Mentally Ill


I crashed.

Completely.

My meltdown from triggering caused my immune system and soul to plummet.  I was physically ill from the stress and mental and emotional pain of the PTSD event.  I bled when I raged, but this was different.  Worse.  I was attacked from inside, by my heart, my mind, my soul.  It may have been the worse I have felt since I lay dying in the summer sun after I found out my life, my best friend, my love was all one big lie to snare me, and then not give a damn about me as a real person.

He says addict.  He says he was mentally ill.

And now?  What is he now?  When does he think this ‘illness’ hit him?  What about that first choice, the active choice to walk into a strip club knowing he was married and knowing it would hurt me and knowing what I thought about men who went to strip clubs and the type of person who would do that and say they loved someone?

What about his morals? 

What about his lies?

Trust?

Everything about him is backwards.   The lies and secrecy certainly haven’t changed in the past few months.  Lifetimes, it takes lifetimes to do the right thing and make it stick. 

Every lie, every deception is slowly killing me.  What is left of me.  The person I am trying to become.  I am broken now.  Every time I cannot look into his eyes, the eyes I so use to love looking into, every time I think of the brokenness of his mother and how she could not look anyone in the eye.  How he has finally succeeded in recreating his mother so he can actually save her.  From himself.

All those lies he practiced telling her?  All the things he was really doing he wouldn’t dream of telling her so as not to hurt her?  To protect her from pain, even the pain he would cause?  I wonder what things he practiced getting away with behind her and his dad’s back that I am now paying the price.

He needs his women damaged.  Damaged such that they accept abuse at a man’s hands and don’t complain.  Even act like they enjoy it.  He says his mother loved his father.  I wonder how much was true codependance, that he treated her so callously and with such contempt and never supported her, yet she hadn’t the strength of person to leave him and take care of herself.  He once commented with bitterness how he blamed his father for killing his mother.  So, he is also his father, living easily in denial, abusive, and killing the person he claims to care about by slow inches. 

That has to stop.  All of it.  The lies, the abuse, the willingness to harm another person in service to his addictions.

I was trying to figure out why I am having so much pain this time.  I have been with sex addicts.  Multiple addictions.  But I knew from the moment I met them what the score was.  I knew what I was signing up for.  Bad man.  Small town bad boy.  Narcissist.  Emotional tree.  But not him.  I saw some of his secretiveness.  Some of his darkness.  His insecurity.  But I also felt safe with him.  Not that he was one of those ‘safe’ guys, because no man is truly ‘safe’.  No human is truly safe.  But I felt safe, with him.  I was terribly, terribly wrong.  Now, I will never feel ‘safe’ again. 

Maybe that is the terrible lesson?  Maybe that is what hurts so badly?  I never felt safe in my life.  I had to create small tiny pockets of safe in my life.  But with him, I for once felt safe, at home.  There was always that niggling empty spot, but I thought that meant he was NOT like the others, that it was a good sign that I wasn’t completely comfortable, that there was something different about him that I should stick with because when I previously felt comfortable, it was a bad situation, so maybe not feeling so comfortable was a positive sign.

What a joke.

Maybe not entirely comfortable, but I felt safe. Safe to be myself.  Safe to offer him attention and love.  Safe to introduce him to my family and share the responsibilities of my sons with him.  That he was a good person and I was right to do so.

No, no, no, not safe at all.  I was never safe with him, but he covered that up so easily.  He had been abusing women for years and making it OK with himself, and he lied about that very critical aspect of who he was so he could win.  I am not a prize.  I wanted to be a gift.  He doesn’t value gifts.  Only purchases.  Only objects.

I wonder if that ever really, truly bothered him?  Or if he can rationalize anything to make himself OK with it.

I was not OK.  All weekend, I was very not OK.  If I had the pills, I probably would have committed suicide.  Luckily, I didn’t, and I was too depressed to try and think up any other way to leave this life.  I was tired, tired to my soul.  I am tired of the men I bring into my life.  I am so tired of lies and deceit and cruelty.  I cannot change all that negativity into something positive.  I am not strong enough.

I am so weak.  I hate that I am so weak. One thing I have such difficulty accepting or forgiving. 

I sort of climbed out of the worst of the pit by late Monday night.  I meditated some and was able to decide to get back in to life.  I really wished I could lose my job and lose my marriage and lose my responsibilities and walk away into the sunset and no one would ever know where I had disappeared.  I so wished.

I guess I am stuck with figuring out what I truly want.  Putting my thoughts and energies into making that manifest.  I am so utterly, terribly sad that I have come no farther in my search for personal growth than to buy into the immense spin of just a better liar.

Addicts lie.  Liars make great addicts.  I have two years to get my head out of my heart, or the other way around, I don’t know. 

He is thinking about what it might take to earn me back.  Not his words, mine, but that is what it will take.  Part of me is hopeful.  Part is terrified.  He is such a smooth liar.  He has so many reasons to need to lie. 

I can’t take any more, but I have to.  I have choices.  I choose to accept the responsibility of raising my son to the best of my ability.  My crying and depression are not good for him to experience.  But changing his life suddenly, and still dealing with crying and depression on top of the massive upheaval?  It would take months to get back into ‘me’ again. 

Nothing is simple.

Everything hurts.

I will never be the same again.

I am afraid that I am going insane, now.

Oh well.

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