Remembering

Sometimes, beyond crying and being able to get things off your chest, a good therapist pulls a pearl out of all your perceived troubles, and you remember something you'd overlooked.

Thank you, Jb, for being the kind of man who'll turn off the computer, the tv, pull up a chair, and talk to me about our relationship. There aren't many like you. I'm truly lucky to have a man so open to communicating his emotions, and committed enough to want to. I love you.

Bipolar Relationships

Bipolar relationships are a no-win situation. A Catch-22. In the beginning, the sane person is always the one to blame. After the diagnosis, the insane person is always the one to blame.

Before, your significant other can't keep up with your mood swings, can't intuit the things you so desperately need from one minute to the next. In short, they can't gallop along with you, so they're left dragging in the dust. And you hate them for it. You hate that they can't keep up, that they can't stand up to your racing, wanting, needing. There's yelling, disappointment, accusations. And they look at you, bewildered, bowled-over, and you can't understand their surprise, or their caving, and you see it as weak. They're weak, but you're strong. So much stronger, so much better, so far above the person you claim to love, but where's the love? There's judgment, self-righteous indignation, and, unbelievably, betrayal. How could someone you love betray you so when you've given them everything, every bit of you. And god help them, you have, and now, they've no idea what to do with you, and they question themselves, and you leave them feeling as if nothing they do could ever be right. And it never could be.

Six months and a diagnosis later, and you're the one who can't do anything right. Something in your life has broken. Something in your mind is broken. Your emotions are foreign things to you. You are out of control, and your significant other knows that you are. You are now the problem. Instead of galloping ahead after a righteous mad, you smack face first into an argument, into an accusation. Your loved one has become brave, and it's time to pay the piper. You're left bewildered. You question everything about yourself: Are you to blame? Were you that bad? Was the mood justified? None of it seems to matter. The only thing you hear, over and over now, is that you are wrong, you are responsible. You listen and listen and listen, and you wonder, tears near the surface, when it'll be your turn to talk. But you've lost your turn, and you think about calling your therapist to see if you can't get in immediately because you need to talk to someone. You need to talk to someone who'll listened. You are desperate for anyone to listen to you, desperate for someone to believe you without demonizing you. Because being at home feels more full of doubt than being anywhere else. And only a stranger can listen now.