Recap - Then and Now

Last year about this time, I tried to commit suicide and I came very close to succeeding. I know it was a horrible, stupid, selfish thing to do and I hurt a lot of people. I could try to explain what was going on in my head at the time but the plain truth is that it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter one bit what I was thinking and and feeling because no matter what, suicide is not an option. I have been given every reason in the book and I am listening and I am not going anywhere. Not because I don't want to, but because it isn't an option.

That said, last December I overdosed severely enough they honestly didn't expect me to pull through. Of course, I did and without any residual physical effects. At that point, it wasn't a conscious, thought-based decision. I was psychotic. And I mean that clinically not metaphorically. I was hallucinating badly, delusional, not sleeping at all (had gone 7 days, I think it was, with only sketchy 10 minutes here and there of sleep). I missed both my therapy appointment (due to a snow school delay conflicting with my appt time) and my psychiatrist appointment (he had a personal emergency of his own). And I had been to see and OB/GYN who, while I refused the PAP test, made me explain why. I was GONE, out of my mind, and I nearly died from it.

But I didn't. And I caught all kinds of hell from every source. They wanted to send me away to the state hospital for "a while" which I managed, barely, to avoid. They told me I had to stop watching Baby completely. The In-Laws had me write up a detailed plan of what happened and why and how to prevent it from happening again (which they are now ignoring but that is for another post). I wasn't left alone for about two weeks, not even alone with the children. I had a bedtime curfew and daily interrogation.

It was all perfectly justified - they were just being cautious because they love me. I was treated like a four year old for a couple weeks and over the past six months I have worked my way up to the trust level of about a fifteen year old. I still am not allowed to stay at home alone overnight. (Hubby actually sent me to my mother's Saturday night because he, Kid-1 and Kid-3 were at a scouting camp-out and Kid-2 and Kid-4 wanted to stay over at my mother's.) He wouldn't let me be alone overnight. He still checks to make sure I am not taking too much or too little Xanax. I can't go on a long car ride by myself. (If, for example, I wanted to make a day trip somewhere or go visit relatives out of state, I couldn't go alone.) He still calls me from work every day to make sure I am "okay" (read: not unconscious from an overdose), as does Baby-Mommy. I still have to account for my whereabouts and goings-on at all times.

But I can stay home alone during the day and take care of the kids myself. I can go shopping or out with friends (if I wanted to, which I don't 99% of the time), and stay up later than Hubby does without getting a lecture as he goes up the stairs. I can choose my own meals and take my Xanax more at my discretion (as opposed to by the clock, which I think is stupid and asking for trouble). And most of the interrogation has stopped, or at least the intensity of it.

All these things, the way things are now, are to be expected given my past history. They care about me very much and are doing it for my own good. The weekly lectures are intended to make me feel better about being alive. The restrictions are to keep me safe. There is a reason I am labeled as "disabled" on all that paperwork.

But here's the kicker. At the same time that I am being told that I can't be alone overnight "just in case" - I am expected to fulfill all the duties and responsibilities of a stay-at-home mom. Go on field trips, chaperon parties, keep the house clean and laundry done, get everyone to their activities, pay the bills, keep med schedules straight, do the grocery shopping, host slumber parties, attend concerts and ceremonies and talent shows, teach discipline and respect with love and infinite patience, perform "wifely duties" (no matter what he decides those are) upon request (preferably upon hint but I can squeak by with playing dumb and not noticing the hints), go camping with the extended family, take vacations, arrange summer camps and fall schedules....... Anyone who is a parent knows the endless list of things that fall into this category. Anyone who is a stay-at-home mom knows that, no matter how much the working parents protest otherwise, we are still expected to do more of these things and do them better. After all, we don't DO anything...

And if I fail in any of my duties, things get ugly. There is stomping and huffing, then snipping at little things. It progresses to yelling and threatening. And depending on what exactly I failed to do, some of the threats then get carried out. Now don't take that wrong. He is not abusive in any way. I always step in before anything happens with him and the kids. I protect my babies! And his anger is always justified. He gets mad at the things I have or haven't done that I shouldn't or should have. It's not like he's a drunk who gets fired, comes home and slaps us around - not at all.

It's just hard, this double standard.

Because I'm not yet well. I am better... For the first time in my memory, I am not actively planning suicide and that is a huge step. But I still don't take responsibility for controlling my mind as I should. I still cut and burn. I still find it impossible to keep up on my never-ending list. I sleep a lot (or rather lie in bed a lot) and have no internal motivation at all. I do the things I do to keep people from getting hurt. I am not yet well.

As near as I can tell, I have the worst of both worlds. I have all the responsibilities of a fully functioning stay-at-home mom. And I have all the expectations of an unstable, often suicidal, emotionally disabled dependent.

And people wonder why I feel trapped...