The Embarrassing Truth

To those of you that have access to my private blog I know you've already read this. I just thought it was time I acknowledged to the world how much of a delusion I was living, how much pain I have caused and how I came to realize that I'm the one responsible. I'm the one that has to take care of it. I'm the one that has to be humble enough to change.

My wedding ring. Yes there is a point to this picture. 

You already know I tell you way too much. I guess I should thank you for reading what I write. The writing clears my brain and allows me to vent without going to jail. I really don't want John Walsh looking for me. He kind of creeps me out with his ever-changing hair color.

Anyway, I'm going to totally sound like a self-absorbed brat (yes, I edited out the original word I used to describe myself) here, well mainly because I am, but that's beside the point. Yes I wear Manolos and Louboutins, and Chanel, yes my bag is a Louis, as is each and every piece of my luggage, yes I drive a Mercedes, my watch is a Rolex and I won't even tell you what my jewelry appraised for, because, well, it's embarrassing. All that is leading to a point. I'm a spoiled child with no control, no restraint and a husband that has given me everything I've wanted, everything I've asked for. All of his giving and all of my taking has taken it's toll in many ways.

There was an "incident" Thanksgiving night that set off a firestorm. My husband was gracious and didn't tell me about it until everyone had gone home. He didn't want to ruin my day. I'm thankful for that. The details of what happened aren't really that important, but what they sparked were earth shattering, for me.

You all know of my wanting to be free, to wander, to play, to be me and have no responsibilities. Well this weekend I was slapped square in the face with a realization. I wanted all of that because deep down inside I believed whatever I did, my husband would never leave me. Wanting to be free was a fantasy, and nothing more, well bipolar played into it, but I'm going to be a big girl here and take full responsibility.

My disorder had caused many of the incidents in past years, it had caused me to act in ways I might not have otherwise. It's a demon I live with and I have to acknowledge that, but it's under control and has been for more than a year, yet I continued old habits. I'm to blame here, not bipolar.

Jeff and got into a HUGE argument, one that would usually trigger my "bipolar vortexes," send me spiraling down into the pits of hell, finding a razor blade (I did get one, I did take it out of the wrapper, but I didn't use it), and ending up on a death watch. My daughter did try to get my new psych's name out of me, but I wouldn't tell her, that's how bad it got. If I was going to do it, I wanted no one talking me out of it. Not wanting to "burden" my psychiatrist was part of if, my stubbornness the other.

I went to the edge, like with everything in my life, but this time I didn't go over. I cried (most of you know I DON'T do tears), I sat on the cold tiles of the bathtub deck. Through my tears, and blurry 49 year old vision, I kept one eye on the new, shiny, razor blade. I thought about it, but I didn't act.  Even with all the pain of the moment and watching the blade taunt me, I didn't give in. The meds must be working.

I surveyed the bottles of pills on my cluttered bathroom counter. I counted them, 19 in all, not all mine. But in a pinch they could help. All I did was stare at them and wonder. Which were working? Which, in an overdose, would just let me go to sleep? Which would make me vomit....not doing vomit, not this Diva, and which would merely relax me enough to enable me to think things through  more clearly? I chose none. I would deal with this full face without the help of my crutches.

Jeff, minutes earlier, told me our marriage was broken and he didn't think it could be fixed, that he didn't know if he wanted it fixed. Whoa now. What did he just tell me? I freaked, totally freaked. That was my line and he was using it one me? Someone had changed the script, someone had inserted a new plot. Someone had thrown me a curve ball. Mixed metaphors I know, but remember, this is my blog and being the spoiled child that I am, I can use whatever metaphor I want.

The next day was horrible, although we were talking some. That night in bed I leaned over and asked, "You'd never really leave me would you?"

He looked at me with his sleepy, blue eyes and said "Yes, yes I will."

I didn't know what to do. I was stunned. I thought that in the heat of the moment he had said we were broken, that he really didn't mean it. But he meant every word that night.

I turned over and silently cried. I couldn't believe that he would leave me!

He's always told me how much he loved me, how he adored me, how beautiful I was, that I was his everything and I assumed he always would, and I'd assumed I could do what ever I wanted. He'd given me free rein before, for 24 years he let me do whatever I wanted to do. He let me have whatever I wanted to have. He let me play whenever I wanted to play.

I took advantage of it. I did what I wanted. I was enough of a brat (once again censored) that I thought he would take it, that he would always be there. I'd pushed him to his limits, and I knew he was now serious.

I emailed him late that night. He called me the next morning while I was sitting in Starbucks. I broke down a little more with each word he uttered. He was going to leave me. I was crying, sobbing uncontrollably, and everyone was watching, but it didn't matter. I realized that what I thought I had wanted for so long wasn't what I wanted at all. I realized that I was about to lose everything I had, I was going to lose him.

I'd never been running from him per se, but from myself, for myself, with no thought of anyone else.

I begged him not to leave. I told him I'd do whatever I could do to show him I wanted it to work. I asked if he would put my wedding rings back on my finger, I haven't worn them much in the last five years. He said he would, but that he wasn't going to be convinced by mere words or the symbolic action of putting the rings on the finger they were made for.

That night when he got home, I met him at the stairs. I hugged him like never before. I didn't let go.

He led me back to where my rings were and carefully put them on my finger. First, my mom's ring, then my wedding ring, then the ring I bought to match my mom's. We both gazed at the three rings on my finger. We thought of the past, we thought of the future. Then he kissed me, like he hadn't in years, I hadn't let him kiss me in years, not like that.

The commitment was made. We'll start over. I'll do my best. I'll try, he'll try, we'll try.