It’s so hard to get these posts started. I just don’t know where to begin. I feel everything and I feel nothing. I am angry but I’m calm. I’m sad but have no tears to show for it. Then there’s the nothingness lulling me with her sweet numbness. I think I’ll take her side.
I don’t know what’s really wrong with me. Maybe it’s the fact I put my husband in a psych ward yesterday. Maybe it’s because it brings up my own terror images of being locked away. Maybe it’s because the last thing husband said to me was that a part of him wanted to kill me. I think that fits well.
I feel sorry for the spouses, partners, and friends who support us. Husband has it hard. I have several members who are crazy for tattoos. We have four tattoos already. They want several more. I personally don’t like tattoos but I feel all members should have an outlet, like the littles should have their Barbies and Fruit Loops and the teenagers should have music and makeup. So why should I say no to other members just because Husband hates tattoos?
It was this fight that sparked his down spiral again. He is angry at me because I allow the tattoos; I don’t stop it. Sometimes, when going to get a tattoo, I do want to turn the car around but I’m compelled, pushed forward to the tattoo shop. And when I look in the mirror and see the final piece I grimace but the face in the mirror is all smiles.
He says we value tattoos over him; we love the tattoos more. It’s not black or white but his thinking is and this led to comments made by me about leaving him. My thinking at the time was that I just can’t deal with him anymore. But I did tell him if he went to the hospital I would stay for now. But I don’t see what good the hospital can do. His feelings about us will not change. The hospital will not change his view of our getting tattoos. And I feel completely betrayed by him when he doesn’t show other members love other than the ones that are easy to like, for example, the littles.
A lot of damage has been done to this marriage. He was my rock, my support, my everything. I relied on him for almost everything. Which may or may not have been a good thing, but it is what it is.
I’ve refused to talk to him. He’s called four or five times but I can’t imagine what he could have to say to me. Every word would be my recall for the verbal daggers he’s thrown at me.
Again, I know it’s hard on loved ones who have to cope with our illness perhaps as much as we do. He’s always done everything he could to accommodate me. It’s a shame to lose it over stupid tattoos.
In any case, I hope this reaches someone out there, some reader in Internet land. Maybe then I won’t feel so despondent, alone, and hopeless. Right now I feel like hurting myself with a glorious razor blade or the bright flame of a lighter, but I won’t. I’ll find other, less effective ways to cope.