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My reality.  A constant state of guilt and not enough-ness. Waves and waves of feeling inadequate, like I can't make him happy by staying and I definitely won't make him happy by going.  Like I need to throw myself in between his bad moods and the kids.  My kids are both teens and fully aware when something isn't right with Dad - they just don't know what it is or what they've done.  And so the legacy of guilt is passed down to them. For Bell's Let's Talk Day, my hubby wrote a post about what it's been like for him over the past year.  It was very brave and took incredible courage.  He then asked me to respond.  It was so hard, but I did.  I wrote this when things were a little less chaotic - this past week has been a tsunami of dysregulation and I think, almost underestimates things.  That said, I am going to post it here in the hopes that it resonates with someone and it can encourage them and remind them that we aren't alone on this journey.  We love our spouses and want nothing more than for our relationships to succeed, despite being bruised and broken as we stumble along.

I have been sitting here writing and erasing.  Writing and erasing.  Writing and erasing. I'm trying to get my thoughts in order so that I can respond coherently to the bravery that my husband displayed this evening.  

You see, I have never been so proud of my husband as I am tonight. The courage and transparency that he demonstrated in posting his story is incredible.  By sharing the pain of his struggle with mental illness he hopes to spur a conversation about acceptance, stigma and pain. I am hoping that it does.

That said, he asked me to respond to speak to the other side of things - what it is like to share a life with someone struggling with mental illness.  I struggled with his request because I don't want to hurt him with anything I might share when he is already dealing with so much.  But he insisted, so here we are.

Loving someone with a serious mental illness is agonizing.  It is a constant rollercoaster.  A daily battle.  A hidden minefield that the kids and I have to cross, over and back, hundreds of times a day. I actually likened it to playing Minesweeper.  I never did understand the rules to that game.  I'd click squares, hoping that I'd figure out a pattern to avoid setting off a bomb.  More often than not, I'd uncover too many bombs and the game would be over.  Luckily, our daughter doesn't know that there is a game being played, but our son and I are very aware and the rules keep changing.

In his post, my H talked about moments of extreme anger, being passive aggressive and pulling away from us.  What he didn't mention is that this is ongoing.  Things that don't bother him one day, can cause extreme anger and distress the next.  None of know why.  There are also moments of complete withdrawal, extreme depression, panic, and rage.  No clues as to why it happens.  No clues as to when it will happen. His PTSD can be triggered by scents, sounds, events … you just never know.

Then there are the tears.  His.  Mine.  Ours. The gut-wrenching times of watching your loved one in such distress that it breaks your heart. With no way of easing the pain, you just have to sit there … helpless … trapped in your own misery of having your hands tied.

I have felt guilty - like it was my fault.  I didn't love him enough.  I wasn't kind enough.  I wasn't understanding enough. I didn't DO enough - not enough driving the kids around, not enough organizing their stuff so it didn't bother him, not enough looking after the house, not enough cooking dinner, not enough laundry, not enough … not enough … not enough … That's the message that I have received since this began.  I am not enough.  

I have felt alone.  Who can I share this secret with?  Everyone has their own stories and their own burdens to bear.  I didn't want to overburden anyone.  I didn't want them to think badly of H when I could see how brave he was and how much he was fighting this. And, to be honest, I didn't have the strength to find the words. How do you put utter exhaustion into words?  How do you express your truth without making him look bad in the eyes of others.  I couldn't do it. It wasn't his fault.  He didn't ask for this. And so I held my peace. And cried on the inside. And screamed. And huddled in a corner of my mind.

I have felt scared - scared of the anger.  Scared that someone will find out.  Scared that he would hurt himself.  And then he did.  He tried.  

And that voice got louder.  

I am not enough. I am not enough to give him strength.  I am not enough to give him joy.  I am not enough to keep him alive.  I am not enough.  

This contributed to my own path of anxiety and depression.  I felt such guilt.  How dare I feel this way when he was going through this pain?

I try to stand in between the illness and our children.  I don't want them to be effected by it or to experience the pain, themselves.  Our sweet girl is unaware.  Our darling boy is not. But we learn more about the illness.  About how to support my husband.  About how to support each other.  And about what to do when it all feels too much.  I research support groups.  I join online communities. And I sit down and struggle to find the words to respond to his bravery today.

And so we stagger on.  Sometimes propping each other up, sometimes on our hands and knees, not able to stand straight. Sometimes we get a glimpse of hope in the shape of his uninhibited laughter and it feels as though we have seen who he used to be.  Sometimes our faces are stained from the tears, our hearts scraped raw and our backs bent from the weight that we carry.  But we aren't done yet.  It would be easy to leave.  Possibly less painful.  My days would definitely be predictable.  But I'm not leaving.  I made a commitment.  To my husband.  To God. I said in sickness and in health and I will do everything I can to honour that commitment.  

I would ask, if you see us looking a little haggard from this journey, that you reach out.  :)on't look away or avoid making eye contact.  You don't have to mention that you know what is going on.  Sometimes just a hug is all it takes to say that you are there.  That you'll be there for us.  That you won't run away because you now know what H has hidden in his safe and I in mine. Stand with us.  Spend time with us and understand when we can't reach out or spend time with you.  It's not because you're not important to us - it's just that we're fighting a battle that no one can see. And that day might have been too much.  But tomorrow might be better.

Every day we live in the hope that tomorrow might be better.

Thank you for writing this.

Hi Fracturedheart88 

Sometimes we feel guilty about some things. Sometimes we feel inadequate about things we do. Sometimes feelings of inadequacy comes in waves. These all on their own, in their own time--that's okay. In situations where one partner has dysregulation episodes, then of course that puts more on the plate to deal with.

I hope you get along with peace.  :)

Hi Fracturedheart88,

Wow! This is such a beautiful post and I thank you very much for sharing these thoughts! It really makes a difference to hear from others who share these private struggles - like you say, often in the corners of our minds.

You are enough! 

Do you have a support system? I haven't had one, but his last crises have strangely led to me being forced to be less of a loner about this stuff. Now my family is helping a bit.

warmly, pearl.

Thanks for your support. Today is a "not enough" day. He is locked in the bathroom, crying ... .it's 10:45 and I'm exhausted. I know he wants me to go and comfort him and if I don't he'll be upset because I "don't care" and am "never there for him." (The quotations are frequent phrases that I hear, even though I know they aren't true).  Is it completely wrong to just try to go to sleep? I've just got nothing to give right now. I'm empty.

Hi Fracturedheart88   

We're here to help after all. Yes, being in this kind of relationship can deplete us as nons, and then a bit more. Phew it's all so exhausting sometimes. I remember when I had something big on the next day at work and she blew up at me until 4am+. Times like that, it feels like you're in a marathon, but like as a ghost. You recall somehow floating through it, it's painful, and there's not much to show for it. Remember when we're empty, we have to find some way to refill ourselves, and our partner often isn't the answer.

I hope you find peace.  :)