Damn stupid voices

Someone (possibly Ani Difranco) said that her songs were letters to herself.  My blog is like that. I need to write letters to myself because I can’t remember things. Like an old woman with Alzheimers who writes “You are 80 years old.” on her mirror and still questions if someone forged her handwriting.

My husband and I have been together for 16 years. He is a really really great guy. I chose him because I loved him and he made me smile and taught me how to have fun.

But as I become aware of all the mistakes that I made in my teens, all the masks I wore – even to myself… I don’t really believe that I was ever capable of hearing my own heart. So how could my feelings for him have been real? How could I know that he was in love with me and not the holograph that I projected? This is the part where my memory fails me. When I talk to him, really talk to him, he reminds me of all the fun we did have together. All the love we both felt. On a clear day, I can remember that. I know that wasn’t a lie.

Amidst all the repression and numbness and hurt in my youth, he was the one thing that was actually truly good. He was the one person who actually meant it when he said that he loved me and would be there for me. He is the one person who is still here beside me.

So, why am I so mad at him?

I think that in some way, as the only remnant of the past that I am running away from, I imagine that he is in some way keeping me tied to the person that I once was. He just won’t let me throw out the baby with the bathwater. (not our baby, just metaphorically…)

Over the past few months, every time I lose my footing (ie. have a bipolar episode), he takes care of the kids but he seems to run away from me. I was convinced that I finally broke him. That he just couldn’t handle my crazy. I think that this validated me in some weird way by proving that he could only love the holograph of me.

But then finally, yesterday (with encouragement from many friends), I came to him with an open heart and open ears and we spoke. I learned that it’s not my crazy that scares him away (though I’m sure it would have scared away many a weaker man), it’s my anger and rage. (anger? i have anger?) Apparently, I’ve been raging at him every time I lose my footing. I say apparently because I don’t exactly remember it that way.  I don’t remember coming into the kitchen after we have both had a long day at work, where he is rushing to make dinner, feed the kids, bathe them and put them to bed (on his own because I’ve checked out) and hassling him because he left the tomatoes on the counter and used an extra bowl. Railing on him for not respecting me by keeping the kitchen clean, wearing a shirt that doesn’t fit, not getting a hair cut, grumbling that he is oppressing all women with his carelessness (as he cares for his children with gentleness and love).

I don’t remember it that way but I remember feeling incredibly justified in my feelings of being wronged, of being abandoned. I remember feeling hurt that he said he would help me when I got down but he isn’t helping because I’m still drowning in myself. I say that I don’t need him to help me feel better, but it’s not true. I resent him sometimes for not curing my bipolar. But really, he has done more to help me face it than anyone in my life.

But I know this man. I trust this man. and I believe him.

I believe him today when he says that he is here for me. I believe in him with my open eyes and my ability to really hear my heart. I hope that if I write that on my mirror, I won’t question the handwriting.

Growing up, I could tell when my mother’s mood had shifted and I knew that if I didn’t get out of the way, I’d get hit with her rage. She would randomly pick on any imperfection – for example, leaving a dirty dish – and it was as if the world rested on that dish. My entire self worth was in question because I left out a dish. I’ve spent so much effort trying to heal from this toxic environment. and now, I’ve been doing it to the one person who never deserved it.

I’m sorry babe.

I haven’t figured out exactly how I’m going to stop doing this, how to reign it in, where to put that anger, but I understand that it doesn’t belong on you. I understand that it is my anger and not my crazy that is driving you away. I think that this understanding will protect you…and us.  I owe you gratitude for always helping me when I feel down and for always always protecting our kids from my crazy.

Thank you. and I love you.

Wonderful father


3 thoughts on “Damn stupid voices

  1. I love that you wrote this, it’s like you scampered in my ear, crawled in my brain and curled up deep in the craziest part.

    The rage, the entitlement, the forgetfulness. I hate it, it makes me feel so broken living it. And it makes me feel less crazy reading about it.

    Maybe it *is* somewhat normal, maybe it *isn’t* as shameful as it feels….maybe I can change it too!

    What a lovely breakthrough. So proud of you for taking the strength to write this. I still read you, a devoted reader, always.


  2. I can totally resonate with this. While not bipolar, my depression/anxiety has bottled up a shit ton of rage over the years. I can’t articulate my feelings and the anger comes spilling out…I very rarely even realize that I’m bottling it up. And sometimes I just rage for no fucking good reason at all. I don’t understand myself. Therapy has helped only marginally and in the good times I seem to forget how horrible the rage episodes truly are.


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