After having my daughter-cause let’s face it, her “dad” isn’t really involved-and the subsequent diagnoses of Bipolar 1 and Postpartum Depression, I started therapy. I was doing individual and group therapy, along with medications. *Do me a favor-if you wanna harp about medications being bad for you and blah blah blah, you can seriously fuck off. I don’t want to hear it.* I saw my therapist if not every week, at least every other, and group was every Tuesday, if I remember correctly, which I can’t. My therapist is an AMAZING woman. She has helped me navigate this crazy fucking world of Bipolar, and has helped me do a lot for my mental health and sanity. I WISH I could say that I’ve had the same luck with a psych doc, but I haven’t. Only in the last 3 years have I found an amazing psych nurse. If it weren’t for my mental health team, I would be in a fucking padded room and a nice white jacket, drooling down my chin. ANYWAY, after D was born, I tried to get help for food stamps and cash benefits, and WIC. Given ALL the bills and that I wasn’t working, and the fact DB isn’t my son’s bio parent, DB made too much money for help. So, that led to more relying on my family. MY FAMILY, not his. Don’t get me wrong-I LOVE my in-laws. They have been some great people to me and my son before my daughter was born. DB would throw shit up in my face constantly about how I was always getting help from my family, that it must be nice to run to them when there was a problem. Yes, there was a fucking problem-that mother fucker would take care of HIS bills, and then buy HIMSELF what HE wanted before getting things for my kids-like diapers for my daughter, or shoes for my son. He told me to my face, “It’s my money. Why shouldn’t I get what I want? I’ve worked hard for it, while you sit on your ass and sleep.” Yep, THAT, my dear followers was the man I married.
I didn’t work until my daughter was almost two-there was no way it would have been acceptable to work a full 40 hour work week to only pay for childcare for two kids. When I did finally start working it was weekend nights-EVERY Friday, Saturday, and Sunday at a local “facility” for kids with behavioral and mental disabilities. Those were some LONG months for me and my kids. I started looking for another health care job-I really needed something with more money and better hours, and I lucked into a long-term care home not too far from our apartment. I started weekend days, and I made great money. I then went to weekend option, and still had great pay. Well, the facility changed back to every other weekend, so I was going to work during the week as well..which meant I was going to have to provide childcare. I got lucky and my neighbor watched my kids for me-thank the lord. I also got a promotion at work, and MUCH better hours. But I’ll be fucking DAMNED if I still-STILL-was expected to take care of the house and the kids after putting in my work at my job. I got up every morning, got my son ready for school and made his lunch. I got my daughter ready and took her to the neighbor. I went to work and did my job-and I was good at it, too. Then I would come home and have to make dinner, do dishes, give the kids their baths, do the laundry and whatever other cleaning needed done, while that mother fucker sat around and watched the tv or played the PS2, and yelled the kids were too loud, or that my daughter needed to be changed. All because “He worked longer than I did” at his job. SERIOUSLY?! I’m working the equivalent of TWO full-time jobs. Asshole. When I started working at the long-term care home, DB got another bike after he wrecked the one he got on MY birthday the year before. Maybe I should explain..
The year after my daughter was born, he discovered the tax benefits. So he bought himself a used Suzuki GSXR 750. He had to go all the way to Fort Wayne, IN to get it. I was a little upset, but he was using his tax refund to buy it. He had it pretty much that spring and summer, and started looking for a newer bike. I talked to him about it and said, “Just wait until next year, after we do our taxes. You can use your bike as a trade in AND use your return as a down payment.” God forbid I actually talk smart about something for once! That mother fucker went on my birthday and got approved for a BRAND FUCKING NEW 2008 Ducati 1098 in yellow-one of three in the tri-state area. That mother fucker started riding EVERY weekend, and at least 2 or 3 nights a week-because he needed time to do what he wanted, because he worked 10 hours a day, 6 days a week, and needed time to himself. That fucking hurt and pissed me the fuck off. I kept it reigned in as long as possible, but I finally said, “The least you could do is fucking respect me and left me know that you’re ok or when you are on your way home.” He was coming home at like 12-3 am when he would ride. Well, Labor day weekend he went out, and I got a call at midnight that he’d been in an accident. He was in shock, but he wasn’t hurt too bad. He said he fell off the back of the bike. I asked if he needed me to come get him, and he said someone would bring him home. So I went back to sleep. You expect me to stay up and worry about YOUR dumb ass after you wrecked your bike?! HA! So he came home, and he was pissed-PISSED-that I didn’t wait up. Fuck you mother fucker. You did that to yourself. So I had to go get my neighbor to stay with my kids while I took him to the hospital, and he told me on the way that he was doing wheelies up at Park 100, and that he was trying to shift from second to third, hit neutral and fell off the back-only going 40 mph. So when we got to the hospital, I told the doctor what he did, and I thought he was gonna jump off the gurney and smack me. So I told him, “Serves you right for being a dumb ass.” He had road rash from shoulders to ass-crack, and on both arms from elbow to fingertips. His “BABY” was totaled. And for that I was so secretly pleased. But, I had to play nurse while he was off work for a month, and I had to miss a weekends worth of work to take care of his whiny little ass. I nursed that mother fucker and I did things I shouldn’t have HAD to do-but that’s what you do for the man you love, right? So, after he healed, he bought another Ducati-this time my input was included, and he set off on another “Grand Adventure”.
In the winter of 2009 while working at the long-term care home,I lost one of my patients, and it was devastating. I was having a hard time getting my meds and going to therapy with my work schedule, so I ended up having a severe manic episode. I bought a car I couldn’t afford-never mind the fact I didn’t have a valid driver’s license! I cheated on DB-I admit, I was wrong, but I also wasn’t in a stable state of mind. We made plans to go to Deal’s Gap that spring, just the two of us. So, my mother-in-law came down from Michigan to watch the kids, and took them with her back for the week. I ended up having to leave me job because the scheduler screwed me out of my vacation even though I put it in MONTHS before everyone else did theirs. It was a beautiful trip. The scenery was AMAZING! The Dragon was awesome-318 turns in 11 miles through Tennessee and North Carolina. DB proposed on the Cherahala (sp) Skyway. I thought “FINALLY! Things are falling into place.” We came home, and I wanted to start planning our wedding-I wanted to get married two years out on an even year, and the date had to come out to two. Don’t try to decipher that. It was a Bipolar/ADD/ADHD/OCD thing. Anyway, he started putting the brakes on that. Then he kept bringing up the shit I did that winter. He hung that over my head constantly. Yes, I fucked up, and yes I lied about it. If he was that bothered by it, he should have never proposed. Period.
I found another job once we got back at another long-term home, and the pay was great, the hours were good. I had only been working there a few days when my Gramma had a stroke. It was heart breaking. My gramma was biggest and strongest champion and supporter in my life. I was working at the home, then coming to check on my gramma nightly once she was out of the hospital, and giving her a shower twice a week. My plate was full, but that’s what you do for your family. I wasn’t medicated, at the time, not seeing my therapist-there wasn’t any time in my schedule, nor did I have the funds to do either. Fucking bills. I ended up being hospitalized that July for three days-that’s all they did for the non-insured. It was a break, and I got back on my meds, and started making the time to see my therapist. *My first therapist left and went to a private practice, so i had a new one. She was pretty cool, and it was more like talking to a friend than a therapist, since we are the same age* I also was making more time for my gramma. I was making plans to see her in the hospital the next day after she went in with a massive UTI. She ended up having mini TIA’s, and they left her unable to eat. So, the family made the heart wrenching decision to bring her home on hospice, and asked me to help take care of her. So, I left the security of my job to care for the one person that was my biggest supporter. I wouldn’t change it if I had to do it all over again.l My gramma was my rock, and she was the only one that cheered for me when no one else would. I asked DB to marry me before she passed away, and he refused. I just wanted my Gramma to see me happy. I didn’t get to see her the night before she passed away-DB said he didn’t have the gas to travel 1 mile down the road. That broke my heart. Her service was held the day before my daughter’s 3 birthday. We were going to go to Michigan, and that asshole was gonna leave me here while he took my kids up there, the day of my Gramma’s service. Oh boy did I LAY into his ass about that. Turns out his tie-rod broke on the truck, so he couldn’t go anywhere anyway. HA! He got it fixed finally, and we made it up to Michigan, but you would have thought I killed his dog the way he carried on about having to wait for me and the kids while we were at my Gramma’s service. I’m just fucking glad we did-imagine if we had been on the road when that tie-rod broke?! Asshole.
That October I started at yet another long-term care home, working nights, again. Nights and Bipolar SO do not go well together. I did the best I could with the symptoms of my Bipolar, and the lack of sleep I was getting. I didn’t have any breakdowns, but I started seeing ANOTHER new doctor that put me on yet ANOTHER new medication. DB was still dragging his feet about getting married-he kept bringing up the cheating and the bills and what I keep doing wrong. The house isn’t clean, dinner isn’t made, dishes aren’t done. Blah blah blah. Fuck. Never mind that I was getting little to no sleep, and I would just crash from the exhaustion. Now, DB started doing track days. Which meant that he would take HIS money and pay for bike parts, and track day entries, hotels when he went out-of-town, gas for getting there and back. So I finally told him one day, “You are going to pick out a wedding date, or I’m taking my shit and I’m fucking leaving. I’m not going to play house any fucking more. I’m done.” It’s one of the few times I recall clearly standing up to him. So, we chose a date in September, and I started making plans. *I had a wedding dress from two years before when he FIRST proposed. That should have been a sign* I eventually lost my job at the long-term home, and had to file for unemployment. It was rough for all of us. I did eventually get my own vehicle and my license reinstated, so I wasn’t dependent upon DB as much as I had been for two years. We started looking for a house-apartment living was just so expensive, and I was put to the task of getting ALL the information together-which was a HUGE pain in the ass. I do NOT recommend going through Wells Fargo for a mortgage. They will request blood and hair, and eventually one of your children. I’m just saying. Through this entire process, you would have thought it was my fault that the market had collapsed and caused this great big fuck up for some people who are really trying to better themselves. It’s ALWAYS someone else’s fault in HIS eyes. I still wasn’t good enough to marry, but he said he was “Doing the right thing”..and what, pray tell, is that, exactly??