Shrink Wrapped

The sun's gone dim
And the sky's gone black
For I loved him
And he didn't love back.
--Dorothy Parker

(that's for you, Jack :) )

7 weeks post-abandonment, I'm still breathing. Strange, that. My brain has become a psychological frat house, inhabited by a 15 year old girl in the throes of first (failed) love; a two year old holding her breath and stomping her feet in glorious tantrum; a geriatric cat-whisperer; and a 14th century martyr, hell-bent on suffering (and I suspect, secretly finding satisfaction in it).

I have ventured South to see my unbelievably patient psychiatrist, with whom I bonded after he glued my brain back together when my father died, 7 years ago. At that point I, having done all the grief counselling courses, read the books, etc., decided in "mind over mood" and that really, the whole "grief thing" was just not convenient and besides, I had read the last page of the book so I knew how it ended anyway. So, ever the responsible eldest daughter, I kept working, scheduling "grieve" on my to-do list for Thursday night, when I could sit and cry without disruption, and my swollen eyes would not garner too much attention the next day.

But then I couldn't sleep. No big deal, lots to do when one doesn't sleep, especially in a city that is open 24 hours and when you don't particularly feel like being part of society anymore. Grocery shopping, banking, laundry, all could be done in the dark, with the gentle, harmless denizens of the West End night--the students, Goths, homeless, sex-trade workers and other societal misfits.

Then I noticed large amounts of time at work disappeared. I mean, I would log on to the computer, start to work on a report, stop for a moment and when I looked back, I had lost 4 hours to...to....what? Staring and blank-brain. I removed myself more and more from people, starting to do my work at night, and from home. Hmmm, fingernails have stopped growing...odd, that. And hair. Oh well. Then the panic attacks in crowds, then the obsessive compulsive ruminations that I knew made NO sense, but like a superstition you don't really believe in but walk around the ladder anyway, I erred on the side of caution, and began adopting these odd, nonsensical rituals. Then, when sleep had eluded me almost completely for about 3 days, the mania set in. Thoughts tumbled downhill so quickly, they rolled over top each other and changed direction as they left my mouth in words.....

My friend, mentor, clinical supervisor, R, a very wise psychiatrist told me that was it. He warned me that if I came to work he would put me in hospital. Enough, he said. You are playing with the edges of reality, and I've let you, but enough is enough.

I asked my boss for a few days off, "just to catch up on my sleep". Another wise man, he gave me a piece of paper with an appointment time and an address and said "go see this doctor". I did. I ended up off work for 10 months, in the belly of a Major Depression. I survived, though I couldn't see how, at the time, I was going to. Dr. L. just kept saying, with the utmost of certainty, "It WILL get better". And what do you know....it did.

Fast forward 7 years, and here we are again. R is still my friend and mentor, he still monitors my sanity casually as any good friend who is a psychiatrist will do. And I am back to see Dr. L. to see if my brain can once again be glued together.

My first appointment, I cried throughout. Bawled. Diverted the discussion from what my husband did and how I felt about it to how much I hate myself. Everytime he emphasized what A. did, I defended him, loved him more, and swore that if it were my life or his, I would gladly give it all for his safety and happiness. Yes, gentle readers, I still feel that way, even knowing how misplaced my anger is.

And so it goes. Back for a second session with Dr. L. Still living the D's, although drinking is confined to a glass of wine maybe once a week. But still hating myself and loving him. A new twist though....I have, for the first time in my LIFE, lost my appetite. Poof! Gonzo. How WONDERFUL!!! So now I don't eat, which makes me feel smug, and powerful, and like I take up less and less space in the world. Fat has always been me. Eat when lonely, sad, angry. Comfort in food. Not now! I don't even think about it! It's like a blind person being able to see after 42 years in the dark.....so THIS is what it's like! 10 lbs smaller, lots more before I can take on the scary-skinny, suffering soul look I aim for. Why? I'll ask Dr. L.

PS: My name is Q and I still love my husband.

PPS: 7 weeks and no contact from him, not a morsel.

Q