Sane VS Insane

I can feel it. I am drifting further from rationality, sanity, stability, and am being swept toward the darkness, the emptiness, the loneliness, of insanity. 

I don't feel compelled to help myself. I should call my psychiatrist, yet I don't. 

I have really messed up this time, playing with my prescriptions, and now my emotional state is anyone's guess from one moment to the next. Also, now I will run out of klonopin. I will run out, and this force of insanity which I struggle to keep at bay will be unleashed. Unless I call my psychiatrist. Which I have no intention of at the moment. Maybe in the next moment I will. I could be an entirely different person in the next moment, which scares me.

I'm so close to the edge that I could step right off into that place where only a hospital could help me. A hospital that will take my shoelaces, and give me hand towels for showering because bath towels are long enough to strangle a living person. I will stand in line to be dispensed my meds in a tiny paper cup. The trash bins will remain unlined as trash bags could be used to suffocate a living person. Yet I am holding steadfast to the ledge. I don't want to cross that boundary again. The boundary where sanity ends, and insanity begins. I need to call my psychiatrist. 

Part of me wants to give up, to go back to the hospital, to go back to where I was 6 years ago. I could give myself up to the doctors, nurses, and staff. They could tell me how to get better, and I wouldn't have to do it this way, completely alone. Worse than alone. 

My husband tries to understand, but he doesn't, and he's mean. Emotionally abusive, which may drive even a sane person to the brink of sanity. But I'm not a sane person. I am mentally ill, something I was in denial about nearly all my life. I'm starting to accept it, but he's not. For every step I take forward, out of this depression, he takes me five steps back. Sometimes he takes me back to rock bottom, just completely crushes me until the dissociation kicks in. The only defense mechanism I have to battle the times where I just can not handle one more minute of this life. At rock bottom, I feel nothing. I say nothing. I imagine I am no longer a person, that I have temporarily disappeared to somewhere peaceful. Most of the time he stays there screaming at me, telling me what a fucking bitch I am, that he would love to beat the fuck out of me, that he's going to divorce me and I will never see my son again because I'm a fucking lunatic.

I keep telling myself he can get better, he might change and learn to love me the way a person should be loved. Marital love should involve empathy, caring, admiration, and above all a sense of alliance against all the bad parts of life. Not in this marriage. I tell myself he's gotten better. Gone are the days he would pull out a loaded gun while we were fighting, and I had to fear for my life. I think he used to get out guns with the plan to kill himself, but hey, that's how crimes of passion are committed. When it came to guns, everything became uncertain. Would we both even make it out of the fight alive? Anybody's guess. I always at LEAST knew I am worth more than that. 

When the guns were coming out, I hired a divorce lawyer and paid him in advance. I was going to free myself. I even had a plan. I was going to find somewhere to live and get a restraining order before I told him I was leaving. The papers he would be served would inform him that I was divorcing him. If he killed himself, at least I wouldn't have to be there.

I told one friend. My only friend, my last friend, of my plan. She volunteered to come help me move my things and my son's things while my husband wasn't home. She then made a mistake that could have gotten me killed, a mistake that I can never forgive her for. She told someone. She told someone who told 5 someones who also told 5 someones, and then everyone knew what I was planning. This is where people need to stay out of other peoples' business. But no, one person who knew nothing about my marital relationship called my husband and told him. I feel lucky that he didn't just shoot me, because I could see him doing something like that in a fit of rage. We have a 3 bedroom house with somewhere around 20 guns, many of them loaded at all times. That's Montana living. 

Needless to say, I didn't make my escape. My husband promised not to bring guns into our fights. I told him if it happened again I would be gone. No more chances. Of course I know that it only takes once to die. I got my money back from my lawyer and gave up my dreams of escape forever. This is my life. I am responsible for getting myself to this point in my life. I could try to play the victim, blame it all on my husband, but that wouldn't be right. I CHOSE to marry him. For better or worse, in sickness (even mental) and health, until death. Whatever death that may be, timely or untimely, purposeful or not.

My Dad's brother died of a gunshot wound to the head, followed by a house fire which burned his remains. It was listed as a suicide, but that "fact" of course has been questioned throughout the years since his death. Still, that's another story I may tell another day.

So giving up and admitting myself to the psychiatric hospital sounds better to me than a vacation in Vegas, but I can't do it. There is a 4-year-old who would miss his mommy too much, and the thought of my boy crying is 1000 times worse to me than the thought of me having to be a big girl and deal with this all by myself. 

Motherhood, even unplanned, is the biggest reason I am not as bad off as I was six years ago. Six years ago I myself held a loaded gun to my head, put my finger on the trigger, then put the gun down to call 911 and ended up in the psychiatric hospital instead of dead. I can't be suicidal now that someone depends on me so much. I would do anything in my power to keep a smile on my boy's face as much a possible. He saved me from myself. I found out I was pregnant a month after getting out of the psych ward. That means 2 things. 1.) I was kind of slutty and had sex with a guy I had a fling with in high school (now my husband) the day after I got out of the hospital, and 2.) My son was conceived the day after I got out of the hospital. Also, I meant to have another fling with his father, and instead ended up with a marriage, and a life in Montana. 

It appears to be a great life. Anyone in real life would be shocked to read my blog. I learned one thing at a young age. Appearance is far different from truth. I now actually have a theory that truth doesn't exist, but is based solely on perception. If every person perceives reality differently, then each person's reality is a different story even if they witness the exact same occurrences as others. Therefore, there is no concrete reality. Since truth is based on concrete reality, and concrete reality doesn't exist, then concrete truth doesn't exist either.

Whoa, got way off topic there. Please excuse my Attention Deficit Disorder problem. 

So back to appearances. My life appears perfect. So perfect that people envy me for it, wish they were me, and talk behind my back saying I stole this life from my husband's ex-girlfriend. If you met me on facebook, you would think I live a charmed life. If you met me in person you would really think I have it made. 

I am a perfectionist. I like people to think my life is perfect and beautiful. It makes me feel like I have a tiny amount of control over something. It makes me feel like I've conquered my psychological problems, because if everything seems okay, then it must be okay right?

Wrong. So wrong. And my life is so far from perfect. This is why I am living "against the current."

Can I have my fucking Academy Award now?

Thanks for reading about the horrors of my life. Somewhere in the middle of writing this blog I made an appointment to see my psychiatrist. I can't give up on myself, especially for my little boy's sake.

Because I would protect this precious little human being at all costs.