Trickle, trickle… splat
13/11/2012
The words have stopped popping out of my head.
It’s a slow trickle, like everything else.
It may have started when I weaned off of Duloxetine (Cymbalta). I’ve been off for eight weeks now, and only the last two have been at all bearable (although that seems to be changing). I didn’t even figure out the probable cause of all the trouble til five weeks in, after my third visit to the GP, when I saw a locum, also bipolar, who experienced the dreaded Cymbalta withdrawal herself.
Google it. I’ve lived it (although the word “live” feels too optimistic).
Diarrhoea for five weeks. Vomiting for four. Nightmares. Paranoia. Malaise. Anxiety and panic. Impending sense of doom. Restlessness. Fever and chills.
I do think it may have killed a few brain cells.
So at the end of this, I signed on at a temp agency and was placed at a combined Council/NHS department housed at, coincidentally, the local mental hospital. Hated, hated, hated the job. Angry people. Conflicting demands. Tedious work.
I am to see my beloved psychiatrist this Friday. I rather suspected she might sign me off sick. I am colossally unhappy. I am afraid to fall asleep because it leads always to the morning.
Yesterday after work, however, I get a call from the agency — I am apparently “not suitable” and am being let go immediately. So obviously, they hated me too. Just because I am paranoid doesn’t mean I am wrong.
Just because I am paranoid doesn’t mean I am wrong.
I am pleased to not go back, but the money thing, and oh!! the husband thing.
This morning, just now, in fact, I got another call from a different agency which has found my CV on Monster, presumably. They want to interview me for a software training job, development and delivery. One door opens. Should please the husband. Don’t think I’ll get it, but, still.
The fact remains that I am desperately desperately unhappy. Rolling in stinky piles of misery unhappy. Hate my life I wish I was dead unhappy.
But maybe I don’t.
After the discovery
16/08/2012
He has since confessed to sleeping with two prostitutes on five occasions. One became emotionally interested in him; the other he began to fall for.
I don’t know exactly when these joyous couplings took place. I do think that he has confessed only to the tip of the iceberg.
He strayed because I am uninterested in sex (apparently!) and because I am a poor housekeeper. He felt taken advantage of. Poor baby.
I offered: divorce. I offered: an open marriage. I suggested: counselling. All rejected.
Money troubles seem very much at the fore. Finances are still kept secret from me.
At the moment I am visiting my parents in America. I am very unsettled.
I feel hollow.
Be careful what you wish for …
12/07/2012
Did I just say “it’s what makes me a whore”? Did I just say that?
Astonishing, then, that it turns out my husband, at the very least, considers himself quite the connoisseur of the working girl. His interest in them may well have cost the family rather a lot of money.
I stumbled upon a porn-star pseudo-named email account on Sunday. I made note of the name and googled it later that evening. And lo and behold, there he was, posting in an adult worker forum with great authority on the subject of sex in general but mostly on sex with ladies of negotiable affection. He held forth on subjects including the most memorable place he’d had sex (one of which was with me, which confirmed his identity further), the pros and cons of reverse bookings, what he looks for in an advert for an escort, his physical preferences (he even mentioned a work colleague he’d praised in my presence). Perhaps most wounding of all, for some odd reason, was a thread in which some poor prossie asked for recipes to help her learn to cook. He gave her one of mine! My own delicious customised version of grilled haloumi with lemon and spring onions – offered up to a strange sex woman, like an offering – on a plate, as it were.
And when I told him what I’d learned, he denied it all. He told me it was merely a joke, a wind-up, with one of his old Army mates. It may have turned into a bit of role-play, he conceded. I remain unconvinced. I am even less convinced now that I have perused all 41 of his posts at leisure, as some of them contain a great amount of detail on the booking process.
He has not said he is sorry. He did not say he loved me. He turned it all into a discussion about our money problems.
The night after next, he tried to have sex with me. I shrunk myself into the smallest of balls and cried until he turned away.
So what happens now? I will finish reeling first, and then decide what to do, after a bit more consultation. Many options — but I’m wondering if this isn’t my Get Out of Jail Free card.
Shut your eyes and think of England
05/07/2012
What happens in a marriage? What happened in mine?
After a few years, sex is a different beast, but not a sexy one. It’s another grisly chore to finish before sleep.
“Paying the mortgage” is what I privately call sex with the husband. It’s part of my job, like the meals and the wan attempts at housecleaning. It’s earning my keep.
It’s what makes me a whore.
It’s not sex Against My Will. But it is sex Against My Wishes.
And when I think what it once was – night and day, apple and orange, cliché and other cliché. Could I change back? Do I even want to?
And is this just me, or is this pattern familiar to other women who think too much?
Words are popping out of my brain
24/05/2012
I went today to my favourite hippy-crystal bookshop. I was really looking for a book that might be called something like The Goddesses’ Guide to Making Your Husband Dump You Whilst Thinking It Was His Own Idea All Along.
I didn’t find it. Can you imagine?
I’ve lost track of what I need. It feels like I need too much.
Never mind, then, what I need. What do I actually have? Mainly, it seems, I have children – four of ’em. Ages 17, 15, 6 and 6. Girl, boy, boy and boy, the last two being twins, as you’ve no doubt gathered. I have credit card debt and an overdraft. I own half of the paid-for portion of a Victorian terraced house in an English seaside town. I have an American accent – for the perfectly logical reason that I am, in fact, an American, though I’ve lived here for twelve years.
I have an ex-husband who made me cry every day for years. I have a rather newer husband who began as a knight in shining armour but has somehow morphed into some subtle sort of enemy. I don’t quite know how, but cannot quite look into it, because I also have a genuine fear of confrontation, which clearly frustrates him. All I can see is the hate streaming off of him.
I have a psychiatric diagnosis. I’m bipolar, diagnosed 15 years ago, before Stephen Fry made it trendy. And, like many, since then, there’s been a merry-go-round of medications, a workplace breakdown… I’m still not working, in fact, which the husband detests. So I continually feel I must earn my keep, despite being a mother to four, running a house where the spouse is away on business more often than not.