Monday, March 21, 2016
Day Off Monday
In a rare event, I have a two-day weekend!! I am revelling with having two consecutive days off to unwind even more so than usual.
Yesterday, I took myself for a lovely 8km walk through the forest on the local trails. It started out as a gentle jog, but as my leg muscles were still feeling the effects of hiking up to the First Peak of The Chief on Friday, I slowed it down to a brisk walk.
This morning, I packed up and headed off to the gondola to do the Shannon Basin Loop (about 10km), with plans to afterwards hit the restaurant and open up the laptop. Good intentions faded quickly. It is raining at the top, the snow is mushy. I forgot to pack my spikes and gators. My lower back, which I could begin to feel last evening, does not wish to trudge around in slippery snow with a backpack. After cursing myself for not being properly prepared, and thinking that I always like to get the hike in first before the writing begins, I find myself at the restaurant, a cup of tea beside me. Sounds of a group float in from the other section, but unfettered solitary roominess are to be found in this section. It is a cloudy, grey day. Misty rather than cloudy. The tops of the mountains on the opposite side of Howe Sound are barely visible. The snow is patchy and melting. I will simply have to go for my forest exercise after I write. I suppose it is good to mix things up a bit!!
In the past 48 hours, I have discovered two different elements with my emotions.
First off, as I was talking out loud in the shower (actually, pretending I was a guest speaker at a women’s conference concentrating on women surviving mental illness...I know, terribly egotistical and childish), and describing how I embarked on this voyage of complete and utter personal change, a wave of realization struck me. My pursuit to learn about side-effects of marijuana, namely what is the connection between smoking marijuana and paranoia, rapidly evolved into the study of symptoms of mental illness. It was not side effects after all. It was symptoms that I was dealing, that WE were, dealing with.
I started out wondering just how much of an impact marijuana had on the brain. How much marijuana had to be smoked in order for the brain to be impacted. How much marijuana had to be smoked, how often, how consistently, in order for the brain to begin to view the world in a more off-kilter perspective? It is not as if marijuana was smoked every day, week after week, year after year. It was totally cyclical. Just how much was needed to cause a permanent effect though? And in my initial searching, I was looking for clinical answers with direct connections between the two. Looking for the definitive statement: Marijuana unequivocally causes long-term paranoia.
I did not find that statement. What I did find was a door that opened onto a world that I knew nothing about. A world that was completely unknown to me. A world that, upon discover, suddenly made sense of everything. Revelation after revelation struck as waves against the shore. Endless knowledge pouring in which divulged the depths and intricacies of my ex-husband’s mental state.
What is interesting is that the more I discovered the more likely explanations of “why” my husband had the perspectives he did, and “why” he behaved the way he did, and “why” he reacted the way he did, the less and less concerned I was with discovering “what” caused these perspectives, “what” caused the behaviours, and “what” caused those particularly predictable reactions. It didn’t matter what brought this all on in the first place. Whether it was effects fro two concussions in university (rugby), or spurred on by casual marijuana use throughout school and the early years of marriage, or other drug use later in life, or a biological reason attributed exclusively to his unique genetic make up. None of that mattered. All that mattered was that this is what I/we are dealing with right now. What got us to this point is irrelevant. All the focus and energy was put towards determining what we do next, both short-term and long-term.
I began reading of other people’s experiences. How living with a partner with mental illness affected them. What daily life consisted of when living with a partner with mental illness. Examples of life with less extreme symptoms and examples of life with more extreme symptoms. Reading about living long-term with someone whose personality will only become more and more extreme as the years wear on. It was at this stage that my internal light went on. That I admitted to myself, without hesitation, that I could not do this anymore. Now that I had an explanation for “why” everything was the way that it was, and why my (ex) husband was the way that he was (and still is, and most likely will still be), I knew with complete certainty that I had already been living with mental illness for years. YEARS. And that I was not going to live with mental illness ANYMORE.
That miniature me who I turned to in the darkest of moments (typically while curled up fetal position on the floor), began to stand up and push out her shoulders. In hindsight, while I sit here looking out over the misty mountains, it was a Jean and the Beanstalk effect. Just as the magic seeds sprouted into a magnificent stalk leading up and away, that miniature me began sprouting. Even with meltdowns, even with tears of frustration and sheer emotional exhaustion, I kept going knowing that at the top of that stalk my release would be found. For lack of a better word: my salvation. Freedom from this oppressive regime under which I had been living for years. YEARS.
I read articles that weighed both the pros and the cons for leaving someone with mental illness. The comparison was made to cancer. Would you leave someone who was just diagnosed with cancer?
That argument did not phase me in the slightest.
I was leaving. It was as simple as that.
I had been subjected to the emotionally turbulent extremes of unquestionable love and devotion, and undisguised hatred and horror. For years. Now that I knew what I was dealing with, there way no way in Hell that I was going to stay. Even with an illness, nothing was going to make me remain in a relationship which, bit by bit, strove to peck away at me until there was nothing left. A relationship in which one moment I was the reason for our excellence, and the next the brunt of all blame for our misfortunes. A relationship that, I can now admit, had me suffer phsyical and emotional consequences for someone else’s perspective. I no longer have bruises, or scratches, or welt on my anatomical structure. But, I have those memories; those invisible yet ever-present scars. And although I fully admit that I am far from perfect, the creation of those particular memories rests solely on the shoulders (and in the fists) of my ex-husband.
I now had an escape valve. I now had this opportunity to say Enough. I now had the chance to get my life back. To rescue myself. To live a life that no longer incorporated cyclical emotional upheaval, mixed in with physical retaliation.
As I type this out, I think about the second discovery that I wish to divulge. Now I wonder about its validity. I’ll explain:
Yesterday, as I walked along in the forest, it struck me that the reason I was not getting angry and bitter towards him, is that I simply did not want to hate him. For me, leaving him was all that was needed for my world to move in a 180-degree trajectory. When he turned and walked the other way, my stress was gone. The vice-grip released its grip. Instantly. I could breathe again. I could live again. I could smile again. I could be myself, again. And because of that incredibly basic change, one day living with my husband and the other day not, there was no need to channel any energy into blaming him. It wasn’t a part of my life anymore so why spend time thinking about it?
Funnily enough, other people wanted me to be angry. Wanted me to curse and swear and shout and release any and all pent-up negative emotions. Yet, I did not. I was too busy enjoying all the amazing things in life to waste my energy and new-found time on dealing with “him” who no longer was part of my daily life. I wanted to focus on all the amazing things that my life consisted of now.
But, I now realize, that after years and years of abuse, there most definitely are buried emotions. Yes, there is still incredibly fond and cherished memories of our life together. There always will be. I will never discount the goodness of our marriage and our love. That did exist. I know that.
I suppose that even admitting that I have these emotions is a step in the right direction. I do not feel unworthy. I do not feel inadequate. Hell, I am made of STEEL. I know this. There is no lack of self-confidence here (at times, yes, there is a lapse but as a general rule of thumb my confidence level is pretty darn high!). I am not a wounded victim, paralyzed by trauma. My therapist clearly stated last week that I most definitely am not suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder! I could have told her that about 18 months ago!
I still do not want to hate him. I don’t. He didn’t ask for his brain to start firing this way. No matter what caused it, the effect on him is unintentional from his perspective. He did not deliberately do something in his life so that this would happen. I know this. Which is why there is no blame for our marriage breaking up. Other people won’t understand this. I know that. But that does not matter to me. It is how I understand it, and my children, that matters.
I do feel an increasing need, however, to stand up to him at some point. To stand my ground on some issue that he cannot refute. That he cannot argue about. That he cannot cause me harm because he sees it, or interprets it, differently.
During the past two Christmas seasons, the children have gone to spend time with their father. Time together which I encouraged and facilitated by lending my vehicle. After the first visit, days later, I learned that he had been not just in my vehicle (and the girlfriend, too), but actually driving it. I gave the children no reaction to this news. I took it in stride. But, while walking in the forest with a girlfriend (funnily enough, the one person who truly wants to see me get angry!), I cursed and spouted and tore vocal strips off the coniferous trees. I was f---ing angry. Could not believe it. The gaul. The sheer gaul of him driving my vehicle.
Anyway, when this past Christmas rolled around, the kids were gearing up to go see their father, and my vehicle was volunteered for them to use. I politely told the kids that, even though they might think me mean and selfish, and that even though I was allowing them to use my vehicle to get together with their father (as far as I am concerned he should be taking care of all of those logistics...not me), and given that I have taken a stand on my own independence and am paying for my vehicle with my own hard-earned money, that I did not want their father IN my vehicle.
The first reaction was prompt: “You don’t even want dad IN the car?”.
“No. I do not.”
Silence.
Then the subject was changed.
Again, days later while we were having
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