Talking

One thing Francis does not like to do much these days is talk. He seems not be either not able to gather his thoughts, or he doesn't want them to be fully known. It's funny, looking back to when we met in 1994....all we did was talk. If we were not talking we were writing each other letters. I don't mean 15 minute talks or short four sentence paragraph letters. We would go on long walks down Marine Blvd and talk for hours on end, when we were not living in the same area, we would exchange 3 and four page letters. Part of me in angry with his mental illness. I feel like we are being robbed. Like I am being tied up with my hands bound. I am angry about the loss of the friend, father and husband I once knew. The kids don't really understand the extent on which things seem to be spiraling. Part of me wants to tell him to just "snap out of it!" The realistic part of me knows he can't just choose to be "normal." His cycles go from extreme mania where we promises the kids all kinds of toys and gadgets to where he wants to lay in bed or yell about how lazy the rest of us are. When he is starting to fall from his mania high, it's like watching someone with diabetes get extremely low blood sugar. It's ugly and ranty. We are then left with half done projects around the house, kids who think their dad is a habitual promise breaker who doesn't love them and more lingering thoughts on why I love him. Often times I will fall asleep on the couch and wake up to make sure he is still alive. He has been, and I will lay next to him. My heart starts to race, and I wonder when this will end. When he will feel normal, healthy and be the person he once was. Then my chest starts to hurt, like I am going to die. Why? Because, I know that even when he gets back to where he thinks he should be, he will not like it. He won't like not being creative, being motivated and having emotions. Getting on meds for him is like a win-lose. He isn't cycling, but there are a plethora of other things going on. While I lay there and mull it over, I often cry and have to pull back from falling into a dark hole, and breath through the beginnings of my own anxiety. This man, this man who isn't even forty seems like he is lost. Lost in a world of unknowns and maybes. Lost in a world, he not longer shares with the rest of us. I want to rescue him, but my lifeboat is not equipped. Where can I find the tools? ~Ash