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underachiever caregiver blues
This. THIS. is what I've been wanting to avoid. If I had just sucked it up and left when I wanted to, this would not be happening.
So, he got food poisoning, or a virus, or he got bad drugs or something. He's been puking and shitting for days now. I'm OK, but he thinks he has cancer, his kidney is failing, he was poisoned by the government, all our food is contaminated.
So, what do I get to do? I get to clean out the cupboards. I get to scrub all the tupperware until my hands crack and bleed. I get to drive around town finding food that somehow meets his approval of "safe". All while he sits in bed making stupid noises like he's being tortured. Doing nothing.
Not that I am unsympathetic to illness. I know how horrible it is to puke, feeling like you are turning inside out. I clean up the mess. I let him rest. I make tea and go from store to store to find the "right" brand of coconut water. I feed the cat. I clean up for the cat. I play with the cat. I do it all and then some.
But I am not convinced that he didn't do this to himself, so my sympathy is running short. I am not going to confront right now. Life is much easier that way. I need easy right now. I didn't want to put up with another round of withdrawals. I didn't want to do endless laundry covered in vomit and shit and sweat. I didn't want to have to hear how he's not going to eat ever again.
See, I have to go through this every time he gets sick. Or not. Just every time he eats something that is less than farm fresh and his mental illness is in overdrive. We bought a fridge with no freezer, because he has a total phobia about frozen food. That is how much I put up with his mental illnesses.
I put up with way too much, I think.
I have therapy again tomorrow. And every week after that for the rest of my life, probably. Because I have no friends, and I can't keep bothering my family when I don't have the guts to do what I know I must do. I have to pay some stranger to listen to me complain and tell me that all the mindfuck my husband tells me is just that.
I have a place waiting for me. It's not perfect, but it's a hell of a lot more than most people in the world have. And I am so thankful.
Thankful that my parents worked their lives away to provide for their children, even after their deaths. And thankful that I have some time to get the brains and the guts back that my life has somehow stolen from me so I can get out of this horrible mess. And I know it's not cool to compare yourself to others, but I found out my middle brother (rehab brother) has already spent through all his inheritance money! I thought I was fucking up, but shit. Shit! I hear he's depressed. No wonder.
So...I am sick of being a caregiver. And not getting the recognition that I AM a caregiver. When really, I can't even take care of myself.
But I am a fool, so I am here. And I'm trying. I'm trying to work on myself and hope that maybe this fool that I agreed to spend my life with will finally wake the fuck up. I know he probably won't. But miracles do happen.
I'm trying therapy. I might even try group therapy. I'm seeing a chemical dependency therapist. I'm trying to accept the things I can not change. Yadda yadda yadda.
I have to go do more dishes now.
3:36 PM - Tuesday, Aug. 20, 2019
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