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My Profile
She blinded him with whiteness - 2008-07-25
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7:58 a.m. - 2008-03-21
The worst part of being off my meds isn't the constant yeast infection caused by my unconscious self-medicating with a steady stream of candy and booze. It's not the heavy sadness and backbeat of suicidal thoughts like a malign earworm. It's not the easy tears. It's not how impossible it is for me reach out to speak easily and naturally with my friends. It's not even the way all the crappy life experiences I've had come frothing out like the passengers in a clown car, an unbelievable number from such a small space. Nope, the worst of being off my meds is the nightmares. I never knew which was the chicken and which was the egg when it came to my horrible sleep world. For a long time I believed the nightmares came from my nasty waking life. Get rid of the awful during the day and the nights would be okay. Not that I had much practice to prove my theory during the dark years but it seemed sensible. Wrong! These days my waking life is pretty good. I recognize the black for what it is and do okay at beating it back with a stern reminder that it's only my brain chemistry gone awry. Only a fool could fail to see the rock steady love shining from Mick's eyes. Or the way my house is clean and organized. Or would be deaf to my son's laughter, happy chatter and endless knock-knock jokes. Whatever else I am I am not a fool. My waking hours are just fine. But rational thought has never held sway in the nighttime. Once I go under the lizard brain takes over. All my careful daytime attention to what's real and not real is wiped out and I am at the mercy of an unchecked imagination and a revving brain awash in bitterness and fear. To be blunt- my sleep world sucks ass. Poor Mick! I can imagine what it must be like to share a bed with someone who cries, thrashes, whimpers, and mutters all night long. The other night I blearily surfaced to find him stroking my hair and crooning, "Shhhh, baby. Not real. You're safe. Shhhh, baby, it's okay. Shhhh, my love, you're here with me." Neither of us are getting much rest. Stupidly this is shaming to me. That I, the Queen of Handling Things, am so undisciplined and weak. Like I have any control over what happens when I'm unconscious. Adding guilt and embarrassment to the mix is soooo helpful too. He's known I've been off my meds for a couple weeks now, but was sad to find out yesterday I'd stalled on going to the clinic in favor of using the $$$ to do the Easter Feast. Mick shook his head at me and reached for my hand. "Baby, I know why you did what you did, but you have to listen to me now. Nothing is more important than you taking care of yourself." Huh? But…but…that can't be right. Kids, man, house, pets, everything else in the whole world, then me. I know how it goes. Who was this madman to say different? Since when do I rate? I'm the mom. I'm the wife. Everybody knows what that means. Apparently Mick has a different set of priorities. More bizarre still is his firm insistence his view of the matter takes precedence. He cannot be okay unless I'm okay. Sorry? Could you say that again, please? I thought you said some wild crazy thing about you needing me to feel well. WTF? I'm cooking your meals. Your laundry is done. The family thing on Sunday is all set. Sex is provided as required. Since when is my state of being any factor in your comfort? Oh. I'm real to you? I exist beyond what services I provide? Everything in your universe doesn't begin and end with you? Ohhh-kay. Sorry, forgot who I was living with. Without my meds it's stupid easy to fall back into the way it had always been. Mick will not let me disappear.
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