, thinking how easy it would be to just drive off the road. Do I want to die? No, I'm not there yet. But I'm just so full of negative emotions, so tired of this situation, so uncertain of the future; I just want something to change. If I could get sick, or hurt, and spend a couple weeks in the hospital, I'd finally get a break from all this.

I'm tired of being the one who has lost so much and is still fighting, and I resent that you have so much you can hold on to, and don't seem to want to fight for it.

A Side trip to the Pit

I had another one of the dreams. I'm home, and she's missing. A friend of ours seems to know where she is, but she won't tell me. I'm very angry in the dream, yelling at the friend, demanding to know where my wife is. Eventually, I woke up, still very angry. I laid there, calmed down, and went back to sleep. But the dream resumed, pretty much where it left off. I get some info from the friend, and head out to find my wife. It seems everyone I meet knows what's going on, but are determined to stop me from getting to her. I wake up again, even more angry. I fall back asleep, and *again* the dream picks up where it left off. This happens about 5 or 6 times, and each time, I get closer to finding her, and get more angry, frustrated, desperate. I finally track her down, and find out she's having an affair (hey, at least she's not trying to kill herself!). I'm screaming at her..."After all I've done for you, all the support I've given you, this is how you treat me? What's he give you that I can't, a hard &#@??" And she just smiles at me, suppressing a giggle, and nods her head. I jolt awake, and its about 5:00am. I decide I've had enough of that, and get out of bed.

I spent the rest of the day feeling real crappy, due to lack of sleep, and the lingering anger and frustration from the dream. That day at work, I was real short-tempered, snapping at people, being pretty rude. I had a confrontation with a co-worker and really flew off the handle. I eventually had to take it to a superior, and felt like I was ratting the guy out, but I was at the end of my rope with the situation. It was very stressful, and afterwards I felt even worse. The next day, I get a call from my sister, and she starts slamming me about some personal stuff. Its pretty intense, and it totally saps my energy just to keep talking to her. She's bringing up issues that have festered for years, and I just can't take it. I'm sincerely sorry, but mostly I'm just beaten to a pulp emotionally. By the time I get to work, I have trouble even getting out of the truck. I've had 3 really intense emotional slams in just 24 hours, and I feel like I have nothing left. Its a major effort just to say Hi to people.

By the time I get home, I'm practically a zombie. I crash on the sofa, and spend an hour literally staring at the ceiling. I have no appetite, no energy, no motivation to do anything but lay there, thinking how nice it would be to just dissolve away. Sleep that night isn't much, lots of tossing and turning, but at least no dreams. I'm up by 4:00 am. I wander around the house 'till its time to go to work, and spend the day going through the motions. It's almost 6:30pm, and I realize somehow I'm still at work. I get home, and she's at her weekly group session. I decide to start filling her weekly prescription doses in the little plastic box. As I'm filling the days with her pills, I start thinking how easy it would be to just chew a handful, then another, and another. It's tempting. I think of the other meds in the safe, and which ones would pack the most punch. Finally. I realize what a fool I'm being, and tell myself to quit the pity-party. But the next morning, I'm shaving, and the razor is dull. Its scraping across my cheeks and necks, stinging. But instead of getting a new one, I keep shaving, going over the same spots, in a sick way enjoying how much it hurts. I start thinking of going to get another tattoo, just so I could feel that pain again. Maybe they could just tattoo me water, so there'd be no permanent marks. Yeah, that's a good idea. Hell, I could just get a sewing needle and do it myself. That way I wouldn't have to pay anybody...

It goes on like this for most of the day. The thoughts don't linger, lasting just a minute here and there, but they come several times, and it makes me mad that I can't keep them from coming back. I realize I'm largely just feeling sorry for myself, and as bothered as I am, I'm still sure deep down that this phase will pass. But another part of me worries that, as she's getting better, I seem to be falling apart....

Last night I dreamed I was dying

I've been having these disturbing dreams lately, about 6 of them so far. The specific circumstances are different, but they all revolve around the same theme. She's determined to kill herself, and she finds a way to ensure I can't stop her. In an earlier post I mentioned one about driving off a bridge... in another, she has me arrested for abuse, and as the cops are dragging me away, she's standing in the door, smiling at me, because she knows she's won. In each one, she's smiling or laughing as I realize what she's about to do, and that I can't stop her. That's the part that lingers: the glee in her eyes when she knows she's finally going to succeedd in killing herself. Each time I jolt awake, my heart pounding, short of breath, sometime even sweating. Doesn't take Freud to figure out what these are all about, does it?

But this most recent one troubled me even more. In it, I had caught her in the act of trying to O.D. and had grabbed the pills away from her. Instead of putting them away, I guess I decided in that weird dream-logic way that she'd only be safe if I took them...literally. I swallowed all the pills she had, thinking this would be the only way to keep them away from her. I went back into the room she was in and just told her I had gotten rid of them. In the dream, I started to feel the effects of the drugs. Light-headed, then sleepy. It was actually kinda nice. I laid on the floor, and felt myself drifting away. She was there, but didn't realize what was happening, just thought I was going to sleep. I drifted further and further away, and suddenly realized that this wasn't something I was going to come back from. I was really dying. I started to panic, then tried to fight it off. Her voice was getting fainter, and inside my head I heard myself screaming for help. I felt cold, and started to shiver. I kept thinking to myself, "She doesn't know. How can I make her understand. She needs to do something! She can't just let me lay here and die." And I kept thinking it was so cold...so cold. I was panicked, but couldn't do anything about it, couldn't drag myself away from death. I slipped further and further, and started crying. What an idiot! What was I thinking? My thoughts raced in a circle of shame for what I had done, panic that I couldn't stop it, pity for what she'd go through when she realized the truth, horror at the thought of actually dying, and over and over I kept thinking "I'm so cold. Why does dying have to be so cold?" I felt myself take what felt like my last breath....and finally jolted awake.

The air conditioner was on, and the ceiling fan was blowing cold air straight down on us. It wasn't just in my dream...I really *was* cold. But instead of being relieved that it was just a dream, I was even more scared of the intense feeling the dream left me with, and that the cold was reminding me of. The desolation, the loneliness, the hopelessness... I couldn't shake the lingering feelings, even laying there an hour later. I finally got up and walked around the dark house for a while, checked on the dogs, got a drink. Eventually I got tired enough that went back to bed and managed to fall asleep. But even today, the feelings of dread are still with me. I hope I can shake them soon...

...and then there were six...

Attempt 6 was ugly. Not physically (i.e no blood, no ambulances), but emotionally. It took me places the previous attempts hadn't.

It was a week after we got back from the camping trip. She was really down, it had been a hard week for her. The same recurring issues at work, and now, because she's only working part-time, she's worried about our money situation as well. But the kicker this time was her therapist. She sees her twice a week, on Tuesday nights in a group setting, and on Thursdays one-one-one. The group session are always hard for her...she has to deal with her social phobia issues, as well as talk about the other things she working on, so it's a double-whammy. The group sessions do her a lot of good, overall, but they really take it out of her.

Anyway, this particular Tuesday, she had an emotional group session, and as the group was breaking up, her therapist, H, came over, gave her a big hug and said, "So, I'll see you tomorrow." Unfortunately, this was wrong. Normally she sees her again on Thursday, not Wednesday, and H was leaving for vacation Wednesday afternoon, so the regular Thursday sessions was cancelled. It was a simple mistake; H had just forgotten the details, but in my wife's head, all these mistakes were combined into a big rejection. Never mind the fact that H had just hugged her and praised her for the positive work she had done in group... in her mind, the facts that 1) H was leaving for a week, 2) H didn't remember that the Thursday appointment was cancelled, and 3) H was leaving for week (listed twice, for emphasis) all combined to make her feel like just another name in an appointment book, a case to be filed away for a week while H took a vacation. She has rejection and abandonment issues, as well as having a hard time trusting people. All these things hit her at once, and she was....devastated. (I know, that seems like a strong word for what, to you and me seems a minor misunderstanding, but the nature of her issues gives this kind of situation immense power to drag her deeper into her depression. Devastated is not an overstatement).

By the weekend, this had piled up, and she was feeling the pressure. She came into the computer room where I was working, and we talked for a while about things. I tried to be calm, understanding, sympathetic, rational... all the things I usually try. At one point I said to her, "I know that what happened Tuesday feels like H rejected you, but can you at least step back from the situation far enough to see, rationally, that it probably wasn't the case, that H didn't really reject you, and that its more about your interpretation than actual facts?" I was stunned when she answered "No. I can't see that."

I tried not to get too wrapped up in it, letting her have some space, and keeping some space for my own sanity (Thank you, D!). We talked some more, and she started to calm down, seemed to turn a corner. She said she felt better, and was going to go downstairs to "do some homework", i.e. write in her journal, read some of her support books, try to get back on track. I thought this was a great idea, and took it as a good sign.

Within 5 minutes, my mind kicked into paranoia mode. "What's she doing? Is she OK? What was that noise? Did she buy another gun? Should I go down there?" Meanwhile, the other side of my brain is saying, "Calm down. She's OK. Don't let your imagination run away with you. You're overly sensitive. She's fine. Keep working. Focus. Stop being so paranoid." After about 15 minutes of this, my nerves were shot. My hands were shaking, my stomach was in knots, I couldn't focus on what I was doing. I fought every urge to check up on her. Another 5 minutes went by, and then I heard one of our 4 dogs barking.

Our dogs are all house dogs, and they follow thier "Mommy" around constantly. One in particular is a real momma's-boy, and this is the one that started barking. I could tell from his bark he was upset; it was his "I can't get to where mommy is" bark. (Those of you without dogs may think this is my imagination, but if you have dogs, you'll know that you can tell a lot from thier bark). I waited another minute or two, pacing the room, trying to get myself under control, but it was no use. The barking assured me that *something* wasn't right, and I had to go down there.

I got to the bottom of the steps and saw the door to the guest bedroom closed. It's usually always open. Panic was in full swing by now, and when I tried the knob and found the door locked, I went over the edge. Previously, when she had locked herself in the bathroom, I calmly went and got a paper-clip to pop the lock open. No such control this time. I took two steps back and kicked the door right next to the knob with everything I had. The lock was pretty flimsy, and the door flew open, but the room was empty. I went in to find that the bathroom door also closed. I tried the knob, and wasn't surprised to find it locked as well. I banged with my fists, and went into a rage. "You open this f***in' door right now!" I screamed. I waited all of maybe two seconds, then started wailing on the door. I kicked it once...nothing. A second time...trinkets started falling out of the display box on the wall, but the door didn't budge. I kicked a third time and actually cracked the door near the knob, but the lock held. By now I was insane with rage. I think I may mave been grunting/yelling the way some tennis players do when they serve, just a gutteral release of anger. I kicked a forth time and heard more wood splintering. The fifth kick actually split the door frame from the latch down to the floor, and the door flew open.

I remember there were some candles burning, and there was an open beer on the counter. Next to the beer were all her prescription bottles, open, lined up like little soldiers. Her journal was there, open, a pen laying beside it. She had made herself a little nest/deathbed on the floor with a bunch of pillows and blankets. She was standing in the middle of the room, a drink in one hand and a fistful of pills in the other. I don't know what I expected her expression to be, but the blank stare on her face only added fuel to my rage. I lost total control of myself and just started screaming at her. "You are NOT gonna f***in' do this to me again! What the f*** is this for? I can't believe you're f***in' doing this!! I refuse to let this happen again! This is the last f***in' time!"....and so on like that.

I usually don't swear much, and I probably used the f-word more times in that first 60 seconds than I had in the last year. The whole time she just stood there with a blank stare. I think I grabbed the pills from her hand, but maybe she put them back in the bottle herself. I don't remember if she tried to speak or not...I wasn't listening anyway. I don't recall how we got upstairs, but the next thing I remember was standing at the kitchen, yelling at her to "get your f***in' shoes on, I'm taking you to the hospital!"

"Please don't take me there!". She was crying by now.
"You're going! I don't know what else to do with you!"
"I don't want to go!"
"The only choice you have it whether to go barefoot or not. Now either get your f***in shoes on or go out to truck without 'em, I don't really care which."

I gathered up all her pills, her journal, and her purse. I picked up the address book cuz I knew I'd have to make some calls to the family. Then I grabbed a jacket for her (it was a little cloudy that day, and I sure couldn't take her out without a raincoat, could I? Jeez, the way our brains work....) I grabbed my keys, opened the door and practically pushed her out. She was crying pretty heavily, as scared as I was mad. She got in the truck and I slammed the door shut. I backed out of the driveway way too fast, and remember being amazed that my tires actually squealed when I put it in drive. I got out to the main road and realized I had forgotten my cell phone, so I u-turned back to the house. I got out, then thought I better bring her in with me so I could keep an eye on her. "Get out of the f***in' truck and come with me!". She was still crying, but I think she thought we were going back to the house because I had changed my mind. I'm ashamed to admit now that I was happy she thought that, because it would make going back out that much harder for her. Phone in hand, back out to the truck, more squealing tires, and we're on our way.

It's about 20 minutes to the hospital from our house. I think I drove it in about 12 minutes. I'm amazed I actually took the time to stop at one of the two traffic lights on the way. And the whole time, I kept up my verbal assault. I wanted to pummel her with my voice.

"You know what I want to know? What the f*** did I ever do to deserve this from you? What have I ever done that was so awful that you want to hurt me this way, over and over?"
"It's not you, it's me. I don't do it to hurt you"
"I don't f***in' belive you. Why should believe a single f***in' thing you say? Of course you do it to hurt me. There's no other explanation."
"But I love you, I'd never try to hurt you intentionally."
"I don't believe you."
"But its the truth!"
"Here's what I learned from you. Truth doesn't really matter. The only thing that really matters is how I feel, how I choose to interpret things. If I feel like you do it on purpose, that's all that matters, facts be damned. That's what you've taught me."

We finally got to the hospital, adn I got out of the truck. She got out her side and started walking towards the road.
"Where the f*** do you think you're going?"
"I'm going home!"
"What are you gonna do, walk 20 miles back?"
"But I don't want to go in there!"
"I don't give a sh** what you want, you don't have a choice!"

I grabbed her wrist (probably too hard) and literally started dragging her towards the door. She was pulling back, like a dog that doesn't want to go to the vet. I pulled harder, still yelling at her. I noticed there was an ambulance up ahead, and two big, burly EMT's were watching what was going on. "You either come in with me, or I'm gonna go get those two guys to pick your sorry a** up and carry you in there!" I made sure I said it loud enough for them to hear. She knew I wasn't bluffing, and started walking on her own.

We got into the emergency room, and I almost felt like people would greet us by name. "Hey! Nice to see you again! The usual?" I filled out the paperwork, and we waited in the foyer for them to call her in for admittance. She kept asking if I thought they'd let her go home, rather than admit her. "I hope not" was all I could say. They took her vitals, and we walked down to the emergency room proper. They gave her a hospital gown, and after awhile the nurse came in with a 16-ounce foam cup willed with an activated charcoal slurry for her to drink. This is supposed to absord the drugs that were still in her stomach. The first time she tried to OD, they handed her the cup and I told her it was a big chocolate shake. She was so out of it that she drank it down in about 20 seconds, slurping up every last drop. Not so lucky this time. She knew what it was and had to force herself to swallow it. It took a couple minutes, but she eventually got most of it down. She laid back and closed her eyes, trying to get some sleep. I went into one of the waiting rooms to start making phone calls.

I was gone maybe 20 minutes, and when I got back, there were several nurses with her, and a woman from housekeeping with a mop and bucket. Turns out she had goot sick and vomited all the nasty black charcoal back up, all over herself, the bed, and the floor. I just stood there, wondering what else could happen, feeling pretty numb by this point. I just wanted this all to be over, to go back home and not have to deal with any more crisis. I sat in the chair next to her bed, stroking her hair. After everyhting was cleaned up, they left one of the nurse-helpers in the room with her, to keep an eye on here. She wanted to talk, but I didn't have the energy. I think we sat there for another hor or so before they finally came to wheel her down to the Behavioral Sciences ward.

I went with her to the ward, but its a locked facility, so I couldn't go in. We said goodby in the lobby. She was crying again, and apologizing. I don't think I had any emotions at all. I was drained by the fury I had felt, and just wanted to go home and sleep. I kissed her, assured her I would be back for visiting hours that night, and would remember to bring her some clothes. She asked me to please bring her Bible, too. I said I would, hoping she'd find some comfort in it, wondering where I might find some too.

Happy F'ing Birthday

We've been talking about going camping for years, and just never found the time. We finally decided to do it this year for my birthday. A long weekend in the woods with our tent and a few necessities (food, camp stove, books/magazines, lots to drink, but no alcohol) sounded like paradise. We visited a campground nearby, scouted out the sites and picked one right next to a little waterfall in the woods. We had another 3 weeks to get everything packed and ready, and I was chomping at the bit - this was gonna be a great weekend. Well, that's what I get for getting my hopes up.

She had been doing so good for the past few weeks. I could see the old her in there, making a comeback. We had really started to get back to what felt like normal. Her Ativan use was way down, she seemed happy and confident. Two days before we were due to leave, I even wrote her an e-mail from work, telling her how much progress I felt she had made, and how proud I was that she was hanging in there. In hindsight, it's hard not to imagine that that e-mail was a very, very bad idea. (This was the day before the incident I wrote about in "Emotional non-rescue")

The very next day was my birthday, the day we leave for camping, and also the day we have our monthly co-session with H. I go in thinking things are pretty good (she seemed a little nervous, but that's normal). We sit down and she grabs one of H's little stuffed toys and hugs it to her chest. "Uh oh, that's not a good sign," I think to myself. H starts off wishing me a happy birthday, asking how things are at work, etc. I give her some short answers, waiting to get to the real issues. We finally start talking about what had happened yesterday, and the floodgates open. She's still deeply bothered by what had happened at work and is thinking about quitting. This has hurt her so deeply, it's all the same issues and emotions she was struggling with almost a year ago. Sitting there, I feel like all the progress she's made was just washed down the drain; all I can see is the person that felt so worthless she tried to kill herself.

We talked with H about all that has happened, and she assured us both that these down periods should be expected, this wasn't going to heal overnight. We tried to end on an up note. She asked H if she should quit when she got back on Monday; H said "I don't think you have enough information to make that kind of decision right now, so I don't want you think about work at all this weekend. I want you to put it all aside, go camping, have a great weekend celebrating your husband's birthday." She seemed to be relieved in a way, on put on a good show of being upbeat, positive.

I was not. I felt like I had just gotten sucker-punched. Here I was thinking things were going well, and even praising her for it, thinking the incident yesterday was just an anomaly, only to find that I had deluded my self again. Seems I just keep ignoring the truth of what's in front of me and seeing good where there is none. I want so badly for things to be better, I take the smallest sign of improvement as "The Sign" that's everything's back to Normal. When am I gonna stop kidding myself?

We leave the office and start driving to the campsite. We stop on the way for sandwiches to bring, and there's a really annoying, rude woman in the store, getting on my nerves. I can feel myself just getting really bitter about everything. We're about a half-hour out of town when I realize we're on the wrong stinkin' highway. We turn around and have to drive all the way back into town to get on the right one. I'm definitely not in my happy place. The sky clouds over and starts looking ominous. The closer we get to the campsite, the darker the skies get. We're about 10 miles out and I'm looking at thunderheads right over out campsite. It starts to drizzle, then rain, then pour down. We get off the highway onto the county road that leads to the campgrounds, and now there's literally tree limbs scattered across the road. This is a helluva storm, and we're driving right into the middle of it. Man, this is gonna be a fantastic, camping trip, ain't it? By now I'm miserable.

We pull up to the office and check in. No sense getting firewood, we couldn't light it anyway. We give our name, and he checks for our reservation. Yep, right here, site 37. We drive out to the site, and lo-and-behold, it's not the one we had reserved. No waterfall, no lakeside view, sitting on a muddy downhill slope. Now I'm getting po'd. Miserable is being replaced by angry, and I don't like me when I'm angry. We go back to the office and get the right campsite, drive back out and sit in the truck, waiting for the rain to stop so we can set up the tent. The rain finally recedes into a heavy drizzle, so we figured what the heck, let's set up the tent. We're both soaked by the time we're done, but at least its up. We eat the sandwiches and sit outside, admiring the fire from the next campsite over. My mood is starting to let up a little. I had saved a special cigar from a few weeks before, and that was going to be my special celebration cigar. I fire it up, and we decide to go for stroll in the woods. The cigar is a good one, the skies are clearing more, and its actually getting pretty nice. I'm feeling much better. We get back to camp, and sit in the lawn chairs. Its fully dark now, and the fire across the way is going strong. She decides to try getting our own fire going, and has a nice little blaze going in a few minutes. The camp across the way has a radio on, playing some country songs we both like. I toss the cigar butt into the fire, lay my head back, and enjoy the buzz I've got from it (it was a 7" Honduran, so I had been smoking it for well over an hour). The fire's going, the weather's cleared, some nice music playing...We talk quietly about small things, enjoying each others company. The sound of her voice...feminine, happy, gentle...relaxes me like nothing else can. OK, so this is gonna be an OK weekend after all.

But now, the cigar buzz starts to turn into dizziness, and not the fun kind you used to get as kid by spinning in circles. This is "stop the ride, I wanna get off" dizzy. I close my eyes, but that only makes it worse. Dizziness invites his good buddy Nausea over for a visit, and before too long, peaceful and relaxed has given way to cold-sweat and stomach cramps. I can barely crawl my way to the tent, and end up in a ball on the floor, fully dressed, passed out, and miserable.

That night I have another of the nightmares. In this one, we're driving somewhere. We're approaching a big bridge, like the Ben Franklin in Philly. We stop at the base of the bridge to pick up my younger sister, J. Its strange, J being there, but I stop and get out of the car. My wife slides into the driver seat, locks all the doors and takes off. I realize what she's about to do. I start running after the car, screaming at her to stop. She speeding up, trying to get to the high point of the bridge as fast as she can. I keep running, but she's pulling away, and over my own screaming, I can hear her laughing. She's going to win this time, there's no way I'll be able to stop her. She gets to the apex and pulls the wheel hard, heading for the rail. And still laughing. I bolt awake, stifling a scream. Its about 2am, my hearts pounding, I'm panting for breath, and my stomach is still twisted from the cigar. Yeah, this has been one happy f'ing birthday indeed. I lay there another 2 hours or so, feeling supremely sorry for myself, before I finally get back to sleep.

The next morning, we're sitting at the picnic table for breakfast. She gets up to take some pictures of the waterfall, about 20 feet away. I start thinking about the day before, and the dream, and everything we've been through, and it all catches up to me. Before I know it, I feel the tears start to come. She comes back to the table, and I try to turn my head, hoping she won't notice her little sissy-man of a husband, crying in his Rice Crispies (but part of me was hoping she would notice). It takes some coaxing from her, but eventually she gets me talking, and it all comes spilling out, the frustration, the anger, the hopelessness, the doubt, everything that's been building. She's understanding, apologizing over and over for putting us through this, swearing she's turned the corner. She says at one point, "I know I have to get better. I want to get better." To me, that's huge. "Have" to get better means she's doing it for me, for her family, for others. "Want" to get better means she's doing it for herself. She's tired of being sick. Hearing this from her makes a huge difference in my attitude.

That day, Friday, there was lots of rain, on and off. In the tent, out of the tent, back in the tent, etc. We ended up sleeping through the 3 sunniest hours of the day, coming out of the tent with just enough time to warm up some chili and rice then back into the tent to wait out the next squall. Saturday proved better, mostly sunny, just a few sprinkles. We walked a lot and talked even more. It was a good day. By Sunday, we were both read to get back home. We packed up and headed out by noon. I though about how much I had looked forward to the trip, how immensely discouraged I was the day we started, how I had kinda bottomed out the second day, then how things improved the next two. Overall, for as low as I was at one point, I still ended up having a pretty good time.

I made a mental note to remember this weekend, as a lesson. Even when things are miserable, and it feels like there's no hope, the sun eventually does come out. All you have to do is have the strength, and the patience, to wait for it.

Emotional non-Rescue

She had a bad day. Felt out of touch, not worthy. There had been an incident at work having to do with a cash shortage. Even though she wasn't responsible for it, and she had worked harder than everybody else that day, she and the others were all mildly reprimanded. By the time she got home, she had started down a spiral that escalated into an extended crying jag, and eventually thoughts of quitting her job. We were in the grocery store shopping for an upcoming trip, and she started to tell me about it. She brokedown, there in the aisle, crying almost uncontrollably. Between the crying and her efforts to cover it up, it was hard to understand her, and I kept having to ask her to repeat herself, which sure didn't help matters. Normally, this is where I would try to understand, be consoling, compassionate, supportive. But for some reason, I decided not to this time. I just stood there, didn't say anything. I wasn't cold to her, I just wasn't going to get sucked in to the drama this time. This was very difficult for me to do. I instinctively want to be the hero, riding in and saving the day, rescuing my Princess from the evil dragon. But I forced myself not to. After a minute or two, she got it under control, but started crying again on the drive home. She pulled out her cell and started dialing (while she's driving, mind you!). I asked her who she was calling. She said she needed to talk to someone, so was calling H, her therapist. I said "You can talk to me" which by the time it made it to her ears somehow turned into "I don't want you to call H," which only made her even more upset.

(Side note: it is so friggin' frustrating how no matter what I say, it gets turned into something I didn't say. Even if I just ask a question, she thinks it means I'm negating what she said.
SHE: I think I want to change psychiatrists. I don't like the one I'm seeing.
ME: What is it you don't like about him?
SHE: So you think I should keep seeing him, even if I don't like him?
ME: (internally) ARRRGH!

SHE: So-and-so at work is mad at me, she hardly talked to me at all today.
ME: Maybe she was just in a cranky mood.
SHE: (angrily) I know what I saw! Its not all in my head!!
ME: (internally ARRRGH!

etc...)

Anyway, I went back to non-rescue mode, and when we got home, she said she wanted to do some work in the garden, plant some petunias (gardening is one of the few things she lets herself enjoy). She was working in the front, I kept busy in the back, giving her space. The machine in her head kept cranking, and soon enough she was all upset again, couldn't let go what had happened at work. So she called H, left a message. I kept my yap shut, kept diggin' and mulchin'. H eventually called, and they talked for 15 or 20 minutes. I minded my own beezwax. She came into the back yard to fill me in. She looked much better, relieved. She told me H had helped her put things in perspective, and she seemed to be back to herself again. Even then, I forced myself to stay level, didn't get too relieved, didn't praise her too much for working through it.

I think I was trying to project an attitude of "Of course you worked through it. I knew you would, and that's good. This may have felt like a crisis to you, but it wasn't. Everything's fine." I didn't over-respond, either when she was down, or when she got better. I tried to just take everything in stride, and not let her mood swings pull me in either direction. It was so friggin' hard not to play the hero, to let her work through it on her own. But in the end, I think it was better for her (and for me). Progress through inaction...what a concept.

The Face in the Mirror

We went to our niece, M's graduation, a few weeks ago. M's mom, dad and sister were there, as well as the grandparents. M's always been sort of our surrogate daughter. She even said after graduation that she was glad she had both set of parents --meaning us-- there, so it was very special for us. But, being a family gathering, it naturally made my wife pretty nervous. She was getting pretty stressed just on the drive there, about 2 1/2 hours.

We got to the campus where we were supposed to meet up with everyone, and found we were the first one's there. This only meant more time for her to get herself worked up about how stressful things were. She got hold of M on the cell and we picked a spot to meet her. I tried to keep things light, and we strolled the beautiful campus, waiting for the others. M arrived with some friends, and we went back to the dorm with them. She was trying to be upbeat, but I could tell she was still stressing out. We eventually met up with everyone else and headed back to the hotel for lunch.

One of her other sister, K, has had an almost life-long battle with chronic pain. She can't sit too long, can't stand too long, etc. Well K was determined to make it to M's graduation, but knew the car trip would be brutal for her, so she took some (...wait for it...) ATIVAN (!) to help her through. Well, she was still pretty stoned on it by the time we all met up, and my wife got to see what this drug does to people's personalities. She was pretty stunned at how different K was...the glazed, unfocused eyes...the random thoughts and almost incoherent conversation...the general goofiness...this wasn't K at all, and my wife got to see it first hand. She asked me if I had noticed. I told her that not only had I noticed, but I could tell within seconds what K had taken to make her that way. "That's exactly what you're like when you take it." I told her. "Really? That bad?", she asked. "Yeah. Really. That bad."

There were lots of other small things that happened, and I'm just not up to writing them all right now. But the bottom line is this: she made it through the entire, stressful weekend without taking a single Ativan! Through K, I think she got to take a good look in the mirror, and realize what it is I've been saying for so long. This drug has some really negative side effects. Unfortunately, they aren't obvious to the person taking the drug. With lithium, the side effects are clear to her: her hands tremble, she can't write a check, has trouble holding small objects, etc. But with Ativan, she doesn't see how deeply it changes her. If anything, its just the opposite...it makes her feel she's even more "normal".

We got home and I made sure to tell her just how incredibly proud I was of her. I think she crossed a threshold that weekend. She crashed once we got home, had a few blue days as everything caught up with her. But I tried to let her be, find her way through it, and eventually she did. She had a good session with H, and related what happened, and H praised her too.

Later in the week, she had an episode at work that normally would have sent her into a tail-spin. It had to do with someone she used to work with at another job. Turns out this person was now working at the same place as she was (different branch, but same company). Well this other person came in to where my wife works, and it really shook her up. She wasn't sure what this other person was saying about her, but there seemed to lots of hushed conversations with other employees, and she immediately felt excluded, isolated, paranoid. Nut she recognized all this, and made a decision to take action. She asked her boss if they could meet the next day, and told her boss all about the previous connection between her and this other person. Boss said she was fully aware of the other's background, and knew that she liked to stir up trouble on occasion. She assured my wife that anything Other said would be taken with a huge grain of salt, and that she was doing a great job, and not to worry about anything. This went a long way to alleviate her stress, and again, she didn't fall back on Ativan to help her get through a stressful situation.

Her confidence seems to be growing in other areas, too. We recently volunteered for a Habitat for Humanity build in our area. We showed up the first day to find 6 other people, all older guys, mostly retired. Then there's me and her. She was definitely out of place. I knew she could hold her own. She's helped on many household projects, including rebuilding our porch last summer. She helped with the demolition, the framing, and vinyl siding, so I was sure she could do this. But of course, you could see the doubt in the eyes of these guys. We started out framing up some wall, and of course they were driving nails with 3 swipes of their 20 oz hammers. She was swinging her 14 oz hammer 10 or 12 times to drive a nail, but she got it done. She felt like she was slowing things down, but I told her its not a race, let's just do what we can and not worry about how fast or slow we were. After a while the guys warmed up to her and saw she was a real trooper, and she was getting encouragement and praise from a few of them. Even so, she started doubting herself, and at one point she started to move away, to isolate herself from the group. She kept busy cleaning stuff up, but I knew what she was thinking. She wanted to leave. I debated whether I should talk to her about it or not, and decided to let her be. After a few minutes, I was thrilled to look up and find her right there, tool belt pocket full of nails, ready to get back to work. She had talked herself back into the game. Again, I couldn't have been more proud of her, and made sure she knew it.

Her confidence and self-assuredness seem to be growing. She's told me she's making an effort not to use Ativan as much, hopefully just for sleep, and I'm totally on-board with that plan. Thank God, it seems we're finally getting somewhere!

Five, and counting

Yeah, she did it again. Thursday was attempt #5, though a mercifully foreshortened one.

She had had a bad day at work, was feeling generally down. Came home, did some work in the yard, and pulled a muscle in her back. So she came inside, laid down, started thinking about all the work she now couldn't get done. Started feeling helpless, useless, empty. Things escalated in her mind, as they do, to the point that she felt totally worthless. She took an Ativan to calm down...and another...and some aspirin...and a few Paxil that were left over from a previous prescription...and another Ativan...and a Benedryl...and some Pepcid...and another Ativan... During this time, she's also managed to drink 3 beers. Eventually, she got all her drugs out, and lined them up on the counter in little plastic cups, ready to just go down the line, taking whatever was next.

For whatever reason, she decided at some point to call her sister, K. Thank God she did. K was able to talk to her, convince her to put everything away. She got her to call a crisis center. She also called her therapist. Finally, she called me at work to let me know she had had an episode, but that she was alright now, and she didn't want me to be blind-sided when I got home. Naturally, I left work immediately, and got home to find a walking zombie, doing laundry. With all the stuff she had in her system, I was amazed she was even on her feet.

We talked for while about what had happened, but even on a good day getting details from her is like getting teeth from a chicken, so there was little chance this day of learning anything helpful. What I did learn was that it was all the classic issues; feeling alienated at work; feeling like she doesn't contribute to anything; emptiness; lack of direction... I got some sense of the desperation she was feeling when I asked her, of all the pills she had taken, why the Pepcid? Her answer really chilled me: "Because it was there".

With the help I've been getting from my therapist, D, I was able to keep myself from spiraling down into a panic. I forced a few deep breaths, got control of my emotions. I kept telling myself, "She's OK, now, that's what's important." We went to bed early that night, and by morning the drugs had worn off, and she was feeling a bit better, though now she also felt ashamed, embarrassed, guilty...

She had an appointment with H, and that seemed to help bring her back to center. About a week later, we had a co-session with H, and I kinda let loose how pissed-off the whole episode had made me. We had made a "contract" after her last hospitalization that the suicide option was off the table: she promised me that she wasn't going to go there again. I know that doesn't mean much for someone struggling with depression, that in the depths of the sickness they lose their ability to make rational decisions, but still, part of me wanted to believe that her promise to me would be strong enough motivation to keep her from the brink. I guess what really pissed me off the most wasn't that she went there, but that I was again reminded of how helpless I am to control this beast.

I need to see that this disease is beyond my control; that no matter what I do or say, this is bigger than me. As much as I want to "fix" it, I can't. I need to accept that it will take time, that there will be ups and downs. Probably the hardest part is that I need to believe in my heart that she really does want to get better, even when she gets as low as she was, and that she'll be strong enough to pull herself free. It a question of trust, and of faith. Until I understand and fully accept that, I'm just tilting at windmills.

An Easter visit to the Dark Side

Since Easter, things have been pretty crappy. We spent time with family for the Easter weekend, at a nice beachfront place. Things started off OK, then spiralled down. Halfway through the day, she started acting lethargic, slurred speech, lack of focus, etc. I suspected she had taken some Ativan. She went into the bedroom to take a nap, so I hung out with the family. As I sat thinking about everything going on, I found myself getting really low. I finally decided to go take a walk out on the boardwalk. I told her sister I was going out for a walk, and would be back soon.

It was about a half-hour after sunset, the weather was great, and the boardwalk was surprisingly busy. There was everything I love about the Jersey shore, and especially the boardwalk in Wildwood: the surf rolling in; the screams from the carnival rides; the tramcars making their rounds; thumping music from the t-shirt shops; the co-mingled smells of the ocean, pizza, cheesesteaks and funnel cake; and the timeless sight of young bucks determined to beat the rigged midway games to win their girlfriend the biggest stuffed whatever-she-wants. "Yeah, this is just what I needed," I thought.

But as I made my way further down the boardwalk, night settled in; the crowds at this end started to dissipate; the rides and games gave way to mostly empty parking lots; the bright colorful lights of the food stalls, rides and games were replaced by the harsh, colorless glare of halogen street lights that cast stark, lifeless shadows all around; the upbeat crowd of happy faces dissolved into a few individuals dashing for their cars; and I felt my mood slowly dropping in step with the temperature. By the time I made it about a mile down the boardwalk, I was alone, and thoroughly depressed. I walked down the pier by the new convention center, out towards the water, and just let my mind go where it wanted.

I started thinking about how dark it was, wondering if anyone could see me way out here. I could see the crowds back up the beach, but to them I was invisible. I could do anything I wanted, and nobody would know. I thought of jumping up and down and waving my arms to test the theory, but that felt silly and I couldn't do it. "Coward," I thought to myself. I leaned over the rail and looked under the walkway, about 4 feet above the sand. Even darker down there. Now that's a place you could get away with anything. Who knows, there could be people down there right now doing the nasty, and I wouldn't know. I could go down there and do... what? Suddenly I found myself thinking how easy it would be to just go under the pier and end it. But how? What'm I gonna do, eat sand till I choke? Go to sleep and wait for the tide to come in and drown me? Jump off head-first and try to break my neck? No, I needed a weapon. Then I though about the nice new Leatherman multitool I had recently gotten for work. Yeah, nice sharp blade on that bad boy. That'd do the trick. Couple seconds of personal bravery, make the cuts lengthwise, not acrosss (I learned that from her), then just wait for things to run their course. There'd be plenty of time to work up the nerve, since this area was pretty much deserted. Dark, so no one would see until daybreak, easily 8 hours away. And it would be a polite way to off myself, too. All that sand would make it real easy to clean up the mess left behind. It would also be a lot more considerate than the way(s) She tried: at least it wouldn't be Her having to find me there, or having to remember what happened in that spot. She could just avoid Wildwood the rest of her life; I, on the other hand, still often get a knot in my stomach when I have to go into her bathroom. Yeah, this'd be just the spot. But did I have the knife with me? I started reaching for my pocket, then literally stopped cold, my hand half-way there.

"What the f*** are you doing, you idiot???" It was one of those sorta out-of-body things where you're looking back at yourself through your mind's eye. "You don't have the cojones to do it. And more important, you don't even really want to do it. So just what the f*** are you doing? Get your sorry, self-pitying, cry-baby ass back to the condo and get over yourself. Loser!"

I started walking back to the boardwalk, but couldn't get the idea out of my head. I tried hard not to reach into my pocket to see if the knife was there. I started to take bigger, forceful steps to see if I could feel the weight of it there in my pocket, but couldn't. I looked down to see if I could see the outline of it in my pocket, but I was wearing black jeans, and there wasn't enough light. Finally, I just reached into my pocket, and there it was. I held it for a second, still in my pocket, then let it go. Sure I could take it out, but I knew then I wasn't going to use it, so why bother.

I made my way back up the boardwalk, towards the lights, and sounds, and people, and life. About halfway back, my cell phone started ringing. I usually hate those custom ring tones, but I have one just for Her, so I knew it was her when I answered, trying to sound upbeat.

"Hey! Whatcha doin'?" She was clearly upset. "Where are you? I've been looking all over!" I told her I was on the boardwalk, heading back her way. She had tried looking for me, but had no idea which way I had gone. She had gotten herself disoriented, and by now (with the help of the Ativan she still had on-board), had no clear idea exactly where she was. We tried identifying landmarks for each other, rides, restaurants, anything we could both see to give us our bearings. She was getting more and more frustrated, crying now, and at one point I snapped at her. "Just stop it! Calm down, and tell me what you see!" Finally, I spotted a tattoo shop. ""OK, I see that!" she said. I told her to stop where she was, next to the tattoo shop, and I 'd be there in less than a minute. We kept talking as I got closer, until we finally spotted each other. She was standing in the middle of the boardwalk, with a light jacket over her nightgown, in her slippers. I walked up to her and we just hugged for a long time. I apologized for making her worry, she apologized for getting upset. She asked how my walk was. I told her I had made it down to the convention center, but didn't tell her anything else.

As we walked back towards the condo, she spotted a stuffed alligator (she loves gators) at one of the midway games, the one where you have to shoot the ball into the basket. I knew the game was rigged: the balls are over-inflated to bake them bouncier, and the baskets are not round but oval, set lengthwise so you can't easily tell. Making one shot is a fluke, making the 3 required to win the prize is a sucker's bet. But she wanted that gator, so I handed over a five dollar bill for three shots.

Twenty dollars later, I "won" her the two-dollar stuffed toy, and we headed back to the condo, hand-in-hand. I thought about the knife in my pocket, and where I had been, physically, mentally, emotionally, just an hour before. Then I looked at her, hugging her new gator, and saw that she was happy. And even though I was still annoyed about her being stoned, in that moment, I was happy, too. And twenty dollars didn't seem like too much to pay at all.

Demon called Ativan

I hate this damn drug. Intended to help, it seems to be causing more harm than good. It was prescribed by her psychiatrist to help her sleep, but then he said she could use it "as needed" if she felt anxious, stressed, etc. Over the last year, the dosage has gone from .5mg up to 2mg. Every attempt she's made has involved this drug in one way or another, so I'm pretty sensitive about it. I've talked to her shrink about it, and both her therapists, and they say I shouldn't worry, its not addictive. Maybe not, but I know she's gotten very dependent on it. She can't sleep without it, and relies on it during the day whenever she feel anxious, which seems to be more and more often.

She thinks it helps her, but I think its a shield. She hides behind it, so she doesn't have to face the situation. It doesn't help her cope, it helps her avoid coping. When she's on it, she's not herself. She becomes scatter-brained, lethargic, stumbling, emotionally volatile... I can't talk to her, her thoughts are all over the place, her conversation is full of non-sequiters and random thoughts. It sounds harsh, but she gets stupid when she one it. If we're watching TV, she can't remember who the characters are, she mixes up words, she repeats things, and often forgets what someone else just said to her. She thinks she's fine, but she's not. I've told her she's like the guy at the party who's clearly drunk, and is determined to convince everyone he's not...it just makes it worse. She takes it without hesitation, even when the situation is nothing more than spending time with her family, or mine. For example, we try to see my sister and brother-in-law once a week for dinner, been doing it for a couple years now, and she still gets so nervous about it sometimes that she'll take the Adivan. The effects are not subtle...even they've noticed she's not herself on occasion: "Is she OK? Is something wrong?" I don't tell them she's basically stoned, but they know something's not right.

Whenever I try to talk to her about my concerns, she gets very defensive. "I'm taking it according to the doctors instructions (i.e. whenever the hell she wants to). She often talks about how much she'd like to not be taking the other meds she's on (Effexor, Lamictal and Lithium) but I've never heard her say she wants to stop taking Ativan. We've had numerous fights about it. I've told her my concerns, about how I hate what she becomes when she's on it, the role that it's played in every suicide attempt she's had, etc. About 6 weeks ago, we even talked about it together with her therapist. We agreed that it *does* help her sleep (and sleep, or lack there-of has been determined to be a primary factor in her depression). Though I wish she'd find other relaxation techniques, (the drug doesn't so much "help her sleep" as it does just knock her out), I really don't have too much of a problem with it being used that way. Its the discretionary use that concerns/worries/scares the crap out of me. We all agreed that use for sleep was OK, and that she'd try to be more aware of how she uses it otherwise, and would understand my concerns about it. I agreed to try not making such an issue about it.

But the very next time the subject came up, a few days later, it turned right into an argument. She had come home from work (part time, about 16 hours a week, but lately more hours as she covers for others), and was acting strangely. I asked her if she had taken "anything" (I have to call it "anything" cuz if I dare say the name I'm sure all hell will break loose), and she immediately got angry/defensive, yelling "No!" as if to say "How dare you even ask me that!" I told her I thought I had a right to know, and that I didn't like the fact that she makes me feel like I'm prying, just because I ask. We went back and forth, and eventually she said she *had* taken one because it was a hard day. The rest of the night was awkward, and we hardly spoke.

Another time we were sitting on the porch, enjoying a day off together, when a storm started to roll through. We have 4 dogs, and 3 of them get nervous and noisy when there's thunder, so we have these little herbal "pet calm" biscuits that help. She gave them each one, and a while later, as the thunder rolled, the dogs started barking. She says, "Maybe I should give them all some Ativan" . I didn't think this was too funny. I looked at her, but didn't say anything. She said "You know I was only joking. I wouldn't really do that." I said "I know." and let it go at that. Well, she spent the next 2-and-a half-hours not speaking to me. She got up and did some housework, but avoided me. I finally asked her what was wrong, and she says "You gave me such a dirty look when I said that about the Adivan."
"And that's what you're mad about now?"
"Yes. I've been so angry about it, I'm wondering if we'll ever get back to being happy again. Wondering if maybe we should be apart, if our marriage can be saved. We just seem to always disagree.." (of course, that's not a direct quote, but you get the idea. She had gotten herself so worked up about it that she was thinking we should leave each other!) I explained to her that, as she knows, the drug is a very hot-button issue with me, and I'm not comfortable joking about it, however innocent it might be. Its just not something I'm in a place to take lightly. She seemed to understand, and said she'd try to be more aware next time.

Another time we had her parents with us for the weekend. She was so nervous about them being here, that she was on Adivan pretty much the whole time. That Saturday, we were going out to dinner. She wanted to drive. I suggested that I would. She said no, she would. I didn't want to turn it into a big issue in front of her parents, so she drove the four of us in their mini-van. She was all over the road, couldn't stay in the lane, stopping short at intersections...at one point we actually had two tires well onto the shoulder and she still didn't realize she was going off the road. Her mom and I both shouted her name, and she finally pulled us back onto the road. "I guess I'm just not used to driving this van". She didn't seem to understand how close we had come to running into the ditch. After dinner, I insisted on driving home, and I felt that her mom was very relieved about that (maybe my imagination, but maybe not...)

I hate this drug. I hate what it turns her into. I hate that she's become so dependent on it. I hate that she doesn't see what its does to her, to us. I hate the fact the in some ways, it *does* help her, and that that's all the justification she needs to "win" any arguments we have about it. I hate the role that its played in her previous suicide attempts. I hate the gut-level certainty that, as long as its around, it will play a role in another attempt. I hate that no one else seems to think there's a problem.

I hate this damn drug.

Why this...why now

Suicide sucks. Failed suicide might suck even more.

I am the survivor of a loved one's multiple failed suicide attempts. There have been 4 attempts in the last year ... 3 hospitalizations in 18 months ... countless hours of therapy, for both of us, individually and as a couple ... half a dozen different medications in varying doses that makes psychiatry seem more like a crap shoot than a science ... numerous heart-to-heart talks, and probably just as many fights, sometimes about important things, sometimes about unimportant things, and even sometimes about why we seem to fight so much lately.

There's a line in Stephen Donaldson's "The Wounded Land" that says something to the effect of: "if you want to hurt a manu who's lost everything, give him back something broken".

The failed suicide of a loved one is like that. Like getting something back that's been broken. Sometimes you wish you had just never gotten it back at all, because it's just too painful.

It's difficult not to feel sympathy for someone whose been so down, so full of loss, so empty of everything else, that they see death as the best answer. And if they're "successful" (hard to use that word in the context, but it fits), then the grief they bring to the loved ones they left behind is almost imeasurable. The fact that they failed to take their own life, that they (and we) have another chance to make things right should be cause for joy. Right? Well, I'm here to tell you, it ain't all hearts and flowers.

Please don't get me wrong: I do not, under any circumstances, wish she had killed herself. It may sound like I'm saying it, but I'm not. Let me be plain: I DO NOT WISH MY WIFE HAD DIED. As much agony as we've been through, I can't imagine how devastated I'd be if she had gone (actually I can imagine it, but only in the conext of "however bad I think it would have been, it would have been worse"). But there are times when I just feel like giving up...when I find myself thinking we can't possible keep going this way...I'm just not strong enough to wait until she gets better, until she wrestles her demons and gets back to normal.

We've spent more than half of our lives together, meeting in 1979 when we were just shy of 20. We knew each other better that anyone else. We were birds of a feather, both growing up feeling like the outcasts, being shy/reserved, not opening up easily to others. We found in each other a kindred spirit, someone we knew actually understood what we were feeling, because they felt it too.

Her suicide attempts, the result of decades of struggling with undiagnosed depression and several emotionally traumatic episides, have torn almost 25 years of history to shreds, leaving me wondering who we are now, and what we mean to each other, and if we can ever recapture what we once had. The physical scars from her first attempt are almost invisible if you don't know they're there, but the emotional and psychological scars on both of us seem so deeply ingrained now that I don't know if we'll ever be back to the way we were.

Each day is a new challenge: for her, the challenge is to find a reason to stay alive, to find some joy in this life, to find the confidence and beauty in herself to know that she is loved, and lovable, and important; for me, its to find a way to keep hoping when I feel that all is lost, and that we'll never heal, to learn to trust her again, to find a way not to second guess everything she does or says, certain that I'll find some clue that she's gearing up for number 5, to know that no matter how much I want to, I can't crawl inside her head and fix her, and to know that if the unthinkable should happen, its not my fault.

I feel guilty even writing those last 4 words. Of course its my fault, isn't it? If I can't help her find a reason to stay alive, then what the hell am I here for? This is the demon I've stuggled with for the last year-plus. I've had 3 different people, from different support systems, all tell me the same thing at one time or another: it's not my job to keep her from killing herself. God, how hard that's been for me to wrap my head around!! I was doing good with it for a while, but then she had a backslide, I went along for the ride, and now it seems we're both back to square one in many ways. She tells me that suicide is no longer an option for her, that her last attempt drove home for her how serious this is, and how hard she has to work to heal herself. I want - God how I want - to belive her, but there's always doubt. She blind-sided me 4 times now. She's so good at pretending she's just down, just out of sorts, a little blue, and as soon as I get comfortable that I'm reading her correctly WHAMMO, we got a call into 911 and ambulances in the driveway. ..its no wonder I'm paranoid!!!

Anyway, one thing I've learned is that bottling things up really doesn't help. I've learned that no matter how painful my thoughts and emotions, just saying them out loud helps to defuse their toxicity. So I write this, and future posts, in the hopes that it will help me deal with some of the issues I, and we, are facing. And maybe someone will read this and find some solace, knowing there are others going through the same thing. And maybe they'll get some help from something I've written, but really I'm a greedy person at heart, and hope to get help and support from others as much as give it. (Damn, am I a needy S.O.B or what?!?!)