|
By the time most of us have reached
college graduation we’ve entertained
a few not so pleasant ‘what
if’ scenarios. What if I don’t
land my dream job? What if I don’t
earn enough money to pay for future
botox injections? What if I don’t
ever meet Mr. or Mrs. Wonderful? But
I think it’s the rare individual
who thinks, ‘What if I inadvertently
marry a bipolar sociopath?’
And yet here I am…in my own
unique marital hell. That’s
what I get for not thinking outside
the box. Once upon a time the only
images the term mentally ill provoked
were those of derelicts, third world
leaders and my mother. Now of course
I know better; almost everyone is
crazy. I firmly believe that the key
to maintaining a good relationship
is to choose a partner who is just
as crazy as you are—no more,
no less. It was this matchmaking strategy
that made Bonnie and Clyde the twentieth
century’s top super couple.
I’m minorly crazy myself. For
instance, I have often considered
trying to get a measure on the ballot
that would prohibit the distribution
and sale of ugly shoes no matter how
comfortable they may be. God created
foot surgery for a reason. So I should
have gone out and found myself a man
with a swollen foot fetish. Did I
do that? Oh nooo. I had to hook up
with Dr. Jekyll, except instead of
tearing people apart with his bare
hands my husband’s weapons of
choice are ill begotten Mastercards
and manic spending sprees. That wasn’t
supposed to happen. Winona Ryder,
she’d make a good match for
my husband; they could be the all
American couple on the weekdays and
do their grand theft thing on the
weekends. She could make it work.
I can’t.
Ironically I married Tad because
I thought he would bring stability
into my life. He was the ingredient
I needed to be part of a normal family.
Now I’m the one who has to offer
that stability for him because he
has gone so far off the deep end that
my staying grounded is the only way
I can keep our world from spinning
out of control. I can no longer afford
to spend the day window-shopping in
uncomfortable shoes. I can’t
be bothered with the pros and cons
of last minute holiday shopping. I
can’t just stroll into the MOMA
and spend an hour staring at my favorite
Chagall. Because Chagall makes me
feel and if I allow myself the luxury
of emotion I will be so overwhelmed
with terror that I will become completely
unable to function.
It’s difficult to reflect
on the past while in survival mode,
but I think it might be important
to have an understanding of how I
got myself into this predicament.
It may prove useful when I finally
have time to have my breakdown. Or
maybe I could use it to help me get
things back under some semblance of
control. If I really press myself
I can remember. The warning signs
were there. No neon signs mind you,
just little sparks at the end of a
very long string. Funny that I could
have been blind enough not to realize
that the string was a lighted fuse. |
