This is all of it

[M604V]

I feel like, for me, it's time to just dump it all out there.  Just purge myself of all of it, stuff I've only been able to talk about with a therapist or a few trusted friends.  This may not fit the parameters of the board, I don't know.  I just hope that someone might see this and realize that they're not alone, or maybe they can learn from my mistakes and missteps before it's too late.  Maybe someone will read this and think: “Holy sh-t.  That’s me.”  Plus, I think journaling it help me keep it straight in my mind, maybe help me talk myself through some of it. Loving someone with BPD is not easy and my case is no exception.
Some important points, in my opinion:

*Trust your gut. If it’s telling you something’s wrong then something’s wrong;
*It could get better but honestly? It probably won’t;
*The pwBPD is dealing with stuff that probably has nothing to do with you and was created long before you. The odds of you fixing it are extremely slim;
*You’re part of the problem. “Blame” is probably too strong, but you’re a part of this too. Something brought you to this point and allowed you to ignore lots of red flags;
*Your efforts are better spent fixing your own mess instead of trying to fix the pwBPD;
*Be careful with your words and NEVER give ultimatums on which you’re not willing to follow through. If you set the line then you’d better be prepared to keep it.

In short: My wife and I have been married for 12 years, together for 14.5, and I feel like it's coming to an end.  I suspect that she has BPD but has never been diagnosed.  We still live together, we both work and have two young children: D11 and S7 (did I do that right?).  She's 38 and I'm 42.  

I'm from a relatively normal family.  I'm the oldest of three.  My parents had me relatively young (early 20's) and my mother often says that she and I grew up together, in a way.  I had a pretty normal, peaceful childhood.  Little League and Saturday morning cartoons and all of that.  I can't really characterize my parents as happy people, at least not back then.  My father had a horrible temper, which is hard to imagine for people who know him now but didn't back then.  I remember a lot of things in my house being broken, doors slammed, all of that.  I got spanked, for sure, and occasionally more than just a swat.  Honestly though, it was also my dad who was the most active in our lives and in the household in general.  He was the breadwinner, although my mother usually worked part-time stuff.  He was also the one taking us places, coaching the sports teams, fixing things around the house.  Despite his faults, I can look back and say it was he who was trying to keep the family as normal as possible.  I'm certain there was no sexual abuse or addiction issues within our home.

My mother was different story.  She and I spoke recently and I told her (and she agreed) "Mom, I don't remember you ever enjoying our lives.  I know you were there. You participated.  But I don't ever remember you enjoying it at all."  So yea, that's her.  She was there.  She wasn't a detriment, per se.  But I have no recollection of her smiling, doing spontaneous fun things with us.  Nothing really.  I remember a lump on the couch. Or in bed by 7 p.m.  I remember her sighing a lot.  She grew up with two older sisters, a mother who was the sweetest, most gentle woman you could ever meet, and a father who was no doubt a narcissist.  Or at least an a**hole anyway.  While not a cruel person, I always said about my grandfather: "He doesn't see the world past the tip of his own nose."  I can't recall, and have never heard about, him ever doing anything for anyone but himself ever.  Her family was at least averagely religious, if not above-average, as was the extended family.  Well except her father.  He never set foot in church while my grandmother went religiously  .  I remember that we were around the extended family a lot when I was young but that steadily waned over the years.  By the time I was 10 we hardly saw them at all.  I remember thinking that mother must feel like a black sheep, and I began to feel that way too.  My parents divorced when I was in my early 20's.  I was already out of the house and on my own.  Honestly it hurt just as bad as I suspect it would if they split when I was a kid.  It was my mother's decision, basically, and I just couldn't understand how or why she couldn't be happy with my father.  Say what you will, but my father is nothing if not devoted and committed.  He would have done anything to keep it together, maybe to a fault.

I was a terribly underachieving student my entire life.  I never really hurt anyone, I didn't commit crimes in school, but I was definitely the prankster, the class clown.  Very Bart Simpson-like.  Horrible grades.  Oftentimes I didn't even have grades.  There was nothing to grade because I did *zero* work.  I felt like I could have been valedictorian if I put my mind to it, instead it took me 4.5 years to graduate high school, and I only graduated because they basically gave me the credits and told me to get out.  I think I adopted a "If I don't try then I can't really fail" mentality.

I was always ashamed of my academic performance, and that's been a shame that I've carried most of my life.  My parents never got crazy over it; I didn't get beaten for a bad report card, but I doubt they were too thrilled.  But it was the teachers who really did a number on me.  I remember constantly hearing: "He's so smart and a joy to have in class.  But his grades are terrible and he's not living up to his potential."  My therapist and I spent a lot of time on that, and I've learned that if you tell a kid that enough times he'll end up thinking himself a failure.  My potential is a “10”, and if I’m at a “4” then I must be a failure. That feeling of worthlessness fueled many decisions thereafter.  I learned that my worth, or sense thereof, could only come from the outside.  It could only come from other people.  I learned codependency, that I was only good if they said I was good.  That I felt about me how they felt about me.

I left high school in January and immediately enrolled in the local college.  Good idea, right?  I mean, free school was kicking my a*s, so why not pay thousands for bad grades?  Needless to say that lasted for about five minutes.  One day I woke up at about 2 p.m., had missed all my classes, and I had an epiphany.  "This is stupid.  If I don't do something soon I'm going to waste away in this town. I've got to get out of here."  So what did I do? I drove down to the local recruiter's office and enlisted in the Marines.  Mind you I knew nothing about the military.  I’m not from a military family. None of my friends joined.  I had absolutely no idea what I was getting into, but I did it anyway.  Why?  Well, in therapy I was able to come to the realization: I was punishing myself. I mean, why not just drop out and get a regular job? Or, actually study and get good grades? Or maybe treat myself with a little more grace and accept the fact that I wasn't a good student? Or join the Air Force or Coast Guard?  Why join what is arguably the toughest, most brutal, disciplined, difficult branch of the U.S. Armed Forces on a whim?  To punish myself.  I was rubbing my own nose in my failures even though no one else was.  I deserved to be punished and if no one else was going to well, God dam*it, I'll punish myself then.

I was in the USMC for five years which included a deployment to Iraq in 2003.  I do not have any typical PTSD-experiences from my time in combat, but I can honestly say that the near-death experiences that I had had a profound impact on me and my psyche.  Like, I don't really think about it, no cold sweats or night terrors.  But man, I can go back to those moments in an instant.  Being in a hole in the desert, pitch black except for explosions, screaming to your buddies, certain that death is only seconds away; it does something to a person I guess.

I was also briefly married during the USMC, to a fellow servicewoman.  We were in our early 20's and completely head over heels.  But we were kids trying to play an adult game and it didn't work out.  Funny how the military does that.  We were given a tremendous amount of responsibility at a really young age, and it kind of caused us to conflate responsibility with maturity.  Responsible we were; mature we were not.  

That marriage ended due to my infidelity.  I certainly do not condone any infidelity.  Of course not.  But I was also an idiotic kid who had no idea what he was doing.  One night I started down a path that, once alcohol took over, I could not get off.  It was a one-time thing, never happened again.  I was completely shocked and devastated to realize what I was capable of.  I couldn't believe that it happened and vowed that it wouldn't happen again. And it didn't.  Funny thing though, the other woman must have said something to someone and eventually it worked its way back to my ex.  Needless to say the marriage deteriorated after that, except I didn't "know" why.  Like, I didn't know that she knew.  She tortured me for a year, I mean let me have it in every way imaginable, yet I didn't know why.  Finally after months and months of this I told her that I had to walk away from the marriage and she finally let the cat out of the bag: that she knew I cheated a year prior but was torturing me for it.  Letting me slowly bleed out.  Sh*t, that did a number on me for sure.  More shame, embarrassment, regret and guilt heaped on to the pile.  

[M604V]

I don't know a whole lot about my wife's early years.  She grew up in the neighboring town.  Two older brothers.  Her parents split when she was very young, too young to remember, but her father lived one street over.  For all intents and purposes the parents shared care and custody.  My wife was raised in the same home in which her mother grew up; in fact her mother still lives there.  Her brother bought a house across the street from the house in which dad lived after the divorce.  My wife's grandmother (her mother's mother) owned the family home and lived there until her death.  She was a prickly woman to say the least, basically crippled with arthritis at a young age.  Although she lived a very long life, I think much of it was spent in pain and discomfort.  Grandma ruled the roost, quite literally.  She owned the home outright and my MIL lived there rent-free.  Grandma was sure to let MIL and anyone else know that it was her house.  Grandma died about 10 year ago and MIL is still there.  She owns the house outright and there's no debt on it.  There's really no need for her to remain there, although she's of course free to do what she wants.  I've always noticed, though, that she spends more time complaining about the house, needed repairs, etc., than she does actually doing anything about it.  She could sell it in a heartbeat and make off with a handsome sum, but that's not even an option.  She'll talk about it, say it's what she wants, but I'd be completely shocked if I ever saw a "For Sale" sign in the yard.

My MIL is a very sweet woman.  Kind, personable, a lot of fun to be around.  But over the years I have come to accept that she is incapable of ever making anything that resembles an adult decision.  Like, ever.  She ruminates over details instead of picking a path, all the while pulling people into whatever the issue is.  She would just rather be everyone's friend, even if it means depriving her own children of a parent.  A parent who says "no", "that's wrong", "don't do that".  From what I've been told she treated her daughter like more of a friend than a child.  She and my W slept in the same room for a long time, and my W spent a lot of time bouncing from one of MIL's boyfriend's houses to the other.  

As for my W her story is certainly a checkered one, but I just don't know many of the details.  I know what she's told me, and that's about it.  I know that there was sexual abuse, but I don't know the severity, timeline, etc.  I believe at least one instance was perpetrated by a friend/acquaintance/boyfriend of her mother's but I'm not sure.  I believe there was an incident that her father reported to the authorities and for which he tried to pursue arrest, etc.  As the story goes, MIL stonewalled those efforts in an apparent attempt to protect her own reputation, feelings, whatever.  My W was barely in school once she hit her teens.  If she wasn't expelled she was skipping, or she was sent to an alternative school, or she was institutionalized.  I believe that she was institutionalized on at least a few occasions, be it a temporary stay in the local hospital or a place more long-term.  Alcohol abuse started early for my W, as early as 13 or 14 years old and continued into her early 20s.  I've always gotten the impression that my FIL wasn't as aware of the situation as he could have been or should have been.  That may be his own naivety, but I believe that MIL intentionally withheld things from him as well. My brothers in law are nice enough, but they are furniture.  They’re just there.  They don’t detract from the situation but they sure as hell don’t contribute either.  They’re vanilla.  My W eventually got her stuff together long enough to get her GED, enter the medical field and get her nursing degree.  She’s a phenomenally dedicated and accomplished nurse.

I don't really know the extent of my W's early drinking, but I don't think there's really a healthy amount of alcohol for a 14 year-old to be consuming.  Suffice it to say it was a problem.  I believe that it was so bad that she was actually in AA at an early age, or at least receiving treatment for substance abuse and related maladies.  By the time we met (she was about 24) she had already been an active alcoholic, gotten sober for at least a few years, and then relapsed again shortly before we met.  I knew of her (I was a police officer and she a nurse at the local emergency room) but had never really met until one St. Patrick's Day when her mother and a coworker of mine arranged for us to meet at a local bar.  See that? Her mother accompanied her alcoholic daughter to a bar on St. Patty's Day. Amazing!

We started dating shortly thereafter.  From what I can recall things were pretty standard at first.  Two people in their 20's doing typical things.  Coincidentally I closed on a house right when we started dating.  She wasn't a part of that plan, as I didn't even know her when I started the process.  But soon I was being "made to feel" like I was a complete bastard if I didn't invite her to live with me.  So I did.  She knew I was previously married and often commented that she wouldn't get involved with someone who had been married before. But she did anyway.

Soon thereafter I was "made to feel" like I needed to propose, that the relationship would end if I didn't.  Okay, first: "made to feel".  What is that? I often hear people say "no one can 'make you' feel anything" but I don't know that I really subscribe to that.  Sure people can make you feel things.  If someone punched me in the face I would feel physical pain, anger. Perhaps confusion and sadness considering the circumstances.  If I came to your house and criticized your decor and the meal you cooked you'd likely be pretty upset with me.  Insulted and offended, angry and ashamed.  I think the difference is between what people make you feel and what you then subscribe to.  What you do in response to those feelings.  Do you agree?  Do you internalize it?  Can you separate the perpetrator's actions and experiences from your own? That's where I struggle.

Anyway, I was made to feel like I was a piece of crap if I didn't propose so guess what?  I did.  In fact, it was the day after I went out with a buddy for dinner and a beer.  Nothing crazy, nothing scandalous.  Just two old friends catching up.  I got peppered with phone calls all night, accusations, et cetera.  She didn't even stay at the house that night, she went back to her mom's and drank herself to sleep.  The next day I bought a ring.  See where this is going?

We were set to be married in July but come January or so I was getting cold feet.  Not really sure what started it to be honest, but I could feel it coming.  Part of it is that my ex-W worked her way back into the picture.  Nothing in person, just over the phone.  It was clear that there was still unfinished emotional business there.  It ended so fu*king messily, and were so young and stupid; I don't know, it had just never been put to bed in a way that allowed either of us to move on.  I struggle with putting a <period> at the end of sentences, metaphorically.  Walking away from a situation where there’s even a remote chance that I’m considered the bad guy.  (Incidentally I've come to wonder what, if any, significant emotional issues my exW may suffer from.  Not in a self-righteous way, but I completely embarrassed and devastated her and I wonder why she would ever want to ever have anything to do with me again). It was about this time that things really started to click for me:  Do I really want to marry my W? Or am I desperately trying to atone for my earlier sins, just with the wrong person?  Am I punishing myself?  Am I just trying to buy some sense of peace by marrying my W?

I struggled with those feelings for a while.  A few weeks, maybe a month or two, I can’t remember.  Perhaps there were some changes in my behavior, subtle ones.  But I didn’t say anything about the thoughts I was having.  I went out with some friends one night.  Again, nothing crazy.  Two of my best friends and I just hanging out, shooting the breeze, playing some cards.  Nothing out of line.  I came home that night to find my now-W absolutely blind drunk and in an uncontrollable rage.  She lost it on me, demanded to know where I was, who I was with, etc. (despite having told her).  She went off.  Screaming and yelling.  I remember being in the bed and she threw one of her nursing textbooks at me.  The thing must weigh like 15 pounds.  It was huge.  I don’t remember what she was saying  but I’m sure it wasn’t very pleasant.  I remember the wedding dress coming out, getting thrown at me.  This went on for a bit, the whole time I’m just laying in the bed.  I don’t remember everything but I do remember the lightning bolt that hit me right between the eyes.  Amongst the chaos and noise it was all so crystal clear.  I sat straight up in bed and heard a voice say “Run.  Run like hell.”  So I did.  I got up, took a quick shower, grabbed the dog and left, but not before telling her that the relationship was over and the wedding was off.  I needed time away from her and I want her to leave the house.  Then I went and did, arguably, one of the best things I’ve ever done for myself in my life.  I drove 6 hours in the middle of the night to see my exW.

It wasn’t about sex or romance or revenge or a one-night stand.  It was about f*cking RELIEF.  FORGIVENESS.  LETTING IT ALL GO.  LIBERATION.  I had to once-and-for-all accept the fact that I was living a tortured life and it wasn’t ever going to get better unless I started living my life for myself.  I looked her straight in the eyes and told her how sorry I was.  I was sorry for what I had done, sorry for the pain I caused her.  But most importantly I told her (and myself) that I wasn’t going to apologize anymore.  There had been lots of apologies over the years since we split (occasionally we’d exchange texts, emails, etc.) but I was done with that.  I had acknowledged my sins, asked for forgiveness numerous times.  I couldn’t keep living in that hole.  I had to just forgive myself and move forward.  Despite everything between us I’m still amazed at the grace she’s been able to show me.  “I’ve forgiven you.  I forgave you a long time ago.  Now you need to forgive yourself.”

I returned home after a day or two to an empty house.  Over the next few days my now-W took her stuff and left.  Okay, good.  Now at least the slate is clean and maybe I can take some time to choose what I want to do.  Or do nothing, doesn’t matter.  It’s my choice now.

That’s not to say that I was a completely changed man, of course.  My now-W would come over now and then, the old one-night stand, nostalgia, sentimentality hook ups that are so very unhealthy, except the unhealthiness is the LAST thing you’re thinking about in those moments.  Sure going to bed together is great but don’t forget there’s a guilt-ridden, codependent doofus typing this.  Did I want to be with her, or was I simply trying to buy one night of not being the villain in her story?  Remember how I said I couldn’t put a period at the end of the sentence?  Feels like I’m destined to live my life with a bunch of commas.

Few weeks later she ended up at my house one Sunday afternoon.  She was really drunk and demanded to “discuss things” with me.  What should I have done? Called her a cab, left on my own, I don’t know.  Anything but engage with her.  But, that’s exactly what I did.  Needless to say the discussion didn’t go anywhere except south.  Fast.  She stormed inside at one point and returned to tell me that she had just downed an entire bottle of Wellbutrin.  Holy sh*t.  Then she went inside, came back and told me that she had thrown them up.

Except that was a lie.  Over the course of the next hour or two she got really, really messed up.  Literally hallucinating, babbling incoherently.  This was really bad.  But every time I say that I have to call 911, or get her to the hospital, whatever, she begs me not to.  Remember: she’s a nurse at the local E.R.  If she wound up there she was certain to lose her job, or at least her reputation, or so she thought.  Eventually this became too much and I threw her over my shoulder to carry her out of the house, to my car and to the hospital.  I stood her up so I could get the door open and she had a massive seizure and hit the ground.  Oh sh*t.  I called the police dept directly and told them to get someone to me quick (I was a cop in the same town in which I lived).  Thankfully someone was there in an instant and we flew to the hospital, her in the back seat, at what felt like 200 MPH.  Rushed her into the E.R. and got her stabilized while I had the horrible, gut-wrenching responsibility to call her parents and tell them to get to the E.R. immediately, that I think she’s dying and she might not last.

And there you have it.  The trap had been set and I walked right into it.  It snapped shut on my leg and had me firmly in its grip.  She was in a coma for a few days, during which I watched her family’s terribly unhealthy and dysfunctional dynamics play out right in front of my eyes.  We got married two months later.

So, if you’re struggling with your BPD relationship please hear me when I say: you are just as sick as they are.  You just don’t know it yet.  That’s not to disparage you or shame you but you need to realize that these things don’t happen in a bubble.  The pwBPD doesn’t live on the top of a mountain by themselves.  They’re in your home, in your life, your marriage, your family.  You’re watching these things happen, feeling the pain and the trauma, suffering the horrible words and actions. You know something is wrong.  It just doesn’t feel right.  Yet you keep going back for more.  Would you tolerate this from a friend? A coworker or neighbor?  Why are you tolerating it now?  What is it about your own story that allows you to put up with it time and time again?  Is this what you think you deserve?  It’s not the pwBPD’s fault nor is the codependent to blame.  Those are just states and traits.  Nothing more, nothing less.  But it’s the lethal combination of a pwBPD and a person who is destined to be a lifelong doormat that makes for a horrible existence for everyone.  The two actors, their kids, the friends who get isolated and pushed away, the family who doesn’t come around anymore.  Everyone suffers.  It’s the combination of the two, and someone needs to break that coupling before it’s too late.

[M604V]

So we got married and lived the life of a married couple.  She got pregnant almost right away with our first (D11) and a few years later our son was born.  Then we moved to a bigger house and went from there.  I don’t remember too many highs or lows, per se.  Things weren’t great but I don’t recall anything really out of the ordinary. 
Early-mid 2019 things started to escalate.  I don’t remember all the details but I remember thinking that her alcohol consumption was having a much greater impact than before.  Mind you she was drinking everyday after work, pretty much intoxicated every night right up until bed time.  I suspected that the combination of alcohol and prescription meds was a not a good one and I became really concerned.  It got to the point where the sound of the bottle, the popping of the cork, the wine pouring into the glass would send me to a dark place.  It’s like the sound was signaling the loss of my wife for the night.  Another lonely night by myself, taking care of two kids, hoping and praying that she just pass out instead of picking a fight.
At one point I went to her mother and appealed to her to get involved.  I begged her.  No, she’s not necessarily the family’s strongest person but she’s certainly the person with whom my W is closest.  MIL was very moved, crying, vowed not to let her daughter suffer and struggle like W had when she was younger.  The very next time I saw my MIL she was at my house, splitting a bottle of wine with my W.  F*ck me.  Her father pledged his willingness to help me while her brothers quite literally said “She’s your problem now.”
All the while I’m growing more and more anxious, nervous, paranoid, afraid, you name it.  I mean, I knew the storm was coming I just didn’t know when.  I was pouring myself into my work, hobbies, whatever.  Anything to keep my mind occupied.  And this just served to send her further and further over the edge.  It’s like she wanted all of my attention, but when I gave it to her she wouldn’t respond.  So perhaps she didn’t really want my attention, she just didn’t want anything else to have it.  I don’t know.  I do know that these activities of mine offered her many opportunities to get involved, to participate or be a part of them but she refused.  She wouldn’t even acknowledge them in any kind of supporting, positive way.  But you can bet she would weaponize them and try to make me feel bad about them.
I worked nights as a cop, from 4p-12a.  I lived in the same town so I had the luxury of coming home for dinner during my shift, getting the kids to bed, etc.  It was becoming more and more common for me to come home and have to quickly cook dinner because she hadn’t, or if I was late then the kids were eating some slop that was hastily microwaved and tossed at them.  Sometimes she’d already be drunk and asleep come dinnertime.  If she was in the mood for a fight she would wait until I went back to work then hammer me with incessant calls and texts until she got her pound of flesh out of me.  I would feel such relief when I came home at night and the bedroom light was off, and dread would wash over me if I saw it on.  I would hang out on the couch for a bit at night and if I heard the floor above me squeak I’d think “Oh f*ck, here we go.”
We went out one night for a family friend’s birthday.  W got really drunk, of course, and didn’t want to leave when it was time to leave. For some reason my W felt that my MIL would be in danger if we left—don’t know why as we were with friends and family—but that’s what she felt.  I left to relieve the babysitter and W went home with the birthday girl.  3 a.m. my phone rings and its my W demanding that I come get her.  I peacefully refused, confirmed that she was safe and said that she should sleep there.  Something told me this wasn’t the end of it; she wasn’t going to just pass out and call it a night.  I took the risk and left the kids home asleep while I went to find her.  I found her attempting to walk home; she was about a mile from the friend’s house and easily 5-6 miles from our house.  She never would have made it home.  I got her in the car, said absolutely nothing, and drove her home. She never acknowledged her irresponsibility, her completely reckless and dangerous behavior, her struggles with alcohol.  Things were escalating.
We took a cruise with the aforementioned birthday girl and her boyfriend.  Had a great time for the most part.  But if you’ve ever been on a cruise you’ll know that they’re not stingy with the alcohol.  One night my W got blind drunk and, for no apparent reason, went bananas.  Screaming and yelling and crying, over what I had no idea.  I was able to get her back to the room and the tirade continued.  I can painfully and vividly recall: “I f*cking hate you and I hate the fact that I’m married to you.  You’re a terrible husband and a terrible father.  When we get home I’m divorcing you.”  I’ve since reminded her of that tirade.  Grasping for some sort of acknowledgment, anything that remotely resembles an apology or admission.  Nothing.
Few weeks later we go to rather large get-together with my coworkers and their spouses, kids, etc.  I figured it was a safe environment for her, non-judgmental and all of that.  She knew all these folks and I assumed she’d be comfortable.  I’m telling you we were there less than an hour before someone came and found me to tell me that W was completely plastered.  Sure enough she was.  I quickly scooped her up and we got out of there fast.  Now I’m pissed.  We get home and I tell her just to go inside, I’ll take care of the kids (probably 5 and 1 year old or so).  I got D into the house, turned around to go for my son and I saw W walking toward me, stumbling and weaving, and she’s carrying our son.  This took mere seconds yet it happened in slow motion.  Before I could do anything I watched her teeter up the porch stairs then tumble backwards.  She crashed into the nearby stone wall and only by the grace of God was our son’s skull not crushed.  I mean it was nothing short of a miracle.  So violent was the fall, in fact, that my W actually broke two ribs.  Now I’m furious, but not furious enough to have any real determination or decisiveness.  Just furious enough to engage in a battle of wills with someone who can’t see, stand, think or walk straight.  I threatened to call an ambulance/police but never had the guts to do it.  So I called her dad, let him get involved.  Maybe he can talk some sense into her.  Nope.  He caved too.  “It’s not that bad.  She should just sleep it off.”  F*ck me.
These were just isolated spikes, if you will, but the general atmosphere was still tumultuous, anxiety-inducing, really scary and stressful.  I had a constant fear that the next wave was coming I just didn’t know when.  Every night I was relieved to come home to a quiet house, and dreaded the sound of the squeaky floorboards at 1 a.m.
Through one of my work projects I made a 100% platonic female friend.  Looking back I wonder if the friend’s motives were virtuous or not, but at the time I was just happy to have a friend.  This was never in any way physical, romantic, financial, sexual or anything of the sort.  She was married as was I.  She was about 10 years older than me and not what I was looking for even if I was looking for an extramarital fling.  But she was a good friend and she and her husband actually became friends of my W and I.  I only spent time together with her about five times and each of those involved other adults, even my wife.  No alcohol or bars or hotel rooms or light night rendezvous.  There was never anything resembling an extramarital affair, at least not in my opinion.  If I was trying to have some sort of affair with this woman I did a really horrible job of it.
Anyway my W eventually decided that I was too close with this friend and concluded that we were having an affair.  W knew we were friends, even participated in the friendship, but I guess she decided that I was friendlier than W realized, so that equals affair.  Suffice it to say that she went ballistic.  Substance abuse went through the roof.  Threats of suicide.  Vacillated between ice-cold silent treatments or hours of screaming at me.  She poured over pages and pages of phone records.  Called all my friends to tell them what an adulterous piece of sh-t I was.  W called the friend incessantly, dozens of times in a row at all hours of the night.  It got so bad that the friend threatened to call the police and I didn’t try to stand in the way.   W actually called other friends’ boyfriends/husbands to tell them that I was trying to get at their significant others.  W was absolutely determined to burn it all down.

It was around this time that I went to my first Al-Anon meeting.  I told W that I was going and she of course laughed at it, said it was stupid, a waste of time, etc.  Or she got really angry over it.  Either way it didn’t get received well.  I left that first meeting and thought: “F*ck me.  I’m just as sick as she is.”  I didn’t stick with Al-Anon long term, but those first few meetings were incredibly eye-opening.  It was about this time that I found a wonderful therapist of my own and met with her weekly.  I was making progress.
Around this time a very dear friend of mine died an alcohol-related death.  Basically drank himself into organ failure.  He was the only teacher from my high school years who ever gave half of a damn about me and we were very close for 20 or so years.  Like a second father.  He gave me one of my first jobs and soon trusted me with more and more responsibility, despite the fact that I was an otherwise misguided kid.  I became close with his family and still am to this day.
Funny how alcoholism can kind of hide in plain sight though.  I would hang out with him from time to time, maybe once every other month or so.  Sure we’d have a couple beers, split a bottle of wine or whatever, but I didn’t know what he did the day before or the day after.  I knew we had a few drinks and some laughs and that was it.  A mutual friend reached out and said he was concerned about our friend, that he hadn’t been keeping appointments, he was having some medical issues and was in the hospital.  First time I went to visit I didn’t even get past the doorway.  The odor in the air told me everything I needed to know: I’m saying goodbye to a dead man.
His wife, while a lovely woman, was the perfect portrayal of denial and enabling.  My own journey had taught me enough by this point to see that very clearly.  I called one of his daughters, the one with whom I was closest and who lived a few hours away.  She had clearly been kept in the dark as to the gravity of her dad’s condition.  “Yea just a standard procedure.  He’s getting old, something with his kidney I think?” 
“I think it’s far worse than that,” I said.  “I think he’ll be gone in a few weeks.”  Sure enough he died a few weeks later, on my birthday.  He died while I was leading a fundraising event for the family of a guy I worked with, a fellow cop, who locked himself in a hotel room and shot himself in the head.  Not to sound like a jerk, but I single-handedly put this huge event together and ended up gifting his widow over $35k in cash.  Over 200 people attended, everyone had a great time and it went off really well.  You know who didn’t attend? Who never asked about it or offered to help? Who didn’t attend my friend’s funeral? You guessed it.
To my surprise my W agreed to couple’s counseling.  We found a therapist near our home, maybe 1.5 miles away.  I don’t think I said much that first meeting.  It was mostly my W completely berating me over any and all misdeeds I ever committed, real or perceived.  Next two appointments were one on one.  During my solo appointment I let every cat out of every bag.  All of it.  I opened up about all the abuse, the alcohol, the pills, the threats of suicide, the verbal tirades, the hellhole that my life had become. 
I suspect that my W knew that I opened up during my solo meeting because she canceled our next couple’s meeting on the day of.  No explanation, just a group text with the therapist and myself saying that she wouldn’t be attending.  I kept the appointment, however.  I mean my mom was already coming up to babysit, and we were paying for it, so screw it I’m going.  Sure enough as I’m leaving that evening to go to the appointment my W comes stumbling out to the car, already half in the bag.  “I’m coming with you,” she says.  Oh sh-t.  This oughta be fun.
Didn’t take long for the T to see what was happening here.  She confronted my W with what I revealed during my session.  After a few minutes of this W lost her mind, yelling and screaming.  T says “You’re not fit to take care of your children.  He works nights and you shouldn’t be with the kids alone.  I’m calling Child Protective Services.”  I was stoic on the outside but inside? Wow.  I couldn’t believe it.  Finally I had an ally.  W let loose a storm of obscenities and walked out.  I presumed she was walking home and I just sat there.  Didn’t move.  T asked: “What are you going to do?”  I thought about it for a second and replied: “Nothing.  I’m going to do nothing.”  We continued the session and she told me something I’ll never forget: “You need to realize that you’re being set up.  Set up to take the fall.”
I went back home to find that she had successfully walked the mile or so back to our house.  She was pretty well trashed at this point.  She was having a seemingly lighthearted phone call with someone who actually turned out to be her therapist! I was astounded at how friendly it all sounded.  Didn’t come across as professional or clinical at all.  Just two old pals.  She packed a bag and left, headed where I didn’t know or really care.  I remember the peace that I felt when she left.  I should have been a wreck, nervously calling, begging her to come back.  Yet I was at such peace.  Peace that the storm had rolled on and I could get a good night’s sleep.  She called incessantly but I didn’t answer.  Later she told me that she just wanted to say good night, and I shouldn’t have ignored her when she needed me the most.
She was gone for 24 hours or so. I did start to get nervous but I refused to call her or make any attempt at locating her.  I refused.  I knew that if I did I would just be resetting the clock back to zero, erasing even the tiniest progress that may have been made.  This was her mess and she had to sit in it.  At this point I’m still her husband, and she’s still a spiraling addict, and I was still hellbent on getting her sober.  I was just careful (misguided perhaps) not to put myself in a position to be “the one”.  The one to take the blame, the one to face the wrath, the one to hop right back on the roller coaster. I did tell her mother and I also went and told her bosses. I knew all the buzzwords: “She’s a person in crisis, under the influence of drugs and/or alcohol and she has recently made suicidal threats.  I don’t know where she is.  She is unwell and may be unfit to care for patients.  She’s not “out sick” today, she’s out drunk.”  Her bosses couldn’t have cared less.  They ignored what I said, brought in someone from Legal and quickly ushered me out of the building.  She came home in one piece later that day.
Few days later someone from CPS did actually come to the house.  I gave him free reign to do whatever he wanted.  I didn’t care.  There was a bit of professional courtesy there and I felt I could speak with him openly.  He was fantastic.  Note: CPS doesn’t have a lot of “authority”.  Yes, they can do things and file forms and get balls rolling, but the CPS worker himself can’t really do a lot in the moment.  Virtually everything they do has to be in response to clear and immediate threats to children or in accordance with a court order.  But this clever CPS worker could tell that my wife didn’t know that.  So he turned up the heat and gave her two

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very simple choices: go to an inpatient program or he would have her removed from the house.  I drove her to rehab a few days later.

Funny, it was a few days before rehab that I remember a very tender moment.  W was detoxing on her own (I know, I know) and was not feeling well.  No DTs, just general PLEASE READ*iness.  I made her some pancakes and she looked at me tearfully and said “I appreciate you.”  Isn’t it funny how things like that stick out in your mind? Those moments of peace and grace and gratitude should be part of everyday life, except they’re not.  I have a harder time keeping the fights and the rages and the silent treatments straight in my memory.

Of course I was on the therapist’s couch as often as insurance would allow.  She was doing a great job, really helping me get to the stuff behind the crap behind the garbage.  She was very keen not to diagnose anyone whom she wasn’t seeing, but the therapist did suggest that my W has BPD and recommended “I Hate You, Don’t Leave Me” and “Stop Walking on Eggshells.”  I purchased both and was blown away.  This was the first I was hearing of this ailment and, as far as I could tell, it was spot on.
I didn’t tell W I was reading these books.  What’s the point? I wasn’t diagnosing her, I was just trying to find something that I could understand, anything that made sense.  However, at around this time she herself came home with half a dozen books about being married to a lying, adulterous, scumbag of a husband and made sure to leave them out in the open.  My W eventually found one of the books in my truck and, well, you know the rest.  Hurricane of a tornado of a tirade.  As usual she failed to see the similarities between her choice of reading material and mine, but that’s how this goes.  She insisted that I get rid of the books and never mention BPD again.
 
Before rehab, in a moment of weakness, I went through my wife’s phone.  I know, I know.  Whatever.  Anyway I found a series of messages between she and a former coworker.  They were written in the recent past, during the tornado of sh*t that swept into town when she determined I was cheating.  Funny, these messages were far more romantic, lovey-dovey, quasi-sexual than anything I ever said to my friend with whom I was “cheating”.  While I appreciate that my W was no doubt in a dark place I couldn’t help but think: “Hmm, I wonder? The harder she comes after me, is it just a smokescreen?  Doth the lady protest too much?”  Needless to say I was near-homicidal.  I was furious.  Absolutely furious.  I spoke about it with a friend of mine who, incidentally, is also a therapist.  She advised that I put it aside for now, that we were mere hours away from getting her to rehab.  If I explode now I risk derailing the whole thing.  I did confront her about it a few months later.  She downplayed the entire thing and failed to see any correlation between her behavior and mine.  Besides, she said, her friend is wheelchair-bound, so…(not really sure what that means but that’s what she said).

I drove her to rehab on a Tuesday, few days before Thanksgiving.  It is a beautiful place, nestled in the hills an hour or so from our house.  The place is magical.  Very peaceful and serene.  Just wonderful.  I felt quite calm, supportive, optimistic and lighthearted.  Things went well between us, I helped get her settled in and I left.  I clearly remember driving away when it all hit me.  I wasn’t sure what “it” was at that moment but it all hit me.  I remember the feeling of choking, like someone was squeezing my neck.  I couldn’t breathe.  Here I was in what could arguably be the most important moment in my life, her life and the lives of my children and I’m bordering on a panic attack.  I think that psychologically I knew the gravity of the situation.  On the outside I was happy and relieved but there must have been another voice.  A voice saying: “This is it pal.  It’s all on her now.  You have just surrendered control.  Time to get your own house in order.”

Thanksgiving was a couple of days later and was a big deal at the facility.  It’s open to family; big dinner followed by an “open meeting” so of course I went up.  I guess she didn’t realize that I was coming? I don’t know, I guess it wasn’t clear.  Anyway I checked in and went to the dining hall area.  There were about 150 or so people milling around, maybe more.  She was sitting maybe 10 feet away, facing me, but you know what? I couldn’t see her.  I scanned back and forth but I couldn’t see her.  Her appearance changed so much in just a few days that I looked right past her.  I was looking for a sullen, morose, pissed off, scared, quiet, reserved woman.  I should have been looking for someone who had taken 5 years off in just two days.  Someone smiling, laughing, exuding natural beauty and joy and peace and serenity.  I’ll never forget that.  I finally picked her out of the crowd and immediately thought: “Oh my God.  She looks like she did when we first met.  She’s back.”

She stayed for a month, from Thanksgiving to Christmas.  I was there for every family day, every open meeting, every seminar, every meeting with the therapists, everything.  I couldn’t get enough of that version of her.  I loved it.  I loved just sitting in the dining hall holding her hand.  I loved every bit of it.  I loved it because things were clear again.  I didn’t wonder who was feeding the kids and getting them to bed.  I was.  I didn’t wonder when she was coming home from work or what condition she would be in or what would happen or when the next hurricane was coming.  The roles were clear and the expectations were clear and it was easy.  I didn’t wonder if she was ever going to get help.  She was doing it right then and there.  There were some hoops to jump through, sure.  I took 5 weeks off work and had two young kids to shuttle back and forth.  The holiday season was fast approaching and my wife was an hour away at “happy jail” as she liked to call it.  But I knew how to handle this role.  How to stoically pile it all on my shoulders and press on.  How to be supportive, selfless.  All I wanted to do was fully broadcast that version of me to her, to the world.  I wanted her to see.  I wanted her to see who I was.  What I was doing.  I wanted my efforts to be recognized.  I wanted to buy her love.  My therapist was keen to remind me: “Be very careful.  This is her sobriety, not yours.”

She relapsed about a month after coming home.  Don’t remember what led up to it.  In fact I don’t think it was much of anything, at least not outwardly.  It kind of just happened.  Miraculously I was able to take it in stride.  I knew that it was coming at some point and just went with it.  No raised voices, no yelling, no nothing.  I comforted her without taking responsibility for it.  Got her through the night and the next day she took full ownership, committed to going to more meetings and keeping herself sober.  Maybe there’s light at the end of this tunnel.

The next few months were pretty peaceful.  She went to a lot of AA meetings and I was sure to accommodate that however I could, even taking my lunch break just to watch the kids while she went.  She was fully invested in AA and I was sure to do the work to keep myself healthy as well.

Later that spring I could feel the temperature change.  Don’t know what precipitated it; I could just feel it.  I remember one night in particular confirmed it: the storm is coming.  The circus is back in town.  She was on the phone with her father for hours.  Just combing through everything.  Everything that ever happened to her, everything that was ever said, not said.  Who did what to whom.  What was said, what wasn’t said.  Whose fault it was.  This went on for hours.  I thought: “Oh no.  I’ve seen this before.”  It’s like she knew she was about to relapse again, she just needed to make sure she had a “good” reason for it.  Let’s stir sh*t up and find a good villain.  This way what I’m about to do isn’t my fault.

And relapse she did.  Pretty badly, if I recall.  She didn’t just dip her toe into the pool; she jumped head first into the shallow end.  Soon after relapsing I remember coming home from work one night.  A “bedroom light is on” kind of night.  She wanted sex; suffice it to say I wasn’t interested.  She’s trashed, she’s emotional.  Not exactly a turn on.  Well she didn’t take the refusal well.  She went ballistic in fact.  Yelling and screaming for hours.  Followed me to wherever I sought refuge and continued.  Demanded my phone, wanted to go through it.  I refused.  Eventually she tired herself out but not before throwing a bunch of things at me.  Oh f*ck, here we go again.

I knew what I had to do.  I brought it up every day for about 3 or 4 days; “You’re not well.  You need help.  You can’t stay here.  Leave or I’ll throw you out.”  Simple as that.  I remember saying: “You are welcome here forever.  An active alcoholic is not welcome.  You decide.”  And finally, something that was to become my mantra: “I am not dictating the terms of your life. I am dictating the terms of mine.”

One benefit of COVID was that I didn’t have to file any paperwork in person, I could do it all online.  So I sat down and filled out the forms for a Protective Order.  I remember the anxiety and nausea that I felt as I clicked “submit”.  This was late on a Thursday.  They called me Friday morning while she was at work to confirm everything and said that the ex parte would be delivered later that day.  I gathered up the kids and got the hell out of there.  No way were we going to be around when this went down.  

So, in case you’re new to this and considering court order(s) as an option: you fill out the paperwork requesting a restraining/protective order, relief from abuse, whatever you want to call it.  You have to type out your side of the story and state why the situation is dangerous and why you need the court’s intervention.  Oftentimes they will grant your request “ex parte”, meaning “of a [one] side”.  In other words they’ll take your side of the story, for now, and issue a motion without having heard the other side of the story.  A court date is scheduled for a few weeks later but, in the meantime, you’ll have your Order.  At least parts of it anyway.  Point being my wife got served with an ex parte order that simply said that she couldn’t assault me, abuse me or harass me until we went to court.  I requested full no-contact, leave the house, mandated substance abuse treatment, etc., but that wouldn’t be addressed until the hearing.  You might be thinking: “Isn’t assault and abuse illegal anyway?  The court just reminded her that she’s not allowed to do it?” and you’d be right.  It’s stupid, but it’s the system we have.  All she had to do was leave me alone for the next few weeks and not do anything crazy.

But my W didn’t realize that she didn’t have to leave the house or anything like that, not until the judge ruled.  She thought she had to leave immediately so she did.  She packed up and went to her mom’s for a few weeks.  What should I have done? I should have peacefully stayed away, let her have a good think, whatever.  I never wanted to bar her from the children, as long as she’s not drinking anyway, and I didn’t. I brought the kids to her often.  
Point is I didn’t stay away.  It was like as soon as I knocked her down I wanted to pick her back up.  No, it wasn’t a game.  I meant every goddamn bit of it from the bottom of my soul.  I was tired and fed up and exhausted and scared and over it.  I had learned too much to go bury my head in the sand again.  But there’s that period vs. comma thing in my head again.  Should I just let it go? Leave it be? Is this the beginning of the end for us?  I should have just let it play itself out, but I didn’t.  There was still a giant part of me that simply wanted her back, especially when she was calm and warm and soft.  Almost child-like.  Here she was back at her mom’s house, sleeping in her old room.  I don’t know, I could almost see the regression in her, regression back to being a soft kid who just wanted to be loved and protected.  Sh*t. I’m falling for it.
We went to the hearing a few weeks later.  It’s been mentioned in other posts and I agree: the court doesn’t really care about your story.  They care about that facts and circumstances that are in front of them.  They have neither the time nor the inclination to sift through all of your life’s details.  Anyway I kinda caved, naturally.  I agreed to have her come back home. A full protective order was issued barring her from drinking alcohol in the home, valid for one year. I think that was about it.  Oh, and another thing: contrary to popular belief the Court cannot mandate someone into AA.  AA is considered quasi-religious, and the Court will not force someone to go to church or something that they determine is church-like.  Anyway she returned to our house and as far as I can remember things simmered down for a while.
For the next few months she hit AA pretty hard.  At least once a week, oftentimes two times, and frequent get-togethers with her sponsor. Everything seemed to be going well for a while.  Slowly, however, she started to pull away from AA.  Some of it I can sympathize with.  I see alcoholism as a guilt- and shame-based disease.  People feel bad, they drink to feel better, they feel bad because they drank, they drink to feel better.  Simplistic of course, but that’s how I see it in a nutshell.  Funny though, if she missed a meeting she would get guilt tripped and shamed by the group.  Her sponsor would come right out and accuse her of relapsing.  A lot of that kind of stuff.  I do believe in the power of AA but it is hardly a perfect organization.  I think some of the stuff got to W and she gradually pulled away.  Interestingly she stopped going well before Step 8 came into play (“Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.”).
It was during this time that I clearly remember a conversation W and I had, right on our front porch.  I remember it well.  It was my moment, my letting it all out, letting it all go.  Releasing her from my responsibilities and giving hers back to her.  About how she had been right all along.  “You are not my project to fix,” I admitted.  She had been telling me that for years.  “So I’m not going to try anymore.  You can clearly stand on your own two feet if that’s what you choose.”  About how I had to recommit myself to taking care of myself.  How I realized that I was drowning in codependency.  How I was living my life for the benefit of everyone else.  All of that stuff.  I did what I could to announce it, acknowledge it and then let it go.  Felt like progress.  Felt like one of those really important moments, one that could drastically alter the path we would walk going forward.
I remember my sister asking me to help her move.  Not help her move in the traditional sense, but do some mundane task that she could have done herself.  Something that was not time-sensitive, not critical, and would have required me making a two-hour round trip for nothing.  It was something stupid, I think it was getting one of those big plastic bags to put a mattress in.  I said no.  The old me would have said yes then boiled with frustration and annoyance the whole time.  But I did it. I risked someone else being disappointed with me.  I stood up to the dragon and cut its head off.  Maybe things were getting better. Baby steps.
Funny though, a lot of my changes weren’t behavioral, in a sense.  They were attitudinal.  I changed the way I saw things.  Suddenly I stopped looking at things as an opportunity to prove myself, or to buy someone’s admiration, or to make them pleased with me.  I came across a quote: “In my 20s I cared what everyone thought about me; in my 30s I didn’t care what people thought.  In my 40s I realized that

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weren’t thinking of me nearly as much as I thought, and my “failure to come through” for them wasn’t really that at all.  All of the sudden I wasn’t working as much.  I cut my lawn twice a month instead of weekly.  I allowed myself the occasional day to sit on the couch and do nothing.  I didn’t worry about a potential relapse.  I said “no” to things I didn’t want to do and you know what? Nothing bad happened.  The sky didn’t fall, the world didn’t stop turning.  Nothing bad happened.  “All the bad things that have happened to me never really happened,” as someone once said.  Therapy was going well, I was exercising and eating healthy.  Things were generally peaceful at home. If she was in a mood I let her know I was there to help and left it at that.  Progress was happening.

This attitude change brought with some other hurdles though.  I realized that I was miserable in my career.  Utterly bored and confused and frustrated and miserable.  As stated I was a cop, recently retired after 16 years.  I was a patrol officer for the first eight, a patrol supervisor after that.  That means every day was in a uniform, in a patrol car, answering calls, dealing with problems, nights, weekends, holidays, all of that.  I enjoyed the actual job itself, I was proud of the way I looked out for those who I worked with and my subordinates.  Devoting yourself to helping someone else is immensely rewarding and honorable.  

But the environment was just awful.  It had been for years, but the recent social and political climates made things nearly untenable.  I’ll spare the details, but basically police administrators and executives had this attitude: it’s better to let the bad guy go then to wind up on CNN.  That meant no one cared if you sat in a parking lot and read a book all night.  No one cared if you did the bare minimum, which basically meant showing up, staying awake and not pissing anyone off.  We all knew that law enforcement needed to adapt and rebrand itself, but no one knew exactly what that meant.  Instead we had no mission at all.  Quite literally; they took the mission statement down off the wall and never replaced it.  Every day I went to work and really didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing.  I knew I loved the job itself, but no one really defined what the job was.  Obviously it wasn’t about working hard and getting dirty and catching bad guys.  A cop could go months without writing a single traffic ticket and no one cared.  But use a swear word to a citizen?  You’re in trouble now.  Eventually the attitude permeated the entire organization and I spent all my time and energy trying to stay out of trouble instead of trying to do some good in the world.  I became intolerably bored and disillusioned with the whole thing and worried about that one bad day, that one misstep that could land me on the front page or worse.  I realized that I was giving all of time and energy to this organization, 50+ hours a week, yet that same organization would cut my head off the moment they needed to.  Not because of a misdeed, necessarily.  It could simply be an accident, an honest mistake, but if that mistake put them in a bad light, risked their reputation or caused them any grief then you can best believe they would take it out on you.  I know it, I’ve seen it and I’ve experienced it myself multiple times.  I had to get out to save my soul.  

See that’s the thing about service.  Service is dangerous.  It’s a catch-22, a double-edged sword.  Living and working in service to others is great but, at some point, you have to be the “other”. As a cop (and in my home as I would later realize) I was never the other.  I lived my life thinking that if always made it about you then eventually you would make it about me.  But this world is comprised of givers and takers and I don’t think you can be both.  That mentality was a perverted remnant of my Marine Corps days.  The USMC doesn’t get everything right but they are world leaders in breeding an environment of teamwork, camaraderie and selfless service.  You are always serving others and you are always an “other”.  Everyone is always looking out for someone and someone always has your back.  I think I carried that mentality into the rest of my life and eventually had to face the harsh realization that the world isn’t really built that way.  I had to accept the fact that I was serving people who weren’t going to serve me back, and doing so put me at great risk.  Reading “Leaders Eat Last” by Simon Sinek sealed it for me.  I had to get out.

My W knew it.  She saw it and commented on what I was going through numerous times.  Hell, me quitting was almost her idea.  “How much longer can you do this? They clearly don’t trust any of you.  I’ve never seen an organization treat its people this way,” I remember her saying.  So I applied for tons of jobs, anything I could do to get out.  At least seventy.  I don’t have a degree but I do have 20+ years of professional experience.  Turns out none of that mattered.  I got nowhere.  One or two callbacks, that’s about it.  I didn’t really care what I did, I just cared about how it felt.  If it was some mundane 9-5 that’s fine.  I’ll do my work and go home.  Something more serious? That would be okay too, just as long as they look out for me as much as I do them.  Whatever it was I didn’t care, I just wasn’t going to prostitute myself any longer.

We had investment property that we had been renting out, a 3 bedroom house in the same town.  It was the house I bought just as we started dating.  It was fine, it wasn’t really killing me.  Tenants were good, there really weren’t any major issues in the 5 or 6 years we rented it out.  Except I hated it.  I dreaded the day when I’d have to replace the dishwasher or a light fixture or God forbid the roof or the furnace.  I never really wanted to be a landlord.  Turns out that we could finance the new house without having to sell the previous one and I thought “It would be a sin to waste this opportunity.”  See that? No one told me I had to, and I didn’t even really want to.  But there was that voice again, that obligation.  “You have to do this even though you don’t want to.”  So I said screw it.  If it’s not making me happy there’s no point.  I easily sold it to the guy next door for cash and walked away.  Made a good amount off it, but gave Uncle Sam about 40%.  Haven’t regretted it for one second.

I always wanted to be a barber and own my own barbershop.  It seemed like a lot of fun, something I could be good at and enjoy.  So that’s what I did.  I had enough time saved up at the PD that I could go to barber school for seven months while still employed as a cop.  I just basically took every day off from work and stopped going.  Now, the department I worked for is not big.  150 people or so.  Everyone knows everyone. You know what, though? Not one person from management ever called to ask why I hadn’t been to work in months.  No one cared.  No one said anything.  It was as if I just disappeared.
W knew I was thinking about it.  She said nothing.  Wife knew I found a school nearby.  She said nothing.  I told her I was thinking of enrolling.  She didn’t say anything.  I enrolled and paid a small deposit and told her.  She went NUTS.  “You’re not spending MY MONEY on this! You’re crazy! Over my dead body!  What do you think you’re gonna quit your job and work for minimum wage at someone else’s shop??”  “No, I want to own my own shop,” I said.  “Absolutely not!  You’re f*cking crazy!  No way!”

The next morning I passed her on my way out the door.  “Where are you going?”  “I’m going to the barber school to cancel my enrollment.  Hopefully I can get my deposit back.  You clearly don’t want me to do this so I won’t.”  She relented in a way.  Her support for my career change came via a phrase, the full meaning of which I didn’t grasp at the time.  She said:

“You do what you gotta do.”

So I did.  And I’ve been paying for it ever since.
I was at barber school for five days a week for seven months straight.  She visited twice.  The first visit was early on, kind of a friends and family day to practice some basic techniques.  I was very appreciative that she showed her support and I told her that.  It really did mean a lot.  Outside of that? She really never mentioned it at all.  Didn’t seek any information, offer support, nothing really.  She seemed pretty disinterested.  She worked from home a lot during this time, downstairs in the office.  Most of the time she stayed down there for hours after I came home, wouldn’t even come up to say hi.  When I did finally see her I would tell her about my day, anything interesting that happened.  I remember her telling me that I was “too needy” when I came home, so I stopped.  The second visit to the school she brought our two kids for haircuts.  I was with her the entire time, from the moment they walked in.  Kids got their haircut, she stood nearby.  I offered her a chair to sit in or a coffee; she refused both.  It’s a busy place, very hectic.  A lot of 20 year-olds running around.  It’s a madhouse.  She was there for about an hour and then they went home.  Later she told me that she’s never going back there; that everyone was very rude to her and she thinks they all need to learn better customer service skills.  She said she had never been treated so poorly and would not be coming back.  I was dumbfounded, yet this was all very familiar.

You see, my W is very adept at villainizing people or environments or situations.  Like, even before anything bad happens.  She’ll find some reason not to expose herself, not to go outside, not to go to the party, not to go to that restaurant, not to be friendly with that neighbor.  Anything.  Any reason.  “She looked at me funny,” “I don’t want to eat outside,” “It’s too far.”  I’m careful not to deny her her own experience or interpretations, but a lot of the time these things just seem completely made up.  

She’s also keen on diagnosing herself with all sorts of ailments, illnesses or conditions.  Except these are never outwardly visible.  She doesn’t claim to have a broken leg or an abscessed tooth.  It’s a whole host of very nebulous things, stuff not available to the naked eye, so you can’t really argue with it.  And does she seek real medical intervention? Absolutely not, yet we have a whole cupboard of lotions and creams and pills and powders and tinctures and liniments and oils and supplements and teas and vitamins.  Even worse is that none of them ever get fully consumed. They just sit there, half full.

So I graduated barber school after seven months.  There was a small ceremony; she didn’t attend.  She did recognize the accomplishment when I got home and I appreciated it.  Soon thereafter I found a spot nearby to set up a shop and began the process with City Hall.  Admittedly I did not go over every single detail with her.  Generally she knew what I was doing, what the goal was, what my intentions were.  However she also made it abundantly clear that she simply wasn’t interested.  Additionally, for my part, I could see what I was doing too.  I didn’t want to hear “no” in any form, whether it be “no, honey, let’s rethink this,” or the “over my dead body!” that I got when I said I wanted to go to barber school.  So I conveniently told her what I thought she needed to hear and that was it.  Point being she had every opportunity to ask, participate or contribute and she chose not to, and I avoided confrontations that would have invited her wrath.

[M604V]

Throughout this whole process I was very clear what I wanted from my W: support.  Enthusiasm.  Excitement.  Trust me.  Be in my corner.  Help me.  Be happy for me.  Visit.  Stop in with a coffee.  Wear the shop’s tee shirt.  Refer your coworkers.  Bring my business cards to the office. Be my partner in this.  Just have my f*cking back the same way I’ve had yours.  I clearly expressed my desires to her numerous times.

I secured the spot and began construction.  I was there pretty much every day for 3 months. Tearing out walls, painting, putting in a new floor.  All of that.  But I never missed dinner, I always got the kids off the bus.  The kids stayed with me if she had something to do.  My landlord is incredible.  He’s charging me about 20% of what I would pay elsewhere, and my rent is locked in for five years.  He’s been an absolute blessing, the best thing that could have happened to me as a first-time business owner.  The shop is literally seven minutes from our front door, next to the convenience store where we stop for coffee, smokes, milk, eggs, at least three times a week.  All signs point to this thing being successful.  And I did it pretty much all by myself.
In 13 months I went from never cutting someone’s hair to being a licensed barber and owning my own barbershop. I’m pretty proud of that.  

The shop has been open over six months and everything is going quite well.  I hired a second barber and we’re pretty busy.  Yea there’s been some slow weeks here and there, but I’ve also had weeks where I brought home more in one week than I made as a cop in two weeks.  The potential is there for sure, I just have to keep going.  I get wonderful reviews and feedback from people, lots of word of mouth referrals.  The shop looks great and people really seem to respond to what I’m trying to do.

You know how many times my W has voluntarily entered my shop since I signed the lease ten months ago? Zero.  
She’s walked through the door maybe six or seven times, but that was just to pick up the kids.  Oftentimes she doesn’t even come in. She texts me “here” and the kids go outside. Won’t even come in.  Once she stopped in cause our nephew was getting a haircut.  She hung out for a bit and left.  But she has never, despite the NUMEROUS times that I’ve asked, ever acted as though she was happy or excited or supportive.  Not once.

She does, however, give me an endless ration of sh*t about money. Yea I spent money to open the shop. I almost never paid full retail price, though. I did almost all of it myself with my own tools. Some things I got at cost, or super cheap, or free. My best friend is an electrician so that helped.  So yea, money was spent. It was all cash; I don’t own a credit card and took no debt on the business.

Recently I was doing some venting about the business to her. Nothing threatening or provocative, I don’t think. Business had been a bit slower than usual. As a first-time biz owner the normal reaction is to really sweat the slow times. I expressed my frustrations about that. I also acknowledged her anxieties about money and I told her that I was 100% committed to doing the very best I could, that everything would be fine, all that. Just venting and seeking some sort of connection with her. “Not to cut you off,” she said, “but I have to go to Walgreens.”  She ended the conversation, went inside and went to bed. Didn’t even go to the store. Just went to bed.

It’s like she won’t let me. She won’t let me express my humanity. I don’t have feelings. None that matter anyway. Nothing that would risk me ever earning a point, one measly point.
Regardless, the only time she mentions anything to do with this business—this business I started in an effort to find some peace and happiness in my life—is when she has an issue with money.  Twice she has told me she’d divorce me *if* money became an issue.  This was before money was an issue or not, she was just letting me know that if we faced money problems she’d leave me. Gee thanks.

She also recently told me that she married a cop for security and stability and that I took that away from her.

I had to hire a plumber for the shop. Was supposed to be a friend-of-a-friend deal but I ended up getting screwed over. Stuck with a bill about 2x what I expected it to be. Did I tell her about it? Absolutely not. I mean, she has shown ZERO interest in anything that I’m doing. She’s made no effort to participate in the good stuff so why the hell would I involve her in the bad stuff?  Anyway, I assume she opened my mail because she found the bill. Another tornado. Goes absolutely crazy on me. Every name in the book. “Coward”, “liar”, “adulterer”. Don’t know what adultery had to do with anything but whatever.  
I had had enough. In that moment I was fed up. I could see what this was, or what it seemed to be anyway. I don’t know, I was just tired of it. Tired of trying to engage with someone who flat out refused to ever let me come up for air. Ever give me the benefit of the doubt. I’m destined to be the villain in her story no matter what I do or say.

“I’m walking away from this,” I told her. “I’m done.”

Was I done? Did I mean it? I thought so, but this was 4 months ago and I’m still there. I wanted to say it. Saying it felt good. But I wanted her to hear it and I don’t really think she did. It was just another desperate attempt at being heard and it failed to get the response that I wanted.

We revisited the divorce topic a few days later. I told her that I don’t really *want* a divorce, but what I do want is to live in a world where I’m safe, valued, appreciated, etc.  If that meant staying married: great. If I had to divorce her in order to achieve that then I would. I was willing to pursue whatever solution it took, and I would be honored to pursue a solution with her. But I put it back on her: “I can’t pursue a solution that you don’t agree with. Or try and fix a problem that you don’t think is a problem. Tell me what you want to do.”

She said nothing and went to bed. The next morning she came downstairs and was red with rage. She was ANGRY. I’ve seen her mad, sure, but she tends to be the “kill you with silence” type. This time she was shaking, trembling. She told me that was disgusted with me and what I said the night prior. Funny, I thought I was as non-threatening as I could be given the circumstances, but I guess not.

I recently expressed how disappointed I was that she has refused to support me in my new business. I wanted her to be there for me like I was for her, namely her journey into sobriety.  She failed to see the correlation.  “That was years ago, and I was getting treated for a disease. Plus all you had to do was take time off work. It’s not the same.”

I was recently late coming home from work. Nothing improper at all; I got held up at the shop and then I had to get dog food. I was later than usual for sure, but I hadn’t missed anything. It’s not like there was a five course dinner waiting for me. Just a pissed off wife with a bad attitude. I got the ice cold shoulder and that was it. The next day she peppered me with text messages, demanding to know where I had been, with who, etc. She implied that I was having an affair and demanded to see my phone. I refused, told her that was out of line and that I didn’t deserve it. A few hours later she was texting me racy pictures of her in a bathing suit. Sex is a weapon in my house for sure.
I recently learned (by checking our joint checking account, not snooping) that my W has made thousands of dollars in credit card payments this year alone. I knew that she had 2-3 cards, and I never had reason to think she was irresponsible with them. I don’t own any CCs. But yea, that kinda stung. Here I am getting lambasted about money left and right, and she’s running up CC debt? On one hand I do appreciate that at least she’s making payments, but I don’t know what the balances are.  It appears that she has opened new cards recently. Yes, money is tighter than usual, tighter than when I was bringing home a predictable paycheck. But we have yet to miss a payment, skip a meal or bounce a check. No one is threatening to take the house away. We cut cable and a few other frivolities but otherwise life is the same as it was five years ago.

Divorce has been discussed more and more lately. She obviously wants out. I think. I do too. I mean, I actually don’t. I don’t want to be divorced. I don’t want to do that to my kids. We actually had the “divorce talk” with my kids the other day, because my wife decided to throw the word around just as our daughter was walking into the room. So we had the talk and it was gut-wrenching. Just awful. And I don’t want that for them.
I can’t help but think that’s it’s probably best though. Best for everyone including my wife. It’s obvious that she’s fighting a lot of battles, and maybe stepping away will help her be the person and mother that she should be, that she deserves to be and that our kids deserve to have. I’d hate to look back 10 years from now and realize that we should have done it 10 years ago.

I’ll leave you with this. I’m a really big music fan; I probably have a song that sums up damn near every one of life’s experiences. Loving and marrying someone with BPD is perfectly summed up in Peter Frampton’s “Lines On My Face”:

Lines on my head from that one thing she said
She spoke of strangers that don't sleep two a bed
Kept on trying, buying time,not waiting on fate
I somehow got the feeling that I opened my eyes too late

I saw where you came from
Called out your name
But there's no answer
We lived on your doorstep
I made you my wife but I don't need that

Lines on my face,while I laugh lest I cry
Speed city dirt and gritty waving me goodbye
So many people,my family of friends
Trying so hard to make me smile until this heartache mends

I saw where you came from
Called out your name
But there's no answer
We lived on your doorstep
I made you my wife but I don't need that

Ice in her eyes,frozen tears would never be a surprise
You can't erase a dream you can only wake me up
My mind is turning slower,never to accept defeat
It don't matter where I live I still got a house to heat

I saw where you came from
Called out your name
But there's no answer
We lived on your doorstep
I made you my wife but I don't need that

[Czr_Crrll]

Just read the whole post. I realize there's probably not much I can tell you that you haven't already lived through or tried in this relationship. What I do want to do is commend you on your strength. I want to congratulate you on putting yourself first and seeking your happiness in spite of all the chaos of the relationship. As I've been learning more about BPD, I realize that regulating yourself, and your emotions towards your partner's actions is key. At the end of the day, you are the person that is closest to your W and, therefore, the easiest target to villainize. I've gone through it, too.

My partner's case, although similar, seems a bit less complex. Having to deal with the alcoholism, which compounds with the symptoms of BPD, sounds incredibly difficult. I think it's great that you've worked towards getting your W help in that aspect of her life and attempted therapy.  

From what I read, it seems like she was open to getting help with her alcoholism for a while there. And during that time it seems like things were going better. I think that is a key point there. She has to have the desire to help herself. BPD, however, is tricky because it means changing "who she is" and unlearning behaviors that have been reinforced again and again throughout the years. What worked for me, was attempting to better our communication skills as a couple. Couples therapy helped a lot even though it did (and does) involve hearing a lot of triggering things coming from your partner. Learning what her issues are in life and slowly suggesting how going to therapy in order to deal with BPD specifically can ultimately benefit her is how I got my Girlfriend excited about receiving help. Not because it benefits me, or our relationship (though ultimately, it does).

My belief is that pwBPD want to get better. They don't like feeling absolutely empty, miserable, anxious, and angry all the time. Nobody would. They just have no idea what they're supposed to do to keep themselves from feeling that way. So they fall on old behaviors, which end up having negative consequences, like making you want to end the relationship, and perpetuate this cycle of misery.

It's important to understand that pwBPD are not bad people. And to make your s/o understand that she's not a bad person. If she's constantly hearing about how horrible she is, how bad her decisions are, and how she never supports you, then her concept of herself is going to be: "I am a horrible person, who makes terrible decisions and I never support my husband" and that is exactly what she's going to keep doing.

It is important to set boundaries, as you mentioned it is very easy to become a doormat to these behaviors. However, you also want to be validating of the reasons she has for breaking these boundaries, even if they sound completely illogical. As a man, my instinct has always been to dismiss my partner's views since they make absolutely no sense to me. This always ends with me being villainized. Since practicing DBT techniques and validation, I've noticed that my partner is more open to my advice after hearing that her behavior "makes sense".

Say your W goes on a drinking binge. Maybe the next day you talk to her about it and ask her what she's feeling that made her want to drink. She tells you that she was bored and it made her anxious and drinking calms her down. Instead of jumping straight to the masculine urge to give advice and sound, logical solutions, or berating her for her behavior; It goes a long way to say something like: "That makes sense, and I don't blame you for wanting to drink. I get pretty anxious when I'm bored, too. Do you think maybe there's other things instead of drinking you could do to take the edge off, though?". Brainstorming with your partner about ways that she can help herself is is a good way to let her know you support her while not smothering her and incurring that "You never let me do anything myself and I hate being dependent on you" rage.

Remember that you're not saying that drinking is okay. You're just validating the feelings that caused her to drink and helping to search for alternative ways to deal with those feelings.

You probably will still incur some wrath sometimes, and in those moments it's important to detach, and realize that often it's not that she's acting this way because of you or because she's trying to hurt you. Chances are she probably really appreciates you for sticking it out this long. You're just the easiest, most available target to put blame on to avoid adding to her already towering mountain of self-hatred.

I think that you probably really love your partner in spite of all the hell she's put you through. I know there's been moments in your relationship where everything is perfect and she is the most beautiful, loving, kind, amazing person you've ever known. In these moments it's easy to feel like a sucker and like you're "falling into a trap". I know I struggle with these feelings, too. But it's okay to enjoy these little islands of joy in an ocean of madness. God knows you f***ing deserve to be able to do so. In my opinion, because of the intensity of their emotions, the love of a pwBPD is on a whole different level and worth the amount of challenge it implies. It's beautiful.

It can get better. But your partner has to want to get better. Or more importantly, want to take action to get better. I think talking with your partner about her needs, helping her help herself and letting her face her own consequences is the way to go. Set your boundaries of what's absolutely not okay. Let her know what will happen if the line is crossed and then give her the freedom to cross it. She might realize that she really doesn't want to end a relationship with the most supportive, understanding person in her life. And if she doesn't realize it, then you also have to be ready to move on. It's part of her healing process and yours.

As long as you are choosing to remain in the relationship, though; Try to work on ways to get her to receive treatment for her BPD. Study about Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT Made Simple by Sheri Van Dijk is free on audible with the membership) and apply some techniques on your day to day interactions. I also recommend "Loving Someone with BPD" by Sheri Manning as it doesn't talk trash about pwBPD like other books (I'm looking at you, Walking on Eggshells (It's still a good resource to learn about the disorder, though) and provides a more gentle, accepting approach to relationships with important people in your life with BPD. Your partner receiving therapy that deals specifically with BPD or with issues related to BPD such as Distress Tolerance is paramount and with help make talking about ways to help her along her journey to recovery easier.

As for you, you're doing amazing. Focus on the things that make you happy and your own growth. Keep working on the barbershop! If these things upset your W, listen to her, validate her feelings, and ask if there's anything (within reason) you can do together to make it better or make her feel more safe/secure. Then, keep working on making yourself happy!

Thank you so much for sharing your story on here! And I wish you nothing but success in your relationship and your personal projects!

[M604V]

Thanks so much for your thoughtful response.  I take comfort knowing that this forum is made up of people like yourself.

I tend to agree with what you say, pretty much all of it actually.  Generally speaking I do agree that any relationships a compromise, it's a give and take.  I like what Brene Brown said: that marriage is never 50/50; it's 80/20, 60/40, sometimes 10/90.  See that? Sometimes it's about you, other times it's about the other.  Some days you give, some days you take.

However when I examine the last 15 years of my life I can honestly say it's never been about me.  Like I can't recall a time where I was the other.  (In the interest of being open-minded I'll say that there was probably a time or two but I can't remember them)

If I ever did anything for myself it always came with an asterisk.  An implied but unspoken ( next to anything I did that meant "You can do what you want but I won't be a part of it.  I won't celebrate it.  I reserve the right to be bitter and resentful about it. And if something goes awry it's on you."

It's like her "approval" of me enrolling in barber school: "You do what you gotta do."

When I said I was ready to retire from my job as a police officer: "You do what you gotta do."

It's every hobby, project, extracurricular pursuit, evening with buddies, book, song, anecdote in which she showed no interest, never seemed to see it as a real and honest expression of who I was.  At best it was ignored; at worst she seemed to be threatened by it and lashed out.

Yes, I hear you.  Diplomacy is key.  So is tact, compromise, sacrifice and occasionally shutting the f**k up.  But there is a really fine line between suspending your wants and needs for the benefit of the marriage and eating sh*t. 

For years I thought I was doing the former.  I suspect that I've actually been doing the latter, just masking it in all this quasi-virtuous nonsense like honor and dedication and loyalty and devotion.  Am I those things, or am I just too scared to make a painful decision and risk being the bad guy? 

To be honest I think I'm at the point where I no longer give a sh*t what her reasons are, the why behind the why, what's going on inside her.  I mean as a fellow human I care, of course, but what's the point?  Where is it gonna get me? 

I hate what my life has become, a non-stop tiptoeing, constantly looking over my shoulder, devoting so much time and energy trying to avoid the next typhoon.  I find myself hiding the real me, swallowing my words, my wants.  I keep my opinions to myself and avoid doing things I want to do out of FEAR.  I don't want to do it anymore.

"When a man does not feel appreciated in the area of his presence he becomes a version of a man that he can give you and still survive.  And I promise you: you will not like that version.  That version of him is silent, frustrated, sharp with his words, non-communicative.  Because he has to become something that he can survive in."--Keion Henderson

I have no faith that I will ever be the other.  None.  I don't believe that a real "sorry" is ever coming. I have no reason to believe that she will ever make real, lasting peace with her story and how it has impacted those around her.

Do I hope and wish?  Of course I do. 

[Smedley Butler]

just read this post, plus I replied to your other thread.  we have a lot in common dude.  plus i'm also a Marine.  i have no advice to give, but I'm here in the trenches with you.  i'm also struggling with the divorce question.  i dont want a divorce either, not really.  but i dont see how i can keep this up.  but i have two young girls, and i also cant imagine putting them through this. 

[M604V]

Hahaha yea, I noticed your user name. Feel free to send a private message (that’s a thing on here, right?) if you want to talk more about it.

Here for you man, stay healthy

[Smedley Butler]

If I ever did anything for myself it always came with an asterisk.  An implied but unspoken (Being cool (click to insert in post) next to anything I did that meant "You can do what you want but I won't be a part of it.  I won't celebrate it.  I reserve the right to be bitter and resentful about it. And if something goes awry it's on you."

It's like her "approval" of me enrolling in barber school: "You do what you gotta do."

When I said I was ready to retire from my job as a police officer: "You do what you gotta do."

It's every hobby, project, extracurricular pursuit, evening with buddies, book, song, anecdote in which she showed no interest, never seemed to see it as a real and honest expression of who I was.  At best it was ignored; at worst she seemed to be threatened by it and lashed out.

dude this could be me talking.  best case, she has zero interest in anything i enjoy or am good at.  worst case, she is actively threatened by it.  this includes my career (i'm still in), which pays the bills and provides her with a pretty nice life.  but somehow she is adamantly against it.  it's almost like if it's somethign that is good for me or something that i enjoy, then she feels that it by default means something is being taken AWAY from her.  like an increase in my happiness means an automatic decrease in her happiness.  it's wild.

[M604V]

I don’t quite “understand” it but I will repeat it. Sometimes it makes sense:

They have no “self”. You are their “self”. If you are good they are good. If you are bad they are bad. There’s no separation between you and them, hence life becomes a zero sum game. Like you said: if you gain something she has to lose.

It’s like theres no difference between her and I. Recently I went to visit an elderly relative for her birthday. Wife was pissed about that even though that’s the LAST place she would want to be. My best friend from the USMC died recently. I was absolutely devastated. Sobbing on my porch, asking for her blessing to go to his memorial (would have been a super expensive plane ticket, money is tight at home, time away from work, etc). She neither have blessing nor refused it. She just didn’t react at all.

Man, it’s all crazy.

[Cat Familiar]

Read your thread. First impressions—wow, you write beautifully. It was compelling, like reading a good novel. Also you are very self aware and it’s obvious you’ve acquired a lot of wisdom through the life you’ve led.

It seems apparent that your mother was deep in depression and perhaps this was related to the anger your father expressed—chicken and egg? Regardless, it appears that he was the *Steady Eddie* in your childhood. That you had a grandfather with a personality disorder, and some dysfunctionality in your mother’s family probably set you up to accept, and not notice at the beginning, the BPD behavior your wife manifested.

You are moving past a transitional point in your life: new career, new business. And it seems you are contemplating a personal transition too, in your marital status. Perhaps what keeps you from pushing the pedal to the metal at this point is the accumulated wisdom that tells you not to make too many changes at once.

However, you are at the realization point where you understand you are not the cause of your wife’s behavior, you can’t change who she is, and you can only choose how you want to live, given you have responsibilities for your children.

You’ve long since transitioned beyond the phase of wishful thinking, hoping that with a dual diagnosis of alcoholism and personality disorder, that some miracle might intervene and your wife could listen to her better angels. That hope is dust in the road.

So now what? It appears that you have a really good overview of the last couple of decades and have now made a career choice that will serve you well. You seem like an affable guy with a lot of wisdom to share. I can imagine that owning a barber shop is a great fit for your personality. It’s sad that your wife is so unsupportive of your path, but it is what it is, and certainly is just another saga in the repetitive pattern you’ve observed for years.

It doesn’t seem like you are under any time pressure to come to any big decisions. Perhaps focusing upon your business and enjoying your new clientele is where your energy will be best spent. Undoubtedly, the clients you now serve are of a better class than those you encountered as a police officer.

[Cat Familiar]

My best friend from the USMC died recently. I was absolutely devastated. Sobbing on my porch, asking for her blessing to go to his memorial (would have been a super expensive plane ticket, money is tight at home, time away from work, etc). She neither have blessing nor refused it. She just didn’t react at all.

I am so sorry about the loss of your friend. 

Recently I learned that two people died who were significant in my life years ago. I told my husband.

What did he do? Did he even ask who they were? What roles they played in my life? Why they were meaningful? When did I know them? Where did they live when I knew them?

No. He said nothing. Then he mentioned his friend from law school who always complains about his health. End of discussion.

It was really weird.

I felt like I was living with someone who has no idea how to be a compassionate human being.

[M604V]

It seems apparent that your mother was deep in depression and perhaps this was related to the anger your father expressed—chicken and egg? Regardless, it appears that he was the *Steady Eddie* in your childhood. That you had a grandfather with a personality disorder, and some dysfunctionality in your mother’s family probably set you up to accept, and not notice at the beginning, the BPD behavior your wife manifested.

Yes thank you so much. I hadn’t thought about it like that really. Of course I’d considered that I was modeling behavior and all that, but you took it a step further. I never really thought anything was out of the ordinary. My wife behaves like my mother, and I behave like my father. We’ll put.

You are moving past a transitional point in your life: new career, new business. And it seems you are contemplating a personal transition too, in your marital status. Perhaps what keeps you from pushing the pedal to the metal at this point is the accumulated wisdom that tells you not to make too many changes at once.

Logistics are a part of it. Where the hell am I going to go? We live in a real estate hellhole; everything is super expensive. And I don’t really want to be divorced, per se. I just want to be happy.

You’ve long since transitioned beyond the phase of wishful thinking, hoping that with a dual diagnosis of alcoholism and personality disorder, that some miracle might intervene and your wife could listen to her better angels. That hope is dust in the road.

That’s funny, “She Talks to Angels” by Black Crowes was absolutely, 100% written about my wife. It’s uncanny. But yes, I’m approaching the point where I’m no longer trying to dictate the outcome.

It doesn’t seem like you are under any time pressure to come to any big decisions. Perhaps focusing upon your business and enjoying your new clientele is where your energy will be best spent. Undoubtedly, the clients you now serve are of a better class than those you encountered as a police officer.
[/quote]

No, nothing is critical right now. But I am constantly reminded that none of us is getting any younger. In 5 years my daughter will be driving; in 10 years both our kids will be out of high school. It’s a long ways away and it’s a blink of an eye. “Get busy living or get busy dying,” as they say.

Thank you so much for your thoughtful response and your kind words. Maybe a screenwriter will see this and all my problems will be solved!

[livednlearned]

M604V, I don't know that I've ever felt so moved reading a post here. Wow. People always say it's important to journal but you're a living example for why. Thanks for journaling so others like me can follow.

I think it's safe to say you've made it past your potential and are existing on a plane beyond.  

It might not feel that way now but all these insights add up to so much more than their parts. When I left my BPDx husband a decade + ago I wrote a 12 page letter with the help of my therapist that your post prompted me to read again. Having something like that to go back to, a written account like you have written here (much better than I could, too, btw), is here for you for life. Every time I read mine, which isn't too often, it helps me see more clearly where I was versus where I am now. Once you start to live for yourself it's hard to go back in the box but sometimes it's nice to go back to the box to measure how far you've come.

For people like me, and maybe like you, whether the marriage lasts or not is almost secondary. You're breathing life into yourself and making choices that, for lack of a better way of saying it, will free up energy, and that energy is you. I try to imagine what the flip side of codependence is because surely there must be something positive here? I think it's this: I redirected the energy I poured into a sunk cost and re-routed it to flow where it can expand and multiply and be sustainable. If I'm the source, then that's where I had to start. I wish I began that work sooner, although like you, I went back to school. I think it was the beginning of trying to get myself out of a hole I created for myself. I could say so much about how my ex responded but you already know the drill. The key is that none of that nonsense matters when you are taking steps forward, even if some of them are two steps back.

You also led me to an epiphany that I'm so grateful for. It has to do with regret. Or maybe it's more to do with remorse.

I didn't learn about BPD until I was in the divorce process. One day I Googled "high-conflict divorce" because I overheard my lawyer talk about my divorce that way, and that led me to find Splitting by Bill Eddy, who recognized that high-conflict divorces tend to involve someone with a personality disorder. Pow.

I have wondered over the years if things would be different had I known about personality disorders back then. I would've discovered boundaries, and validation, and SET, etc. Not exactly because I think I  could've fixed things, because I'm well past that fantasy, but perhaps I could've landed a plane or two and left with less drama. Maybe having clear boundaries that I stood by -- really stood by -- would have led to a different result, but I'll never know.

My ex's drinking binges were daily, but some were worse than others. It's hard to imagine validation being received with anything but disdain, or worse. Not all pwBPD are the same, some are good and some are not, just like everyone else. Some might be beyond the reach of skills, especially when drugs and alcohol are involved. And if we are sick ourselves from codependence, it's seems (in retrospect) that isn't a winning combination for turning things around. I couldn't get healthy in the relationship and maybe BPD compounded by alcohol made me that much sicker, if only because it turns the dial up so high. I could walk in the back door, see my ex's head from behind, and tell before he turned around whether he was impaired. Because the one thing I realize now -- impaired BPD may as well be drunk. My divorce involved a deposition and when my L asked BPDx about his drinking habits, I realized missing from the equation was how quickly things went from one sip to oh sh!t.  

Reading what you wrote about your wife's alcoholism, especially the way you describe it -- I realized a person sporting a dual diagnosis alcohol + BPD is in the hole beneath the hole. I can only imagine, from a healing perspective, what it would be like to dig your way out of one craterous hole only to discover you're in a whole other one.

It's interesting, too, your family of origin, your school experience, your choices after. Mine was different, but there is a similar through line. I made the kind of choices dum dums make when they don't have emotional intelligence to steer them. I know plenty of young people in their 20s who come from solid families and they aren't mature, but they also don't fling themselves into harms way like I did. I don't regret my choices because blah blah blah the person I am, but from the perspective of mining your family of origin to link one choice to another, I was about as thoughtful towards myself as my family was towards me. I guess we can't fake things we don't even know exist.

There is so much I wanted to highlight in your post, that resonated, that you said so well, that made me laugh out loud, or cringe in solidarity, but I wanted to read all the way through and see where this page turner ended.

Keep writing, it's good to get it out there, for you and for us.  

[M604V]

M604V, I don't know that I've ever felt so moved reading a post here. Wow. People always say it's important to journal but you're a living example for why. Thanks for journaling so others like me can follow.

Thank you so much for your warm reception. It feels great to be welcomed so graciously. That was the first and only time I put “pen to paper” and it felt pretty good. It didn’t solve any of the worlds problems, but I like knowing it’s there forever and may actually help someone else.

I think it's safe to say you've made it past your potential and are existing on a plane beyond.

I sure hope so. It’s about time, about time I just start living my life by short, complete sentences. This is what I want. This is who I am. No, sorry.

It might not feel that way now but all these insights add up to so much more than their parts.

I hope so. We still have two kids to raise, and I pray that these experiences will free me of some bullsh*t residue. Stuff that would only get in the way of me being a healthy and present father.

When I left my BPDx husband a decade + ago I wrote a 12 page letter with the help of my therapist that your post prompted me to read again. Having something like that to go back to, a written account like you have written here (much better than I could, too, btw), is here for you for life. Every time I read mine, which isn't too often, it helps me see more clearly where I was versus where I am now. Once you start to live for yourself it's hard to go back in the box but sometimes it's nice to go back to the box to measure how far you've come.

And just how far have you come? What’s different? Do you even remember that person?

For people like me, and maybe like you, whether the marriage lasts or not is almost secondary. You're breathing life into yourself and making choices that, for lack of a better way of saying it, will free up energy, and that energy is you. I try to imagine what the flip side of codependence is because surely there must be something positive here? I think it's this: I redirected the energy I poured into a sunk cost and re-routed it to flow where it can expand and multiply and be sustainable. If I'm the source, then that's where I had to start. I wish I began that work sooner, although like you, I went back to school. I think it was the beginning of trying to get myself out of a hole I created for myself. I could say so much about how my ex responded but you already know the drill. The key is that none of that nonsense matters when you are taking steps forward, even if some of them are two steps back.

Yes. Yes. Yea. That is my barbershop. It’s a reflection of me. It’s my legacy. It’s 700 sq ft that belongs to me and only me. It’s my emotional playground. I get to be who I am and make a living doing it. But it’s also forced me to reconcile some unhealthy traits as well, like procrastination and people-pleasing. I have to learn (I’m getting there) that you can’t please everyone. Sometimes all you can do is say “sorry” and show them the door.

You also led me to an epiphany that I'm so grateful for. It has to do with regret. Or maybe it's more to do with remorse.

I didn't learn about BPD until I was in the divorce process. One day I Googled "high-conflict divorce" because I overheard my lawyer talk about my divorce that way, and that led me to find Splitting by Bill Eddy, who recognized that high-conflict divorces tend to involve someone with a personality disorder. Pow.

I have wondered over the years if things would be different had I known about personality disorders back then. I would've discovered boundaries, and validation, and SET, etc. Not exactly because I think I  could've fixed things, because I'm well past that fantasy, but perhaps I could've landed a plane or two and left with less drama. Maybe having clear boundaries that I stood by -- really stood by -- would have led to a different result, but I'll never know.

Yea maybe it would have “helped”. But you know what? All that stuff—SET and JADE and all that—all that really does is condition you to be better at dealing with their sh*t. It doesn’t change their sh*t, you’re just trained to like the taste. I may have gone for it a few years ago. Now? I don’t want to hear about SET. With all due love and compassion, I’m tired of strategizing my way through my day, in a misguided attempt to avoid someone’s nonsense because they’re too scared or sick or immature or blind to fix it for themselves.

My ex's drinking binges were daily, but some were worse than others. It's hard to imagine validation being received with anything but disdain, or worse. Not all pwBPD are the same, some are good and some are not, just like everyone else. Some might be beyond the reach of skills, especially when drugs and alcohol are involved. And if we are sick ourselves from codependence, it's seems (in retrospect) that isn't a winning combination for turning things around. I couldn't get healthy in the relationship and maybe BPD compounded by alcohol made me that much sicker, if only because it turns the dial up so high. I could walk in the back door, see my ex's head from behind, and tell before he turned around whether he was impaired. Because the one thing I realize now -- impaired BPD may as well be drunk. My divorce involved a deposition and when my L asked BPDx about his drinking habits, I realized missing from the equation was how quickly things went from one sip to oh sh!t. 

Reading what you wrote about your wife's alcoholism, especially the way you describe it -- I realized a person sporting a dual diagnosis alcohol + BPD is in the hole beneath the hole. I can only imagine, from a healing perspective, what it would be like to dig your way out of one craterous hole only to discover you're in a whole other one.

It’s certainly given me an appreciation for all types of mental illnesses and their co-morbidities. I certainly have compassion for those who suffer like this. It’s made me determined to be a good father, and scared to f*cling death that I’m screwing it up.

I knew my wife was drunk by the sound of her footsteps. Not the unsteady rhythm; just the sound. I just knew.

No, codependency + alcoholism + BPD is not a recipe for a healthy life. Something has to give. It’s just unsustainable. The codependent is always trying to zero in on a moving target, trying to catch a greased pig. It’s impossible. And should you get lucky and get your hands around it it’s bound to move again. Or another one pops up. That’s the alcoholics mission in life: to avoid capture.

It's interesting, too, your family of origin, your school experience, your choices after. Mine was different, but there is a similar through line. I made the kind of choices dum dums make when they don't have emotional intelligence to steer them. I know plenty of young people in their 20s who come from solid families and they aren't mature, but they also don't fling themselves into harms way like I did. I don't regret my choices because blah blah blah the person I am, but from the perspective of mining your family of origin to link one choice to another, I was about as thoughtful towards myself as my family was towards me. I guess we can't fake things we don't even know exist.

I guess, realistically, all I can hope for is trying to keep my kids from making the *same* mistakes. They’re going to make them, and us parents are gonna screw them up one way or another. But at least I can hope to keep that cycle from continuing.

There is so much I wanted to highlight in your post, that resonated, that you said so well, that made me laugh out loud, or cringe in solidarity, but I wanted to read all the way through and see where this page turner ended.

Keep writing, it's good to get it out there, for you and for us.  Doing the right thing

Thank you for the love. I’ll be sure to pass it along. Stay healthy.

[livednlearned]

And just how far have you come? What’s different? Do you even remember that person?

I still walk into the buzz saw, but I'm much better hearing the whir of the blades and feeling that puff of wind. Before it was just straight up hamburger meat, over and over.

I'm not quite where you are with the short sentences and saying what I want and mean and feel. Not consistently. I'm probably 60/40 whereas before divorce I wasn't even in the game. 

All that stuff—SET and JADE and all that—all that really does is condition you to be better at dealing with their sh*t. It doesn’t change their sh*t, you’re just trained to like the taste. I may have gone for it a few years ago. Now? I don’t want to hear about SET. With all due love and compassion, I’m tired of strategizing my way through my day, in a misguided attempt to avoid someone’s nonsense because they’re too scared or sick or immature or blind to fix it for themselves.

Someone on the Bettering board once talked about seT.  The difference between SET, SEt, and seT is worlds' apart. You seem to be doing seT in some of your examples.

For what it's worth, SET has been a fantastic skill in other parts of my life, especially with my kid (now 22).

The codependent is always trying to zero in on a moving target, trying to catch a greased pig. It’s impossible. And should you get lucky and get your hands around it it’s bound to move again. Or another one pops up. That’s the alcoholics mission in life: to avoid capture.

I will never not see this when I think back on that relationship. 

[M604V]

I still walk into the buzz saw, but I'm much better hearing the whir of the blades and feeling that puff of wind. Before it was just straight up hamburger meat, over and over.


Nice to know I’m not the only one who speaks in metaphors.

I'm not quite where you are with the short sentences and saying what I want and mean and feel. Not consistently. I'm probably 60/40 whereas before divorce I wasn't even in the game. 

I’m not sure I’m there either. I’d like to be, but I don’t know. 
 
Someone on the Bettering board once talked about seT.  The difference between SET, SEt, and seT is worlds' apart. You seem to be doing seT in some of your examples.

For what it's worth, SET has been a fantastic skill in other parts of my life, especially with my kid (now 22).

I probably misspoke a bit. I’m happy to employ various strategies but only in an attempt to live a cooperative and reciprocal life. I’m willing to try things to help US, not just enable her to continue this nonsense. She’s a grown woman and it’s about time she acted like one.