At one point, I thought I'd talk to him. I somehow thought that now was a good time to hit him up for some artistic support. Because no matter how hard I work, how hard I promote, I fail. What I said to him, though, was more vague. It was, "I'm tired of working so hard and getting nowhere."
His response was that he didn't notice me trying hard, and actually saw me getting worse. For example, the sheer amount of time I spend with the TV and computer off, staring into space in silence. Then he noted the argument we got into over the microwave-ability of a plate the other night. He said I was being obstinate for no reason. I said, it's my plate. I bought it before I met him, and it was mine and I could do whatever I want to it. He said that's why I make no sense. Then repeated a few times that I have no common sense in any situation.
Then he told me that he didn't know how to talk to real people any more because of me. He told me his friends thought he was crazy for staying with me and had pretty much shunned him because of me. He told me he has to watch me every minute when we are out because he never knows what I am going to do. I've NEVER flipped out in a store. I always get myself out before that happens.
So for a good 45 minutes, he listed my wrongs. And I sobbed/screamed with pain. Then I quietly said, "Wow, are we on different pages."
"Why, what were you talking about?"
"My artistic endeavours."
"Don't get distracted from the point." says he.
"I'm the one who started the conversation, so you're the one that is off topic, point in fact."
Me? Deflecting a list of what I do wrong? Imagine that.
And again with the accusation that I don't allow him to have emotions. Which was true a few years ago, but I have worked really hard on that. And if he chooses not to acknowledge that, well fuck him.
He doesn't get it. I KNOW I'm getting worse. What am I doing when I sit and stare? I'm just checking out and letting the voices take over for a while. Sometimes I try to sift through and follow one or the other, but I usually just let them jabber on. The only ones that talk directly to me on a regular basis are the Shadow Man and Little Girl. But I don't dare tell him that.
He doesn't understand what a TRS diagnosis would mean. I've tried to explain and he just blows it off. He doesn't get that it would make the parts of me he hates the most, worse, by a lot, from what I've been reading. And the perpetual Lab fees. And the side effects. And the companion treatments, like frequent and long term ECT sessions. In an effort to stop some generally harmless audio and visual hallucinations, my life would effectively end. I would have to go to an assisted living facility. Fucking chemical lobotomy. Or it just seems that way when you're looking through the crack in the door of it. Whatever, I'm fucking terrified of that happening.
And so, Doc has gone to work. And left me in this state.
And there's the way he just completely dismissed the thing I brought up in the first place. My artistic endeavours. I really needed some support. This latest failure with Soundcloud has taken the rest of the breath out of the muse. I can't write anything new because, what's the fucking point? the act of writing releases me, I don't read it myself. And if I have to dig really hard to find something to release, I don't want it to just sit and fester in some notebook, I want to share it. But it seems that is not what is meant for my poetry. 15 years I have had it online. And I can count on my hands and feet how many people have seen any part of it. And listening to 15 bytes of my piece doesn't count.
So now my soulmate, my best friend, is dismissing my art, the same way the rest of the world is.
And my fucking rib hurts! If anyone really loved me, I would have Vicodin by now! I only have to obsess over this tonight, because after tomorrow, for the next 4 weeks, I will be blitzed out of my head while my rib heals.
Oh yeah, and I got yelled at for getting the mail. I'm basically not allowed off the furniture.
Doc tried to get me to agree to a mile long walk to the bus to take to another Urgent Care than the one I've been to before. With a cracked rib. I breathe so shallowly, I am always close to fainting, sitting on the couch, so can I walk a mile? Going out to get the mail at the end of our short driveway was stupid . . . but can I walk a mile to the bus? I just looked at him. I couldn't, literally could not, think of anything to say to that.
Soon it was past 8 and he had to go get ready. As he walked away from me, he muttered loudly, "It's just not fucking worth it to talk to you."
I don't get it. Is this because I go in to reheat my coffee while he is in the kitchen? The kitchen is huge. WTF? It's not because I wait on him hand and foot. He says I mutter. And if I say something that he doesn't hear, he literally screams his inquiry at me, sometimes getting right up in my face before he does it. It scares the shit out of me every time (PTSD anyone?). I can't take a breath to talk loud. He screamed at me a lot today. But he's been on this kick for a while. The screaming is just new. He won't speak audibly and will not repeat what he says, ever. Then later tells me I committed to something I've no clue about. But when I won't repeat what I said because I don't think it's important, I am lectured on what a rude bitch I am.
And he does this thing with words. He picks out of my sentences words that are unfamiliar to him and interrogates me about them in a really aggro way. I have to tell him the word origins, definition, country of common use, and valid (in his mind) reason for using it instead of an American or non-tech word. God help me, I said I had a "yen" for something the other day and he started into this routine. I said I "couldn't be arsed" one day and got a huge lecture on how I'm not from the UK and how much a fool I sounded, when he uses UK colloquialisms himself. Today the word was "meme". Which he has latched onto before. Every time I say it, in fact. So I had the definition all ready.
Is this care giver burn-out? Does the care giver eventually turn on the cared for? Is that what we're going through? His hostility is really out of hand. And it's making me hostile. And I'm a ragerific person as it is. I don't even need to be poked or prodded. I can tell when we've taken things too far, the dog jumps up on me, either to protect me, or more often, soothe me.
I should just take my meds and lie face down on my bed. Or the big couch. At the very least I need a smoke.