Stalemate

I feel so frustrated still. It is as if he is unable to hear me say I don't love him. I told him I don't think I ever loved him - at least not since way before we were married. I told him that our relationship had a kind of momentum that I didn't know how to escape. I told him that if he had lived here we would have split up. And it doesn't get through. He is not giving up. I guess I wouldn't really expect him to, I just really wish he would. I wish that he would finally have a little respect for my feelings, for the first time in our relationship.

I realised that I am so angry with him for repressing me all these years. For telling me how to behave, what to say. For punishing me by sulking. And it doesn't matter that he has "changed" - the lid is off the box and it is not going back on. There are two issues - the anger is totally separate from the fact that I don't love him. Two good reasons not to be together. One of which is non-negotiable.

He wants to try. He thinks we should give it a chance, with him being "better" and me telling him how I feel. He didn't realise that he was quite such a control freak because I let him get away with it. I admit my fault in this - if I had been stronger, if I had told him it was unacceptable then he could have changed years ago. To be honest, I am not sure that would have been enough. There is still the unmoveable element - the utter lack of love.

He wanted a definition of love. Wanted to know what it means to me to love someone. I told him that it means wanting to spend time with them, missing them when they are not there, not fantasising about them dying in a car crash. Not being panicked by the idea of a future together.

This has to get through. I don't know what to do if it doesn't

Frustration

In counselling. As far as I am concerned it is divorce counselling, but he thinks it is marriage guidance. This is a bit of a problem, to say the least. He doesn't think it matters that I don't love him anymore - he loves me enough for both of us, or so he believes.

And if I don't want to chat, if I don't want to make nice, he accuses me of having no respect. I am caught between a rock and a hard place.

I don't want to share my life with him anymore, and yet I can't get away.

Bursting the balloon

On holiday for ten days with the husband and kids. I feel like I am drowning, suffocating. I have to put on a brave face for their sakes - when we get home all hell can break loose, but the children deserve their holiday to be perfect. It might be the last one together.

The past year has set wheels in motion. Wheels that were rusted tight with denial. Now there is no getting away from the unstoppable train. It's just a matter of time.

And then I see the children with their father and it breaks my heart. To tear apart the family for my own sake - it is almost more than I can bear.

But if I don't start listening to my own feelings, my own needs, I will end up like my mother. A lifetime of antidepressants and affairs - neither of us deserve that. He deserves someone who loves him, and that just isn't me. It's been half my life - 17 years. I want the next half to be on my terms, with love and hope and joy in my heart.

What I want

I want to be swept away. I want to feel again. I want there to be a point to the rest of my life. A point for me, not just for other people. I want fire and passion.

And I want happiness.

Is that so much to ask?

No harm, no foul

Lying awake, unable to sleep, mind wandering. Wandering to places better avoided. Places that include people I shouldn't be thinking about; scenarios I shouldn't be thinking about.

But CBT has taught me not to use the word "should" anymore. There is no "should". Those are unrealistic expectations.

These things are only in my head, right?

Anachronism

I am off to CBT tomorrow after a month where my therapist was swanning around the world on various trips. It was good to have a break in some respects, but it meant that I left my homework until the last possible moment (i.e. now) - just like being back in school. Sorry sir - the dog ate it.

What arised from our last session was that a major issue for me is that I am struggling against a (largely self imposed, although being married to a somewhat unreconstructed man doesn't exactly help) view of what a wife and mother should be. I have forced myself to behave like I am living in the 1950s while feeling unutterably frustrated by the position that puts me in. So, my homework has been to think about my old-fashioned codes of behaviour, and reinterpret them for the 21st century.

I've spent our entire relationship being submissive, and I'm slightly worried about what will happen when he realises that it wasn't really me. Who knows, maybe he'll like it. Maybe he always knew. Maybe I am being overoptimistic. Watch this space.

In other news: my hair has stopped falling out. Seems I've reached some kind of equilibrium, follicularly speaking.

Giant invisible elephants

Lunch with the family ("which one?" I hear you cry) at the weekend. To clear up any possible misunderstandings, it was the family I was raised with; so two (half) sisters and their kids, as well as mum and (non) dad. I was expecting the whole thing to be utterly ridiculous, but somehow the presence of an enormous unmentionable secret that all the adults (except non dad) were well aware of didn't impinge on events at all. Perhaps now we all know about it we can begin to move on, even if it never gets discussed. Then again.

Oh, and I ate a proper meal (although I hated myself for it afterwards).

On why I am not eating

Let me just get this straight - I have never had an eating disorder before, and I would hesitate to define my current issue so strictly, but there is something deeply wrong with my relationship with food. I lost a lot of weight last year in the worst phase of my depression. I didn't want to eat, and that in turn became the only thing I felt I had any control over. I considered it a bad day if I ate anything at all before 2 pm; a terrible one if I had anything vaguely approaching a normal meal at any time. If you took all the food I consumed in a 24 hour period and put it on a plate it would not have added up to anywhere near one single meal.

I should add that I was pretty thin to start with, so now I was looking pretty damn skeletal. Did that stop me? Don't be daft - I liked the way my clothes fell off me; how my hip bones stuck out; how I couldn't sit on a hard chair. To make matters worse I was lying to people about how much I had eaten - pretending to the husband that I had eaten with the kids.

I know this is all wrong, and unhealthy - both physically and mentally - but there is a part of me that can't stop. I have put back some of the weight but now I find myself continually worried that I will gain it all back. I'm still not eating enough. I never eat before lunchtime, or mid afternoon if I can manage it. I lie about what I have eaten and when; but most tellingly for me I feel guilty if I do eat - as though I have to make up for it the next day.

I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to want to stop.

Three months' grace

According to my latest depression test sheet (yes, they really do have these, I'm not kidding) I am now a 6. This means that I am officially well. Of course, what it doesn't mean is that I would continue to be well if I stopped taking the drugs, but I can take three months off between appointments. This is both good (money) and bad (no excuse to sneak off to town without the kids), but ultimately should be a good sign. The shrink made me laugh - bloody scientists - spent half the session wondering if there was a way of manipulating my drug regime to find out whether I am bi- or unipolar, for no reason other than that he wanted to know. Never mind the fact that it could send me spiralling into another deep depression, oh no - he wanted the information. Fortunately he changed his mind in the end, and decided it was probably not worth the risk. Thanks a ton.

CBT tomorrow. My homework from last time was to think of all the markers I can for when I am becoming depressed or manic. All those little behavioural cues that, if only I were more aware of them, could make me go "oooooh, hang on a minute". I had fun making that list, especially with the mania such a recent and vivid memory. It made me realise again how a large part of me loves feeling high. Mostly the part below my waist.

Touchdown

And the tips of my metaphorical toes are on the ground. It was quite gentle in the end - it seems we got the drugs right, thank god.

I'm already feeling nostalgic for the mania though. I get so much done, and I am just SO DAMN SEXY! It's hard to go back to the mundane, the normal, the plain and ordinary. I feel just a little bit less alive like this. I can understand why people with bipolar disorder are notoriously bad at taking their meds. If it wasn't for the danger of crashing while looking after children I would be off them myself. Another thing to add to the list of "stuff to do when the kids leave home" - it's getting really long.

The pieces of me

I feel as though I am a loaf of bread, torn into pieces and distributed between too many people. No-one knows what the whole loaf looks like; no-one has the whole picture.

I am losing track of who knows what, and how much detail, and I am starting to feel like my head might explode from trying to keep everything straight. Why can there be no single person that I can tell everything to. Like an anchor holding me steady – reminding me of the shape of my soul, my memory.

It's official

Just back from the shrink with a diagnosis of mania. How exciting. So much more exciting than the hypomania I had last time. Can you spot the deliberate sarcasm?

Time to tweak the drugs, in the hope that stuffing me full of depakote will bring me back down and yet somehow not render me entirely bald. If it doesn't work then we will need to think about lowering the antidepressant. A little counterintuitive, since I have depression, but there you have it. These things seem to be a bit of a balancing act.

Even more interestingly the doc seems to think that I may actually be properly bipolar, as opposed to being made so by the meds. Cue a lifetime of taking cocktails of different drugs and swinging around all over the place like a yoyo. If I wasn't finding everything so bloody hilarious then I'd be far more concerned. As it is nothing is touching sides right now. Ha-de-bloody-ha - gotta love mania!

Oh bugger

Oh crap, I've gone high again. After a week or so where I was extremely productive and yet somehow didn't need to eat or sleep there is no getting away from the fact that I am erring on the manic side. This is not good. The new mood stabiliser didn't give me the skin of a smallpox sufferer, but it caused enough side effects to be ruled out as an alternative after just four days of trying, and now it would seem that the depakote just can't cut the mustard any more. Off to the doc on friday to see what we can figure out. In the meantime I am nibbling away at valium tablets to try and stave off the inevitable crash, while still retaining an ability to drive a car and look after children.

I really really thought that it wouldn't happen again - that we had it sorted after last time. I'm actually scared for the first time in months, and I am not enjoying the experience.

Homework

My CBT homework for this week was to think about the standards that I have set for myself and how their attainment (or not) affects my mood. Here we are then - my soul, laid bare. Be gentle.

I should want to spend more time with my children:

I really try hard with this one because I feel that they can tell I don’t really want to be with them. It is the constant demands that I find so draining, especially when we are all together and I am the default option. I feel like shouting “you have TWO parents!” at them, and sometimes I do. This makes me feel worse - they probably only had a simple request - but I find it very hard to be at their beck and call constantly.

I should enjoy spending time with my husband:

This is a tricky one. I’m not sure how much of this comes from me and how much comes from him. Given half the chance I would probably disappear every evening and sew or something. I feel that the closer he tries to get to me the more I pull away.

I should be able to look after my children by myself:

Because other people can, and I have to be at least as good, if not better, than everyone I know.

I should be having better sex:

Because other people are. Allegedly.

I should be happier:

I have a good life, a husband who loves me, three healthy kids, and yet I have depression. I should slap myself around the face a few times and get over it.

Everything I do should be perfect:

I’m getting a little less strict about this one, but things still have to be pretty near perfect. If they aren’t I point out their inadequacies to every one who cares to look.

I should know everything without being told:

Because "I am a genius", and that’s what clever people do. Clearly this gets me into some sticky situations because I don’t actually know everything. I will pretend damn hard though, given half the chance.

Back to the therapist tomorrow. I'm nervous.

Out with the old

I've been on a downswing lately. Nothing too major: just difficulty sleeping, eating, smiling, and tolerating the husband and children. It could be a response to being back in the thick of things after having a few days to myself. According to the pshrink it could be a result of lowering the depakote. Who knew - it stops you being depressed as well as manic - clever stuff. It's all change on the drug front now - switching to some other mood stabiliser that has the delightful side-effect of giving 25% of users a horrible skin rash. Not to be a pessimist, but you just know I will be in that 25%, right? So, the hair will grow back (curly, apparently) but I will look like a pizza-faced teenager. Cool.

I went to see a new therapist this week. He replaces the previous one who spent pretty much every session talking about her kids, and which school they went to, and how generally fantastic she was with all her other patients. And for this I was paying her? The new guy most certainly is not in the chatty category. Excellent. He doesn't even seem to want to know what has been going on in my life. I was delighted because, for me, the worst part about starting with a new therapist is having to begin at the beginning.

The other good thing about him was that he seemed to have me sussed within about ten minutes, putting into words all those amorphous feelings about my depression that have been floating around for so long. The guilt, the high expectations of myself, the disappointment. It seems that my depression stems largely from having my autonomy curtailed. I couldn't agree more. Given half the chance I would run for the hills and stay there for a long time. Well, probably the beach actually. Unfortunately (or not) there are three small people that persist in calling me mum, and I am actually quite fond of them. Bollocks - I really should have considered this reproduction thing more carefully.

Pinch me

It feels like a dream.

The conversation I never thought I would have.

The response I never dared to hope for.

I told my mother that I knew who my biological father was, and she hugged me. I'm still in shock. I was expecting an attempt at denial at least, and instead I got an apology. It feels like a whole new chapter of my life is just beginning - one where I have a relationship with a parent. Until now it has felt as though every conversation we have ever had was avoiding the issue. That there was no way of talking about anything without feeling the presence of the elephant in the room. Now that elephant has been acknowledged and we can start to relate to each other as real people.

I'm torn between being excited about it, and being terrified it was all a mirage - that things will go back to how they were before. Her habit of denial is a thoroughly ingrained one that I am not sure she will be able to let go of.

You certainly don't choose your family

We are travelling tomorrow to stay with my in-laws for a few days. This used to be a reasonably ok thing to do. They are good with the kids, hubby is happy, I don't have to cook - what's not to like, right? Well, there is always a caveat. In this case it is that the last time I sat down with my MIL and had a conversation she confided in me that she hadn't had sex with the FIL for 18 years, and had been having an affair her entire married life (yes, even on her wedding day - classy or what). Not surprisingly our relationship - at least from my point of view - has suffered slightly. I can't actually bear to be alone with her any more.

I do wonder what the hell she was thinking when she told me all this. What was she actually expecting me to do with the information? Tell my husband? Doesn't she have anyone else she could talk to about it?

At the time I just felt desparately sorry for her being stuck in a difficult marriage, but fairly soon I got angry. And also slightly despairing - here was a relationship I thought was alright, but it is actually a hollow shell. How depressing. Which I guess brings me to my point: this incredibly poorly thought through and selfish act on her part contributed to my illness. I don't think I can forgive her for that.

And now I have to go and make nice with the family or my husband will wonder why I am being mean to his mum. Given that he regards infidelity as the ultimate in unforgivable sins I don't think I will be telling him about this any time soon. Why the hell should I be the keeper of her secrets? I have enough trouble with my own.

Wait and see

I went to the pshrink last week and, after a very amusing conversation where he tried several different methods of referring to my fathers before settling on first names (makes sense really), we discussed medication. I have been wanting to reduce my depakote for a while (I don't like the way my hands shake and my hair falls out - petty I know) but have been afraid to. Before I went on the stuff I had a brief (and yet wonderful at the time) episode of hypomania, followed by the mother of all breakdowns. You know that you are ill if your mother moves in with you and DOESN'T GET ON YOUR NERVES. I was too unwell to even watch telly - serious business. Needless to say I am slightly worried about a repeat performance.

A week into the lowered dose and I was feeling a little like I had eaten five krispy kremes and drunk a triple shot latte. Twitchy to say the least. I didn't mention it to the husband because I knew he would panic - not so good in a crisis. Fortunately that seems to have faded a little, and I am feeling a bit less antsy. Time will tell if I become the crazy nyphomaniac that I was last time, but I'm guessing hubby won't mind too much if I do. At least, not straight away.

Confusion

The thing that has been worrying me (well, bothering me really) since the meeting is the difference in our feelings for one another. He feels fondly towards me, having known me since I was a baby, and - more to the point - having suspected I was his child. It is easy for him to show affection - hold my hand, hug, kiss.

The emotions I have for him are so much more complicated. They are laced with a heavy dose of 'but you are the man who was inappropriately shagging my mother', as well as 'what the hell were you doing at my house all the time, when my own dad wasn't even there?'. It isn't so easy to transform these into positives, as much as he might wish it; hell, as much as I might wish it. It would be lovely to have a father that was warm and demonstrative - goodness knows the other one isn't. The problem is that I think it is just a little bit too late for all that. Like 35 years too late.

And when I met him...

He was looking back at me with a blue version of my eyes, telling me he was so glad to know he had such a wonderful daughter of whom he can be proud. He is the same man that I remember from my childhood, but this time he is my father. A father who is affectionate and warm. A father like I have never had.

There were some tears. There was much confessing. There were some bombshells (she did it on purpose - wanting his baby). Most of all there was the strangeness of it all, and the wondering of where we go from here.

There is no immediate answer to that question. He doesn't want to upset his wife any more than he already has, although she has always known about the affair. I am way past the age where I would do stuff with my dad. It would be a shame to lose touch with each other, but then again it is difficult to see how we could maintain contact without hurting people around us. A bit of a minefield to say the least.

I am sure that if it wasn't for the drugs I wouldn't have been able to get through this. There is a certain levelling of emotion that comes with them; a muffling really. The feelings are there, but they are so much more manageable. Perhaps there will come a day when I collapse in a heap and can't stop crying with the delayed shock of it all, but not right now. I am grateful for that.

And the winner is....

Bloody hell!

Got the test results, and it was as I thought - I am indeed a member of the 'I'm a bastard' club. I'm not sure how I feel about it. It's not as though it's a surprise, but it is an entirely different kettle of fish to suspect something and then discover that you are right. Or as the DNA test says, 99.9% right.

So now instead of two sisters I have four half sisters and a half brother, and have gained two nieces and a nephew. Except that I haven't because that isn't how it works. I'm not just going to slip into the lives of these people like I belong there. Genetics isn't all you need to make a family - it isn't necessarily even the best place to start.

And then there is the whole medical history side of things. I've lost the autism gene, but what have I gained? I'll find out on wednesday, when I meet the man himself. That could be an interesting day.

Speechless!

HE WENT TO THERAPY!!!!

(and he is going back next week)

What to do when you have changed but they have not

I have come to realise that what I really want is for my husband to get some therapy. Somewhere he can talk about whatever he likes without fear of the consequences. Somewhere he can get things off his chest without aiming them directly at me. Somewhere he can learn a whole new and previously unexplored vocabulary of emotion.

We have had a lot of conversations recently - more than we ever had before. More open and honest. During one of these I told him that the only thing I want him to do to demonstrate his support of my illness is for him to go to a counsellor. That's all. He said he would - amazing. Without even that much of a fuss.

Then of course, over the next few days came the conditions, the qualifications, the excuses. Culminating in last night when we talked about it YET AGAIN.

First he said 'but I thought I was just going to come to your sessions'. Then he said 'but I am so busy I'm not going to have time to find someone'. Next 'I only said I would go once, anyway'. Finally 'what will you do if I don't sort it out in time?'

Fortunately there was nothing sharp within reach.

I have extracted the following commitments from him:

1. To find a counsellor by himself
2. To do it within 2 weeks from yesterday (and I won't ask him about it until then)
3. To actually commit to the process and go for at least 3 months
4. To shut the fuck up

OK, that last one was a bit of a lie, but we can dream.

I even managed to remain totally calm and rational throughout. I am very impressed with myself.

I am more than the sum of my (broken) parts

I am really starting to resent the way my husband sees me as an 'ill person'. I mean, he's doing his best and everything, but it seems that everything I do or say is being filed away in his head under 'irrelevant because she is clearly crazy'. It's like having a totally valid, non hormonal argument when your period is due, based entirely on the fact that they are being a wanker, and having them say (calmly - always calmly) 'do you have PMT, by any chance?', and all you want to do is shout NO - YOU ARE JUST BEING A WANKER!

I am allowed to be angry without it meaning something else. I am allowed to be snippy without needing to up my meds. I am allowed to not fancy a shag without it being a return to the dark old days of merely inhabiting the same house.

It is the unholy combination of tiptoeing around me and at the same time patronising me that is starting to really piss me off. I wish he would just get out of my space and stop looking after me quite so much. Particularly since he is clearly suffering from the self imposed pressure to be a martyr to my illness. I feel like I have to be better RIGHT NOW just so that he doesn't have a heart attack - any mention that this might be a slightly longer term issue is not popular.

Maybe I should just go for the heart attack option. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.

Frustrated much?

So, the test was inconclusive. Now I have to send more DNA for a different test, costing me another squillion pounds and taking another eternity. It's funny how time slows down in these situations. If I was lying on a beach sipping frozen margaritas then the three more weeks that I have to wait would feel like about 25 minutes. It's not fair! (god, I sound like my children when I say that).

It does seem more than a little ridiculous that the people who were supposed to be the adults in this situation (my parents, of course - all three of them!) couldn't behave as such and FIND THIS OUT FOR THEMSELVES YEARS AGO. But then, they might have actually had to deal with the consequences. Far better to leave it to me, in the midst of depression, to deal with it all by myself (well, except for the dozen or so people who know all about it, none of whom are the protagonists of course).

Do I sound bitter? Maybe I am just a little. Maybe I would also like to be able to stick my head in the sand and pretend this isn't all happening. Maybe I have done that for long enough and it is time already.

*insert primal scream here*

Ohfercrissake!!!!

35 years of wondering
one week to get the kit
two weeks waiting for a result

and that result is 'inconclusive'

Why can there not just be an answer to this question? It's the mystery that has no end. I have a headache.

Let me out

What I need to do right now is walk up the side of a mountain with the wind in my hair. It must be cold - I need the comfort of layers of clothes; big swaddling scarves and a warm hat. Somewhere desolate and wide open. Scotland, maybe.

Shame I live in the suburbs.

Where we are now

Mental illness - what a crazy thing (pardon the pun). The last few months have been a hell of a ride. Depression, mania, breakdown, depression, DNA testing, nymphomania. It's all go.

I'm currently waiting for the results of the DNA test. Will my real father please stand up....

Apparently, some ridiculous proportion of people are fathered by someone other than the man who raises them, so I shouldn't feel so bad. Interestingly, that doesn't actually make me feel much better. The pshrink tells me that he has heard worse stories, but that also doesn't make me feel better.

You know what does? Tea and chats with friends, and imagining a life I don't currently live