I Blew Up My Stagnant Life
Read Time: 6 Minutes
Words by S.B.
I could not handle the mediocrity any longer. I was 38 years old and life with my husband felt stagnant; 10 years together without moving forward, no house, no kids, and debt was high. He was a hard worker, but that’s all he focused on— that and his beer and Facebook. Every night he sat at the table talking with his Facebook friends and drinking his beer. There was no real communication between us, mostly small talk. I was growing bitter.
So, I told myself that it was okay for me to talk online with the guy I had hung around with before I met and married Ryan; we talked on and off every three or four months or so. Innocent enough, I thought. I had had a crush on him years before, and had actually thought that we would end up together. He tried convincing me in an email one night (knowing that I was married) that we were soulmates and should have ended up together. He dared say it at such a vulnerable time in my life. I didn’t brush him off though, as I should have, or tell him he shouldn’t have said that. It felt nice to hear, but I was confused. How could we be soulmates, if we didn’t end up together? He didn’t explain that one; just kept on trying to woo me, and I bought into it. I wasn’t bored anymore.
What was once, “I wish I could be with Tom, but I can’t hurt Ryan’s feelings” in a matter of days became, “I don’t want to hurt Ryan’s feelings, but I’m going to be with Tom.” So I packed up my things while Ryan was at work one day, and left a note on the table. No communication, no trying to work on things. I thought God was on my side because my husband was a heavy drinker, and ignored me for the most part. I thought he sympathized with my loneliness— getting more affection from my cat then from my husband.
I moved in with my sister, and Tom and I started our plan to be together. Of course, Ryan tried to get me back. At the beginning, it hurt me to hurt him, but soon I put up a brick wall, unmovable. Yet, as the months continued I began to question my decision, asking anyone relevant in my life, and some not, their opinions, and everyone had one, to the point that I no longer knew what to think or do. It consumed my every thought. Who should I be with? Who does God want me to be with? I had no idea anymore.
Five months into my new relationship, with Ryan still not having given up on our marriage, I was beyond torn. The realization of what I had done to my husband— leaving without saying a word, then pulling the lease on the apartment, cutting off hydro, and his phone that were in my name… I began to feel as though I was breaking down, emotionally and physically. I lost a significant amount of weight, and became severely depressed, and anxious, not wanting to leave my sister’s house, and not taking care of myself. The tension that I had held in my body for months now began to cause my body to shake constantly, as I was already diagnosed with essential tremors as a kid, and I began to question, was life worth it? How could I get over having hurt my husband? Would he ever forgive me? I was over Tom. He wasn’t worth the mess I had made of my life— or my husband’s!
My sister and her husband tried to help me by giving me their advice, consoling me, and trying to force me to eat and put on weight, but were reassured that this was above their level of care. They had done all they could. I was admitted into the acute mental ward at a local hospital on New Year's Eve of 2019. I slept soundly the first night, but woke up with a panic attack. What was I doing there?!
Nothing got easier with time, even though I got to see my in-patient psychiatrist daily. I felt everyday as though I would jump out of my skin. As at home, I had a hard time showering, and getting dressed in the mornings, as well as opening up to the psychiatrist. I didn’t want to say anything that would keep me there longer then I “had” to be. I still couldn’t believe that I was in the mental hospital! I struggled with occupying my time while I was there for the six weeks. I mostly roamed the halls and laid on my bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering where God was. The days were unbelievably long.
During one of the daily meetings with my psychiatrist, I was told that she was 99% sure that I had Bipolar Depression. Me, bipolar? My twin was diagnosed with bipolar at 21 years old, and I was now almost 40! How could I have bipolar? I felt that she came to this conclusion simply because my twin had bipolar. Yes, I could be impulsive (leaving my husband with only a note only one example) and my answers to her questions were sometimes unexplainable, but no one was perfect! She was unmoved by my rationality, even nodding her head in understanding. Everything I was saying seemed to make sense to her.
Some how I got through the six weeks, and my husband thankfully took me back, having been promised by one of my sister’s that I was going to get better within a matter of days. But that was the furthest thing from the truth. I was in no condition to return back to work as a personal support worker, so tried to occupy myself how ever I could at home.
My husband soon talked about having a baby as he was hopeful we could still have one. So, eight months later, I thought I was healthy enough to ween off my medications with the advice of my out-patient psychiatrist. I ended up having a month long melt-down, and came within hours of being admitted back into the hospital.
I held on for the month because I didn’t want to give up on having a baby. But it was clear I had to get back on my medications. I went back to work the following month, and started feeling the anxiety again. I ended up bursting into tears one night at work, and phoning my husband over 10 times telling him that I needed to come home. Co-workers saw this and, as they appeared concerned, within days told my boss, and I was asked to take time off work, with a note to my doctor, telling him of the situation.
So, again I was off work. This time the depression set in. I didn’t have the patience to read or watch TV, as it gave me anxiety. Within weeks or even days, I could barely get out of bed in the mornings and, if I did, I went back and forth to bed through out the day, restless, trying to bury myself under my blankets to escape my problems.
My husband didn’t understand any of this, wondered why I was still off work, why I couldn’t give him a baby… To him, it was easy; all I had to do was get off my medications and go down to the local fertility clinic. But it wasn’t that easy, but it was hard for him to sometimes have sympathy as I had done this to myself. I was forever changed, I thought, for the worst.
This was a battle I knew I had to fight, before it got any worse. I wished the meds could fix all my problems, and then I could get off them. I hated being on the medications! You lose a certain amount of freedom in taking them, and my husband hasn’t exactly accepted that they’re a good thing for me. He says they “turn him off.” But I can’t help it; I have to take them. I need them now.
My hope is that soon enough I’ll be able to go back to work of sound mind, and even have a baby, but I don’t know if what I did killed that dream for us. The guilt is always there, especially when I think of how I upturned my husband’s life. All because of bitterness that I never let go of. He says that he forgives me, but sometimes his own bitterness comes out, but I don’t blame him. He doesn’t understand that I was sick— that something would have happened eventually. That’s what my Doctor says about the bipolar— that it was lurking just underneath the surface. Nor does my husband understand the depression. He wishes I would just snap out of it and be normal again. Doesn’t he know I wish that too? But it’s really not that simple.
I know I have to fight for my life now, and I’m trying; it’s just hard when you lose your confidence after a breakdown. Over a year later, and I have no choice but to attempt to move forward, progress in my life. My family still tries to help encourage me. But I can tell they’re getting tired as well.
I have to keep to it, and maybe a better, a more resilient me will come through.
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About the Author:
S.B. lives in Ontario, Canada.
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