“Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness,
and the word happy would lose its meaning
if it were not balanced by sadness.
It is far better to take things as they come along
with patience and equanimity.”
— Carl Jung
I'm not happy. Or, at least, I feel unhappy. I feel anxious. I'm on edge. I feel as though my ability to have fun is leaving me. My happy place is cloudy.
Here's what I'm realizing: when she's in her darkened state - when her mood takes over, when she shuts down, when she tucks herself in her cocoon until the wave passes, when her PMDD drags her into the darkened place, it means I'm on my own with the kids...that means whatever I needed to do becomes secondary to ensuring the boys enjoy the world around them...so they don't get sucked into her vortex of sadness (which has happened). It means having no time for me, for things that I want/need to do.
And when I ask about how things are, how she's feeling, whether or not there's anything else I can do, I'm told, "I really don't want to think (or talk) about it" or, when the dark clouds dissipate, she doesn't want to dwell on her ugly place, doesn't want to let me in, She wants to make that experience part of the past, closed behind a door that shouldn't be opened. Why? Because it's over. It wasn't a pretty place and she doesn't want to go there again...but she will...and, again, I won't be allowed to enter. The cycle continues.
Where does that leave me?
I can't stop. I can't let up. I'm always on call. I'm always at the ready. I'm always on edge.
I can no longer predict when the dark days are coming...this means I have to be prepared for the worst. Every. Single. Day.
She finds happiness at school - teaching, marking, planning, prepping and writing lessons...
She finds happiness with the kids - playing games, doing homework, reading to them...
She finds happiness on her own - playing on her phone, reading, going somewhere else...
I'm not a part of that happiness.
Her happiness is based in the immediate - at work, she's immersed; with the kids, she's immersed; on her own, doing what she wants, she's immersed. She doesn't immerse herself with me. Or, perhaps, she can't.
Why?
Because I'm trying to make sure she's happy. I'm trying to make sure the world around her is a happy place...that the boys are happy...that the home is still a home. I'm, usually, scrambling like a chicken in its coop, trying to get stuff organized...trying to make sure she and the boys are fed...trying to make sure her clothes are clean...trying to get ahead of the game, in terms of groceries, laundry, scheduling, etc...
Over the summer, her mom said to me, that I "should make a more concerted effort to do more around the house to reduce her anxiety." Are. You. F**king. Serious? (I bit my tongue, seething, for the rest of the evening, staying silent for fear of the words that might escape my lips).
Herein lies the rub:
I feel guilty.
I feel guilty thinking that I should take more time for me.
It feels selfish.
It feels that I'm only thinking of myself. (which I am).
It feels like, maybe, I really should do more around the house, that, somehow, it's my fault that she stills feels this darkness and still won't let me in.
And that thinking creates anxiety in me. But, honestly, I can't let her know that...letting her know that her dark places create a darkness in me only exacerbates her darkness...it makes it worse for her which only makes it worse for me. She doesn't want to talk about it when she's in her dark place and, by the time she's out of it, my thinking is, 'what's the point in bringing it up?' - I don't want to make things worse...so I keep it to myself. I tuck it down, deep inside, letting it fester.
I find myself losing sight of who I am.
I'm spending most of my waking day thinking about all the things that need to be done for other people that I'm forgetting about things for myself.
Case in point: I took the kids to the zoo...I remembered everything for them - snacks, swimsuit for the splashpad, change of clothes, sunscreen, hats, sunglasses, waterbottles, more snacks, towels...but did I bring anything for me? No. No snacks, no towel, no water for me...I even forgot the parking pass. The worst part, the most frustrating part, is that this is the second time in the past 2 weeks that I got everything ready for everyone else but didn't take the time to think about me.
She's told me before: "you don't have to do everything" and "don't think the it's all your responsibility"- these are good to hear...except for the fact that they're next to impossible to believe. If I don't take care of this stuff, while she's in her dark place, they stress her out if they remain incomplete when she returns to the land of the living. I feel guilty for putting any of that stress on her. I know - that's on me...that's my choice, my fault, my decision. And I admit it: sometimes I resent her for the feelings I've placed on myself. It's not fair to her and it's something I'm working diligently to fix.
I've been told that I'm a martyr...I'm 'killing myself for others'...apparently, I can't let other people help or do things...I can't share the load. Even as a toddler, one of my first full sentences was, "I do myself". I admit it: I'm a control freak. I think that comes, with being a teacher, as well. With 32 children in the class to attend to, my ADD is in full effect. At home, my ADD is channeled into making lists, doing things for the kids, starting projects or tasks (and, often, leaving them incomplete...which creates another ball of stress for her), cleaning or writing or cooking or organizing something just for the sake of doing something, making lists...just for the sake of making lists of things...
Lists make me happy...calendars give me focus...visuals help me stay on target. There's a great feeling of joy when I cross things off my lists. that sensation of, 'yeah, I did that'.
Making lists also calms me. It's what, often, puts me to sleep. Prior to taking my cleansing breaths before drifting off to Nevernever land, I make a list in my head of things to do when i wake. For instance, tomorrow's list includes: getting the boys dressed, fed, getting their lunches packed for camp, putting in a load of laundry before leaving, taking them to space camp, going to Walmart (which is an entire list of its own), going to the hardware store, then the bank...all before 10am. my wife will, likely, still be in bed when I get home. but, upon my return with a non-fat vanilla latte, she will rise...eventually...
It's taking time but I'm starting to equate 'happy' with 'patience' or 'contentment' - to try and find joy and peace in the moments of chaos - helping others makes me happy...it should not be a bone of contention or a root of tension or resentment. I spend too much time thinking about what needs to happen in the immediate or distant future rather than appreciating the present...
Changing myself is a stress in itself. if I don't change, I get stressed. if I do change, it comes with a whole new ball of stress. I wonder if there's a point to even trying. I resign myself that, I've come this far, why not keep on the same path?
Mark Manson (author of "The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F**k") wrote, "Why can't you change yourself? Because the whole idea of change is an arbitrary construct. It's something you just made up to make yourself feel good (or bad)...what you decide is change is an imaginary line drawn in your head." Deciding to stop wearing plaid may be easy...but is it really changing me? Deciding to become a world renowned body builder will only result in me stressing out about my inability to morph into a massively muscled beast. But is that a necessary change?
Change is in the little things.
Writing this blog helps me understand who I am...what I'm really thinking...how I'm really feeling. It allows me the opportunity to reflect on my thoughts and actions and gives me perspective on how I'm doing." Perhaps the process of writing, the cathartic experience of expressing my thoughts is, in itself, a change. Learning something creates a change in comprehension of action and thought. Writing allows me to see things differently...
Which leads me to my last thought: journals. It's something I encouraged my wife to do (years ago)...she resisted. Only recently, however, she began writing in a notebook at the encouragement of a mutual friend (who, ironically, started journalling after I mentioned that it might help her understand her emotions and thoughts).
Guess what? Now, my wife understands herself a bit more. She's noticing patterns. She's recognizing common themes, thoughts and feelings. She's coming to grips with her emotions. She realizes that her 'shutting off' directly affects us. She sees that her PMDD is not her own battle...that we are collateral damage when she burrows into her dark place.
Has anything changed? Yes. she sees that her darkness creates a mood shift in me, once she rises from her depths. She recognizes that I need my space to decompress after coping with her moods, words and actions. She's beginning to understand the effects her PMDD has on the family. It's an ongoing process...a lifelong process, if you will...but the mindset is shifting...the times, they are a changing...
This is good.
Perhaps, one day, I'll crack her top three things that make her happy...
...
