One of the hardest parts of accepting my bipolar diagnosis is acknowledging that sometimes I am not in control of my thoughts and feelings. Not only acknowledging that to myself, but to my husband as well.
I was a strong, independent single mom when I met him. One of my greatest (only) points of pride throughout my life has been my ability to take care of myself. So to say out loud, “I can’t do this on my own. I can’t control the way my head is working right now,” is really hard for me.
We discussed that with my therapist, and she tried to re-frame it. She told me to look at it as this beautiful gift that my husband can give me – to carry some of the burden for me, to prop me up in my weakest and most vulnerable moments.
I mean.. okay. That’s sweet and everything, but for anyone who has ever considered themselves independent, it’s not always that easy. Asking for and accepting help feels like failure. Weakness. It doesn’t feel beautiful. And so even though my husband voiced his willingness to help, accepting that help and opening myself up to him like that feels hard.
We had our first test last night. I was stressed, which is a major trigger for an emotional meltdown. It felt like the walls were caving in. It took me almost an hour longer than expected to get home after work so I already felt behind. I was trying to get dinner started and couldn’t find the pot I needed. Kids kept walking in front of me, setting things down right where I was working, arguing with each other, the puppy was whining. I was just completely overwhelmed. I felt the anger boiling up inside me – the tightness in my chest that I knew was an explosion waiting to happen. I went out by the fireplace where my husband was and sat down next to him. I exhaled deeply while blankly staring across the room.
“Breathe” is the word we agreed in therapy for him to use when he sees signs that I’m ramping up. So often, once I get a few minutes to myself to decompress in those stressful situations, I can bring myself back down. In therapy we talked about him holding me and reminding me to breathe, forcing me into a calmer situation and not letting me escalate. But as I sat next to him, I found myself deeply ashamed of how I was feeling. I knew my reaction to the situation was disproportionate. I knew I needed to calm down. I knew it wasn’t as intense as it felt right then. But I couldn’t bring myself to voice that to him, so I just sat there. Mortified.
Bless his damn heart.. he knew. I mean, of course he did. He didn’t even say anything (which in hindsight, made it easier to accept his love and comfort). He just scooted closer to me, put his arms around me, rested his forehead against mine, and sat with me. As I finally took a breath and collapsed into him, he kissed my forehead and held me tighter. All it took was about two minutes of sitting there with him for the tunnel vision to start to relent and the tension in my shoulders to release.
I kept waiting for him to ask if I was okay, and I didn’t know for sure how I would answer. He didn’t though. He just sat with me. Weathered the storm with me. I thanked him this morning, acknowledged that I was having a moment and told him how much I appreciated his calmness. He told me that he knew, he could tell, and he wasn’t sure exactly how to address it so he did the one thing he knew he could do right and just held me.
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