Cydniey Buffers (cydniey) wrote,
Cydniey Buffers
cydniey

I may just hide in my room and art.

The universe knows I love him. BUT, I am so glad he's gone for a few hours. And once again it is somehow all my fault.

See, he was sleeping for work today on the couch, as always. And the doorbell rang. I went to the window to spy who it was, and it was a guy in a high visibility vest. Considering the roadworks that have been going on right outside the neighborhood walls, I was eager to talk to him. Especially to find out if the works were coming into the walls.

Turns out he worked for a security firm contracted by the state, doing a security survey. I told him I wasn't the homeowner, that I took care of the house and the dog for them because they had hectic and strange schedules. So he gave me his number and the name of his company and told me to have one of the home owners call him because he had info on three cars that were suspected in 15 robberies outside of the walls. I chatted him up until he told me the descriptions of the cars and the M.O.'s of the burglars.

I came inside quietly and sat down and then the questions started, who was it, did I see ID, what exactly had we talked about, what exactly had I said to him and what exactly had he said to me? Had I researched the security company on the web to see if it was affiliated with the state (keep in mind I had JUST walked in and sat down at the laptop)? Why not? And then came all the shit. The heavy sighs and the face palms and the shouting and the muttering under his breath and all the shit.

He went back to sleep. When I woke him up at 7:30, he started in again, like he hadn't even taken a break.

He does this to me EVERY time I talk to a stranger. If I have the bad fortune to be on the phone with said stranger, he offers a non-stop litany of what I should be saying, to the point where I can't hear who I'm talking to and I generally tell them I have to call them back, hang up and throw the phone at Doc. If it's in person, well, it isn't in person. I am not allowed to talk to strangers. I either tell them too much, or I am not safe, or I am being taken advantage of, or I am being lied to or whatever bad can happen to some feeble mentally ill person. I fucking hate it!

And I fail to see how going out the big garage door to talk to him was any more dangerous than going out through the gate in the side of the house. If he had wanted to drag me somewhere and kill me, the side of the house would have been much better than the open and lit up garage. And I was armed. But he doesn't think I have it in me to defend myself with my dagger. Watch me.

So now he has me all paranoid and the fucking Shadow Man is back, and I keep hearing things. And I'm making the dog stay outside so he will bark if anyone comes back there. Oh, and I have every security gate shut and locked. Paranoia is my least favorite symptom. And he planted it so firmly in my evening soil.

The security guy told me about one car, a late model coupe, red, that speeds through the neighborhood a few times, getting a feel for what cars go where, when. And then come back later and ring the doorbells and if no one answers, they hop the gate/wall to the back and break in that way. Trouble is, I've seen this car. I've seen it in the early mornings while getting my coffee. I've seen it on my walks with Chewbacca. I've seen it when doing dishes in the afternoon. Always vrroooming through the neighborhood. I notice people who don't go slow through here, because there are lots of little animals and kids running around. I should be fine. Doc doesn't take the big ass truck to work, and the Rodeo just sits there. And the big ass truck, instead of decals of stick figure family people, it has decals of chalk outlines. It is a capricious truck. It screams, "Big Angry Guy."

The bitter truth is, I am so starved for human contact, I will rush to speak to a guy in a high visibility vest. Doc and I have spoken a little this week, but it has always turned to shit. He did something nice for himself this week, and I was really happy for him and happy he did it. But his high from it seems to have worn off. I know what some of his personal reasons are for being like this, and the main thing I have to do is stay alert to what he is feeling.

It's not all about my illness. Not enough of it is about his well being as my caregiver. More focus needs to be on him. I wish I could not be me for a while. I wish he could go to Cambodia and Peru like he wants to. Like I want him to. There's an elephant sanctuary in Cambodia he really wants to visit, and in Peru, of course, there's Machu Picchu. Then there are all the countries I want to send him to, like Viet Nam and Japan and South Korea. Places I really want to go myself, but would never dare.

It didn't matter to Doc that I told the guy, in case he was nefarious, that we have a security system and cameras around the property. It made no difference.

I hate that he's always telling me, if I don't get the result with people that he thinks I should, that I got lied to or blown off or given the grift. And I'm terrified of the phone as it is. And he ALWAYS makes me make the calls. And then sits there jabbering on. And if I try to go to another room to get away from it and have the bloody conversation, he follows me. Why does he not make the buggery call himself? I am not a ventriloquist's dummy!

And this whole thing about people knowing about my illness just by looking at me and taking advantage of me because they think they can, this shit has got to stop. He doesn't seem to understand that he is stigmatizing me when he does this. He makes me more afraid of people. He acts like this and then wonders why I'm afraid to talk to our neighbors.

I think he needs to find a book or a support group or something. He really is the biggest source of stigma in my life. He is the best enabler I have ever met. But his allowing me to be weak, it sometimes gives me an excuse to be weak when I just don't feel like standing up. And I get the feeling that Dr. B wouldn't like that.

I don't make it easy with my sick sense of humor about my illness, and my own constant use of stigmatizing words on myself. I use them to own them. True story, the words don't hurt me anymore. It's more complex actions that take me out, and that is what he does without even knowing it. He doesn't use the stigma words. It's more sneaky and unconscious and insipid than that. And it's ingrained in him. His parents don't believe in mental illness. It's junk science to them. That's how he was raised. He believes in it. But you can't wipe everything you were taught as a child away, especially as you get older and the world doesn't start making any more sense.

Somehow, we have to get through the weekend without killing each other. With words. That's what we fight with. Words. They are more effective than any other weapon when you've been with someone 17 years. If things don't calm down, I may just hide in my room and art.
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