Anatomy of Insanity

“Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow, Don’t stop, it will soon be here, It will be here, better than before, yesterday’s gone, don’t you look back.” Fleetwood Mac

Another truism of separation, particularly when there is the hint of mental illness is that, you, as the one who does not have the burden of mastering the mental illness, are still highly vulnerable of becoming, consumed, by your spouses, ex-souses, or, co-parent’s illness. I learned this at my bipolar support group. Maybe I shouldn’t say I learned this; I should say I speak from experience. I would be a liar if I did not say that I had acute bouts of depression, anxiety, and straight out frustration. The questions that remain are how do I channel these tensions and how do I focus them into something constructive?

There have been times when I wanted to lash out at the illness, and if it had a physical form, trust me, I would be looking for it, like someone who stole my lunch money. I mean when you think about it, the denial of this illness has taken, from me people I love, people I trusted. At the risk of self-pity, it has just been plain wrong. Sure there have been moments when I wanted to step in, and go back to try and make the relationship work, if only for the sake of our child. But then, by doing just that, the action would personify, insanity. Ironically, a high school student told me something that made a hell of a lot of sense: There is no future in history. Simplistic, yet so true. I too, used to have a mantra which says this: never visit the same watering hole twice. Both phrases say the same thing; revisiting the past, without changes in your present, in hopes of different future, represents the insane. Better put, in the words of my grandfather, to do this, you would be a damned fool.

So how do I combat the moments when insanity tries to creep in?

Two things I can suggest immediately. Work, work, and more work. Thank God I have my dissertation to keep me busy. I recently made changes to my IRB document while my advisor was in Ireland. Of course you know, I begged her to bring back a bottle of authentic Irish whisky. Needless to say, her reply was on the lines of this, you don’t drink and drive so you don’t drink and write a dissertation. When your dissertation is done, I’ll buy bottles for the both of us. Have I really been that worrisome of a student; probably. But that said, the anticipation of actually being finished with the title of Ph.D. despite all of this, has kept my mind out of some fairly dangerous places. I was reading one of my books on separation and divorce and the authors stated that the suicide rate for those in the middle of a divorce is pretty high. That’s scary but true. Again, because I have my work to keep me busy, in addition to the foreboding voice ripping at me, how dare you throw your life away, how dare you allow another person to have this type of power over you, how dare you not be here for your son, I stayed away from that ugly haunting spot. I did not go quietly into that good night. I’ve come too far by faith, family, and some pretty candid friends to even think about something like that. Despite the theme from M*A*S*H, suicide is, not, painless. It’s pretty damn messy. I abhor violence and simply have a low tolerance for pain, so know this for the record, that obscene thought, never crossed my mind. Even those who know me will tell you right now, he would never do that. He’s too much of a coward. He can’t stand pain. That said I would have to agree. Here’s an example. Before we were married, Jean and I obviously were engaged. I can recall a year before the wedding, I was laying on the sofa at her house. I was howling like a wounded dog, literally. Jean loved to medicalize everything where as me, hell, I liked to macho the pain away. It’s the David Hasselhoff side of me. As I was trying to say I can take it, with tears coming out my eyes, she’s like how much Tylenol do you think you can take? You’ve had damn near two bottles. Again, denial is a bitch, along with male pride. I can take it! As I put my face back in the pillow. Sure, you can take it, but you aren’t taking anymore Tylenol. I was like good, lets go get some vicodine. She’s like no, we are going to the dentist. Again, the male ego kicked in, along with some Fred Sanford-ian type philosophy. I don’t need no damned dentist, I need some damn pills! Well, needless to say I lost the battle. After calling the dentist and making an appointment to have the injurious wisdom teeth removed, the dentist prescribed for me the last bout of antibiotics and vicodine. The day of the extraction, you could not pull me out of the car. I mean just hearing the dentist/oral surgeon tell me the procedure, it was just too painful to sit for. I calmly asked the dentist, “You don’t actually expect me to sit here, while you crack open my jaw and pull these teeth out?” He’s like of course not, that’s why we are going to use this intravenous drip sedation. I wasn’t too thrilled about that big needle they put in my mouth to put my jaw to sleep. But when they put that i.v. in my arm, oh man, time and pain were irrelevant. That is until the very next day. The pain in my mouth, the pain in my jaw, the stitches in my mouth, oh I was properly pissed, because not only did I now have more pain, but it hurt to even yell about it. I was so disgusted. But again, I share all that to say, I hate pain. Hence suicide was never an option.

The second thing that kept me away from that nasty place was keeping my mind and body occupied at the same time. Many people when they are faced with stress, they blow-up-tu-ate. This translates into an unhealthy relationship with food. For me, when I am depressed I do the exact opposite, for some reason I cannot eat. I won’t even drink alcohol. When Jean’s brother called and chastised me the first time she left, his words left an indelible shit stain on my brain. Asking me, what type of man are you, I heard that song that was in the Ray Charles movie and when food was in my presence, I could not eat. I honestly felt as though I wasn’t worthy enough to eat food. Talk about psychological irreconcilable differences for that ass. Sad but true, my power was so impaled in my spouse and then to connect that with my son, I felt as though I wasn’t entitled to eat food because I was in a lower class of species. It took me about two months to finally realize that I was worthy to eat food in my own home. The second time Jean left, I was too keyed up. I could not eat once again. I wasn’t too depressed as much, as I was in fight or flight mode. I had too much work to do to slow down to eat. Food was a luxury at the time. I could do nothing but concentrate on getting the bogus charges from around my neck and do whatever it took to clear my name and get my son back with me. So again, after a 30 day period of eating marginally, I went from 173 to 155 pounds. Prior to the first separation, I was at 185 pounds. Ok so I lost weight, but not in a healthy way. Again, I too had established an unhealthy relationship with food. What I needed was motivation. I had to take my mind from the legal battles so that I could function if only at a nominal level. What did I do? I went to the gym. One hour became two hours, two hours became two days, two days became four and guess what, I got hungry. I physically started to become hungry again. Living with two folks who are in their sixties, you don’t always eat the best food, but regardless, I found that my weight was coming back. It was muscle, not fat. I also found my inner athlete. I don’t know how, but I found myself getting physically stronger. I could run 3 miles in 28 minutes. It was not a world record, but hey that was faster than my 5k time in 2008. I discovered dead lifting. At a body weigh of 175 pounds, I was dead lifting 225 pounds, then 235 then 275, then one day, at 175 pounds, I was dead lifting 315 pounds, not once but for actual repetitions. I was squatting 235 pounds, again for repetitions. Then, I found I was challenging myself, what was this thing called Olympic lifting. What were these things called push presses. Why was I dead lifting 365 pounds? Why was I leg pressing 700 pounds and not on drugs? I had never done that before. I found I was setting goals which if you were to ask me two years ago to do it, I would have said, you, are on that extra good shit. Now, I am trying to find an actual weightlifting coach. I want to learn the sport of power lifting. At present time, my goal is to dead lift 400 pounds before my 40th birthday. Do I want to look like a monstrous hulk? No. I plan to keep my body as it is, while still setting, meeting, and exceeding my personal athletic and fitness goals.

In doing these two things, I have managed to stay far away from the whirlpool called insanity and the nasty hell of self-destruction. I have come to realize that, I do have value and an identity beyond that of my married life. I love my life. Do I love every decision I’ve made? The short answer, is no. Extending on that thought, who does? Was getting married a mistake; of course not. Did I do some things that were wrong? Yes, hell yes. Am I a bad person behind it? No. Inside of my mistakes, inside of my short-comings, and even in my null accomplishments, I have to embrace all aspects of the journey. I hope I don’t make the same mistakes twice but if I do, (which again, I hope I don’t) I am not a bad person, it just means I am hard-headed. The biggest mistake I made and the most valuable lesson I learned is this: never surrender your power. Never, ever, surrender your power. I did, and I paid an inordinate price for that. My self-esteem was shattered, as I allowed it to be prescribed by others. Instead, I, now write the prescription for the antidotes, I, choose to take.