Lola In The City

I just finished reading Mennonite in a Little Black Dress. The synapses on the back mentions the author’s husband left her for a man he met on Gay.com. I thought that sounded hilarious, especially considering my propensity for being attracted to gay men. It did not mention that her husband was bipolar. So it was quite a shock to start reading this book and suddenly feel like someone had been peeking in my windows during my marriage. It also got me started thinking a lot about my marriage, something I usually avoid.

I have certainly shared a lot on this blog – bad dates, family drama, drunken shenanigans, my own personal craziness. But I haven’t shared a whole lot about my marriage. I’ve mentioned it once or twice. And I’ve hinted at the fact that my ex-husband was mentally unstable. But I rarely talk about what those 12 years were really like. When asked about my marriage I usually try to laugh it off as though we just grew apart or that I’d had just about enough of him leaving his underwear on the floor. But there was so much more to it.

First, a quick background. I met my husband when I was 20. We met through mutual friends. I really wasn’t that interested in going out with him but my friends convinced me to give him a chance.

Our first date was at a party of one of those mutual friends. At one point in the evening someone asked how long we had been together. They were surprised when we said it was our first date. “You guys seem like you’ve been together forever.”

My mom told me when we got engaged that she knew he was “the one” because he was the first guy EVER that I didn’t say, “Oh, he’s just a friend.”

When I started telling people we split up 16 years after that first date many of them were shocked. “You guys seem like the perfect couple. You’re great together.”

It was all true.

Sometimes it did seem like we had been together forever. I don’t mean that in that time-is-dragging-on way. I mean sometimes it was hard to imagine my life before him. I certainly never imagined I would have a life without him.

To this day, I believe he was “the one.” I cannot imagine ever meeting someone with whom I would have that same connection.

Ironically, 5 years after we split up, I still find myself citing examples of what worked so well in our relationship. Because there were things that worked.

But these are only examples of one Patrick – Good Patrick. What many people didn’t see, and the man that I left, was Bad Patrick.

In the four years we dated there were certainly indications that something was wrong. But is was easy to just assume it was because he was immature, irresponsible, spoiled. During this time we lived together for about two years. I ended up moving out. We didn’t break up, but I told him I was not going to live with him until he got his shit together. It all eventually came to a head and he ended up moving back home with his parents to do exactly that. He got a good job. He settled down. He asked me to marry him. I said yes.

About a year into the marriage he was diagnosed as manic-depressive (or bipolar disorder). Thus began the 12 year roller coaster.

Manic Patrick

To the causal observer it would be easy to confuse Manic Patrick for Good Patrick. Manic Patrick was fun, outgoing, energetic, talkative, the real life of the party! But to live with Manic Patrick meant:

Wondering if or when he last took his meds. (He felt good, he didn’t think he needed them.)

Never knowing when your bank account would be overdrawn because he was spending money you didn’t have.

Finding him up at all hours of the night doing God knows what.

Coming home to find out he cleaned out the attic and decided to throw away all of your photos and memorabilia from before you two met.

Worrying that he would do something like burn the house down because he was so distracted he would forget little details like turning off the stove.

Sitting at home for hours waiting for him to show up, wondering if he had done something to harm himself or someone else in his frenzied state.

Depressed Patrick

Few people got to know depressed Patrick. My immediate family and a few close friends saw him, or maybe at least heard about him when I was looking for somewhere to go so I could get out of the house. I lied about Depressed Patrick. I made excuses for why he couldn’t come to parties and events. I did my best to make sure he stayed at home so as not to subject others to him. But to live with Depressed Patrick meant:

Never knowing what little thing was going to send him into a rage. This was especially fun when he was driving.

Wondering just how many pills were chased by how many beers.

Coming home in fear that THIS time would be the time it was too many of both.

Wondering how many more days before he quit his job. Or how long before he found a job.

Sitting at home for hours waiting for him to show up, wondering if he had done something to harm himself or someone else in his depressed state.

Trying to tell yourself he didn’t mean the hateful things he was saying to you.

Questioning yourself and wondering why your love wasn’t enough to make him happy.

In between there was plenty of Good Patrick, too. I wouldn’t have stayed as long as I did without Good Patrick. With every new medication, new doctor, new treatment, new promise, I clung to the hope that I would have Good Patrick all the time and that Bad Patrick was out of our lives for good.

In the mean time I worked like a maniac, working 60-70 hours a week just so I didn’t have to go home. And to pay the bills since his work history was sporadic.

When I would get home I would sit in my car for a minute, take a deep breath and brace myself because I never knew what or who I would find when I walked through the door.

I cried myself to sleep. A lot.

Even when things were good I held my breath waiting for the next drop of the roller coaster.

I LIED. I lied to my family, to my friends, to myself. I was embarrassed. I didn’t want them to know what was going on. Not so much because of the stigma of mental illness (although I’m sure that was part of it). I was embarrassed because I felt like I was a failure. I felt somehow there was something I should have been doing differently to fix it.

That feeling of failure continued as I struggled with the decision to end the marriage. I told you he was “the one.” When I stood in front of that justice of the peace in Luray, VA on July 20, 1993 I meant it when I said, “In sickness and in health. Until death do us part.” And he was sick. How could I leave him? Would I leave him if he were diabetic? But if he were diabetic and not taking his meds I probably wouldn’t have had to worry about him spending all of our money, burning the house down, overdosing, getting arrested, or all of the other things I worried about on a regular basis.

So I did end it. And I continued to lie. I tried to act as though I was fine. Why should I be upset? This was what I wanted. It was my decision. (Side note: This charade is also why I HATE that whiny little twat Elizabeth Gilbert and her book Eat, Pray, Love. She ended her marriage because she just didn’t want to be married…not because she was afraid her husband would burn the house down. If I can suck it up then so can she.)

Eventually, two years after we split, I decided to start over. I moved half way across country to start a new life. No need to go into the details about that. It’s chronicled right here.

In writing this I have come to realize that I brought a lot of that crap to Chicago with me. I see now that some of the things I do are knee-jerk reactions to how my life used to be. It is hard to trust other people and it is hard to trust myself. But I also see how much I have learned. It has made me clear on what I want in a relationship. I’ve said this before. I know how good good can be. And I know how bad bad can be. I won’t ever have what I had with Patrick again. And in some ways that makes me sad. But I know I won’t go through that hell again. And I know that I am just fine all on my own.

So now you know the rest of the story.