I felt pretty good Monday, was very accomplished when I got home, got to bed on time, and everything. My cat kept waking me up so I didn’t sleep very well, and thus Tuesday didn’t go quite so well. I was anxious about getting to work late (A Time Warner Cable truck parked me in) and about my paperwork, and ended up needing two klonopin to survive the morning. I was irritable, I was anxious, and I was PMSing to boot. All the midol and klonopin in the world couldn’t have helped, I don’t think.
My boyfriend and I had planned to go out for dinner to celebrate six months together. That was actually on the 14th, but last week was worse, and this past weekend was very busy. He first tried to talk me into having our anniversary dinner with his family and playing Wii games, when I’d been imagining a nice restaurant, maybe a movie. I got upset that he continued to pester me about it, because I hadn’t responded to his texts right away. I am occasionally an overglorified taxicab driver, and that’s what I was Monday. I don’t text and drive, so I didn’t respond until I got home. I couldn’t figure out why he’d want to do that and why he was making such a big deal out of it, and asked for something a bit more romantic. I also wanted him to pick a restaurant, because I always do.
Then, Tuesday is completely shot. I was almost out of spoons by noon. This downswing is taking it all out of me. We were talking about my mood, and he noted how I do worse when I don’t sleep well.
“That’s why my psychiatrist doubled my sleep meds last week,” I replied.
“And you ARE taking them… right?”
I was completely floored. “I have been taking medication since I was twelve. I always take my medication. I’ve told you that before.”
“I know, and I trust you, but sometimes people stop taking their medication because they feel fine.”
That was about the point I just about lost it. I was horribly offended; does he think I’m lying about taking my medication? Or an idiot who doesn’t know the first thing about people with mental illness, despite my horrific childhood with a self-medicating alcoholic, bipolar father, my own illness, and working with people with chronic mental illnesses for a living?
He couldn’t understand why I was upset. “I was just asking a question, I wasn’t insinuating anything.”
I just don’t know how to even start to explain. How do you explain colors to a blind person? Or birdsong to someone who is deaf? In six months, I thought he understood, and I’ve tried to explain everything I can. I’ve given him information to read, answered all of his questions. Just a week ago, I texted him that the thoughts were getting really bad, and he responded with something like “sorry to hear that. I love you.” I asked him what he thinks it means when I’m talking about thoughts being bad, giving him the benefit of the doubt. He replied with “thoughts of self-harm.” “Yes,” I replied. “I am having suicidal thoughts right now and I’m scared.” I tried to call him but it went to voicemail. He then texted me, “My phone is almost dead and I’m at bingo with my sister. I’ll call you when I get home.” I called again and pretty much just started yelling, so angry that bingo with his sister was taking precedence over the fact that I was calling him for help because I was having suicidal thoughts and wanted support, and maybe for him to come over to make sure I stayed safe. Now that I was mad, though, I didn’t want him to come over, and called my mom for support instead.
Between those two things, I just don’t know if I can trust him with my mental health. I’m trying to give him time to learn, but I don’t know if it’s worth it anymore.