I believe in giving. Not just at Christmas or on Birthdays, but always. Always giving. I also believe that help is help and it is as simple as that, and I want to be remembered for being a helpful, kind and giving person.
This ranges from helping clients at work, swapping the odd shift to help a colleague out, loaning money to family members when they are short at the end of the month and simply smiling at people, because they don't deserve to be subjected to my miserable face.
I also know when I need help, I expect help, and I probably shouldn't. After all the gift of giving is free. We freely give to others and shouldn't expect anything in return.
So when my crazy comes, as it did like a freight train with the last full moon, I know it will lift and just have to mosey on through it as best as I can.
But when it doesn't lift and it starts to become a little bit scary, I begin to need help.
In the past, my parents (my dad) has always found a way to lift me out of these crazies. Ususally at detriment to himself. But he is my dad and he will always give to me, whatever it costs.
Now, being married, the onus of this falls on my husband and I really don't think he knows or understands just how big a responsibility he has being married to me. When I get to the point that I am at now, it quickly spirals downwards into a hellish sort of nightmare and I need him to pull me out. But he never ever does.
He thinks my behaviour at this time is a choice. That if I didn't want to feel this way, I simply wouldn't feel this way. He has zero understanding that I CANNOT lift myself up and out of this hole, that he needs to reach down and pull me up and that what he sees while he is reaching for me, may well cost him something of himself.
Just like it cost me to become his wife.
It's in these times that regular feelings are intensified, so worry becomes an actual demon in my head and I swiftly become panicked, alarmed and at times, hysterical. So when he comes home two hours late without so much as a text to let me know he will be late, and is not lying in several pieces on the motorway, I can't be relieved, I can't be happy or content or anything positive because as far as I am concerned, he let me get like that on purpose.
He doesn't care.*
Something as small as that turns into a fight that lasts for days and then before I know it I'm exhausted from trying to claw my way out of this hole and I really don't care if I stay in it anymore.
But he really dislikes that version of me, the lifeless listless version of me that doesn't care, starts taking risks and doing stupid things to test my limitations. The version of me with such complete opposite behaviourisms that I'm quite literally a different person.
I feel like it's only the badness in me that is allowed to walk freely from the crazy and that if I want the goodness to be released I have to sacrifice something. I have to sacrifice part of me. It's like playing marbles with the school bully. You know you'll come away with less and you have no choice but to play. In the past I sacrificed my sewing, which is why it's painfully difficult for me to even be attempting to sew now, 4 years later.
I want to be normal. I want my husband to want to help me.
*This is an unfair statement as he does care about me, it just feels as though he doesn't when I have the worry demon in my head.
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