Tag: OCD

One Fresh Hell, Hold the Tomatoes

Last week found me a visitor to a mental health facility, leaving each evening alone and downcast. The place just a few miles from our home, in the foothills south of the city, in an unremarkable single story building where I chose to allow supposed professional responsible human beings to rescue my ailing partner from the shackles of long term anxiety and depression. Leaving without him broke my heart and provided not a whit of relief as a few close friends hoped a “break” in the action might provide. His pained eyes looking upon my sadness as yet another judgement to come down upon me. Another multi-year term added to the #lifer tag around my neck, another blow to my remnants of hope.

All the while I possess the knowledge that I likely won’t live to see our future through to a plausibly happy conclusion. Even though this love 10 years in the making, its melodramatic script changed and the film itself in the can, spliced together and the story arc mangled under the cruel editor’s blade. The final reels go to the studio with my scenes cut and lying on the editing room floor.

I hoped for relief at the end of a long week spent alone over the course of treatment, yet no sparkle reappears in his eyes yet and his life not yet resuscitated. It takes the Zoloft about four weeks to help much. But I’m mostly alone these days. Yearning for my partner’s support and the kind of tender and caring love many of which many metastatic sisters write and blog about, I now look over at him, home in bed, and find one whose dark, inky emotions remain locked away inside his heart, like the stars behind clouds in a dark night sky. He lays there disengaged, thinking to himself about things that cause long bouts of sighing, and the simmering anger of so many men who find themselves bitten by such disorders.

Sometimes, my difficulty lies in hiding my visible outrage for being his care giver for over three years, of which this past 18 months one of the most heart wrenching trials of my life. My god – this and cancer, too? Fuck. What more can one do but look up and ask the ceiling over our bed long and winding questions about the treacherous nature of spiritual meaning, self-worth, and the relative value of a life. I then break from the sum of my existential questioning of cogito ergo… to find an email in my inbox from someone who reaches out to me to thank me. Grateful for my honest approach to my blog posts they type out a note that reminds me of why it’s worth it to know that it’s my responsibility as a wife to make a decision to help alleviate my partner’s suffering and try to revive him. To ask that his soul be returned his body.

He, too, wants only the same for me and indicates we may not stay together. For fuck’s sake — why now and you have got to be joking (the only sentences I can form without punching him in the face.) These trivialities came to him exactly how? And in what universe does he believe he lives in where this would even be okay by a substandard unintelligent alien culture of unfeeling assholes? And with that he passes wind and falls asleep and I’m left to wonder alone, naturally, what fresh hell might await me tomorrow?

Hopefully a new sandwich called “fresh hell” from the deli and no more than that.

My Loves Electric (Not Anymore)


Our “Friends” Electric Gary Neumann

There’s a knock on the door/ and just for a second I thought I remembered you.
So now I’m alone / and I thought I could fend for myself.
(From Our Friends Electric by Gary Neumann)

I’m in a terrible dream from which awakening may prove worse. My house in a state of disrepair, crumbling down around me. I try to run as the floorboards warp and break behind me with each step, I scream moving towards a closing door my hand grips inches from the handle as it shuts and locks me inside our home’s sweet wreckage. My good dreams of the future simply exist as memories never made. Each new day wakes me with only the potential of a kind morning. And still alone, my mind races back to that door slamming in my dream single lingering question: I face myself and ask – where do I go from here?

My partner of 10 years decided in his state of untreated general anxiety disorder and depression to quit the miraculous rTMS treatments that incrementally could save him from a life in darkness. The magnetic woodpecker that sat over his head for 40 minutes and gave me five memorably glorious and wonderful days with him. Days and nights when his eyes returned to their beautiful sparkling turquoise with flecks of gold from cold, grey, and dead.

We want to sell our townhome. Simon our cat and me probably, for my longer term mortality, must move away from him should he remain embodied in anxiety’s bouts of rage and pain. Because metastatic breast cancer should take poll position over his anxiety, my life simply cannot continue in the same manner. The last hellish three years of watching the love of my life deteriorate from the vibrant and wonderful man into a nasty and cold asshole. My own coming months and years cannot be spent writing behind bars of someone else’s prison, a prison I handed him the keys to but he refuses to leave.

The keys to my prison do not exist, there’s no cure, and there’s no future with happiness together as a team, the team I really counted on – but Einstein said not all things that can get counted, should be counted.

Many women must experience similarly traumatic stress events with cancer ravaging their bodies. My life’s spirits’ exhaustion shows. I burn hot on fuel called cortisol down unpaved roads, climbing hills to where I believe waits my husband only to drop 10,000 feet until I can stop myself from falling. In the uglier more humiliating moments, I feel useless and unrepentantly inferior to able bodied non-disabled women. People say, “just move out!”

If it were only so easy.

The energy, money, and help (none of which I have by the way) moving takes and the emotional toll of the move itself and consider just the breakup – could shave years from my already shortened life. Yes, I do need to reconsider my options. Unfortunately, I’m unable to work much ouutside of my home and if I have any of my own money I don’t qualify for Medicare. In our great country, one must live far below the poverty line to become eligible to receive medical insurance to cover the incredibly high costs of living in a body full of metastatic breast cancer.

I’m watching my life expire, while my love lives imprisoned by something preventable and completely unwarranted since the keys lay in his reach. I imagine what the feelings of excitement of embarking on a new future, unladened by the heaviness of a partner with depression would feel like. However, given the genuine sadness, memories of pain and ugliness and tears combined with my MBC, and my heart and soul feel nothing even close to free. It’s so unfortunate my new direction will bring only lonely, empty, impoverished days and sleepless nights.

It’s as though his depression, rather then a hug and an apology, will be my runner up prize when it comes time to hit the road. I don’t want this new life, but I cannot stay in this one either. For three years I fought to try to help him. And now I cannot help him any longer. If you’d known us before you’d know why I struggled for so long to try and take care of him at the risk and loss in years of my own health.

What the fuck is life without love? What is life without purpose? What does it feel like to truly live alone with pain? How do I go forth into a life without anyone’s name to put on my advance directive? There’s no one left I can trust to see out my end wishes. No one who I can trust to speak for me when I cannot. Everyone’s gone – dead or left when cancer entered my bloodstream. Never did it occur to me that I’d become this lost so late in the game, but My Love is gone. He is not going to come back to me. I mourne him as he was and don’t know this person who says ugly horrible things and teases me with hope of his wellness and then maligns his state of mental health like a monster from an old movie in front of me.

It’s torture. He believes I am having him go to these treatments to have his brain scrambled like eggs. Yet rTMS was incrementally helping him. Now in his refusal to continue he’s just cruel and it makes me wonder what I did to deserve this horrible life. You’d think – why would anyone do this and choose to hurt someone and himself? How egotistical can one be?

You’ll have to ask him. He may indeed become my last love and now my lost life. Indeed, the friend was electric, but he chose to leave its tapping on his door unanswered and thus, unbeneficial. If life as I hoped truly is over, where to from here?