Married to the Spectrum
November, 2019. Thought I’d take a glimpse over last year’s posts. Surprised, oddly reassured. Remembering post-partum blues a little too well. Is this PTSD? Do we all have it during the Trump administration, or at least those of us paying attention?
First, this past year has been busy. The poisonous empty shell of a house next door is gone. We have more land now. My stepmother died of cancer in April; I spent three weeks by my father’s side in a pitiful attempt to be of help. My aunt died of cancer this summer; my mom had to shoulder that; I stayed on FaceTime with her for hours a day. My sister just beat that awful C this month. I couldn’t do anything but worry across the country and shave my head in solidarity. The opioid crisis grows apace in our area, transitioning into heroin, meth, and selfish gits putting drugs before children. I really loathe drugs. And cancer.
September 10, 2019, one day before my wedding anniversary, Jesse called on his way to work and blew up for reasons still unknown—he was so all over the place with his hysteria that I couldn’t get a word in and could barely understand him. While he tiraded, I mentally went over myself, the children, the household, extended family—nothing was amiss or awry. The general gist of his message was my lack of intrinsic worth. I realized in the midst of his grand mal tantrum that I was not at fault. That in itself was a blessing, a gift. Strengthening. He ranted himself out about my worthlessness and expected a response. I nearly hung up on him.
That’s the first time in a long time I have contemplated leaving with the children. I was both disgusted and energized.
That’s where re-reading last year’s blog entries has been a gift. I see the trend. I had forgotten all about last year’s tirade.
November, 2019. Two days ago, I was told to spend what it took to kit our daughters out for winter. I went to a department store first as one daughter is hard to fit anywhere else.
I messed up; without calling my partner to advise, ask or consult, I charged 3 pairs of slacks, 3 bras, 2 turtlenecks and a sweater, incurring a whopping $380 debt. (!?!) I still had one child to go. Another $111 later at a discount retailer for child 2, and a seething husband.
This one was my fault. I feel strongly about owning my mistakes, especially as an example to my offspring. I went through a mental catalogue of my own income and extra ways to earn money, readying for a discussion and deeply contrite, on the drive home. Jesse called me on his way to work to inform me that he would divorce me or commit suicide in less than two years’ time if we were not financially stable, and that it was on me to keep him from doing either.
Okay then.
I have prepared my children for the concept of my returning to a full time work schedule. It’s the least I can do.
I’ve prepared myself for going back to school, taking out a loan if necessary, next year. Words have meaning. They carry weight. This isn’t the first time he’s thrown that ugly D word out. And while it may just be an angry male lashing out to relieve stress or tension, I am no longer secure until I can support my children alone, even if I never have to.
Also, when did my caring, loving partner adopt the language of an abuser? Outside of the children’s infancies and last year’s anniversary, that is.
Sometimes being married to a person on the spectrum is a viciously lonely place. Internet searches bring up a lone article written firsthand. If you’ve stumbled across this, I offer once again the power of this message: you are not alone.
First, this past year has been busy. The poisonous empty shell of a house next door is gone. We have more land now. My stepmother died of cancer in April; I spent three weeks by my father’s side in a pitiful attempt to be of help. My aunt died of cancer this summer; my mom had to shoulder that; I stayed on FaceTime with her for hours a day. My sister just beat that awful C this month. I couldn’t do anything but worry across the country and shave my head in solidarity. The opioid crisis grows apace in our area, transitioning into heroin, meth, and selfish gits putting drugs before children. I really loathe drugs. And cancer.
September 10, 2019, one day before my wedding anniversary, Jesse called on his way to work and blew up for reasons still unknown—he was so all over the place with his hysteria that I couldn’t get a word in and could barely understand him. While he tiraded, I mentally went over myself, the children, the household, extended family—nothing was amiss or awry. The general gist of his message was my lack of intrinsic worth. I realized in the midst of his grand mal tantrum that I was not at fault. That in itself was a blessing, a gift. Strengthening. He ranted himself out about my worthlessness and expected a response. I nearly hung up on him.
That’s the first time in a long time I have contemplated leaving with the children. I was both disgusted and energized.
That’s where re-reading last year’s blog entries has been a gift. I see the trend. I had forgotten all about last year’s tirade.
November, 2019. Two days ago, I was told to spend what it took to kit our daughters out for winter. I went to a department store first as one daughter is hard to fit anywhere else.
I messed up; without calling my partner to advise, ask or consult, I charged 3 pairs of slacks, 3 bras, 2 turtlenecks and a sweater, incurring a whopping $380 debt. (!?!) I still had one child to go. Another $111 later at a discount retailer for child 2, and a seething husband.
This one was my fault. I feel strongly about owning my mistakes, especially as an example to my offspring. I went through a mental catalogue of my own income and extra ways to earn money, readying for a discussion and deeply contrite, on the drive home. Jesse called me on his way to work to inform me that he would divorce me or commit suicide in less than two years’ time if we were not financially stable, and that it was on me to keep him from doing either.
Okay then.
I have prepared my children for the concept of my returning to a full time work schedule. It’s the least I can do.
I’ve prepared myself for going back to school, taking out a loan if necessary, next year. Words have meaning. They carry weight. This isn’t the first time he’s thrown that ugly D word out. And while it may just be an angry male lashing out to relieve stress or tension, I am no longer secure until I can support my children alone, even if I never have to.
Also, when did my caring, loving partner adopt the language of an abuser? Outside of the children’s infancies and last year’s anniversary, that is.
Sometimes being married to a person on the spectrum is a viciously lonely place. Internet searches bring up a lone article written firsthand. If you’ve stumbled across this, I offer once again the power of this message: you are not alone.
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