Sadness
There is something really sad about not being judged on one’s own merits. In being painted on a canvas for another to see by someone who has only an interest in making themselves look good. I suppose I should feel lucky that it hasn’t happened more often. Then again, it is rare that I let someone in close enough that their opinion of me counts. But there is still deep sadness in the loss of a person I considered to be a close friend. Someone who saw my side, who grieved things with me, who was tough when needed, but was a willing echo to my voice, rational or irrational.
Now, through choices made by him, based on those paintings by another, I no longer have that friend in my life. Sure, there are many other areas of conversation for us. But he was someone I poured my heart out to. Knowing that his feelings toward me now are tainted not by my own actions but by the distorted view of someone who not only seems to think that because I’m bipolar I’m nuts and need protection, but who also has only his self interest in mind, knowing that the taint colors all my words, feelings and deeds like oil on the surface of water, tells me that that I can no longer share the deepest part of me with him. The oil put in place is there for eternity. I don’t know. Maybe since it was given up so easily, it never was to him the friendship that I thought it was. Looking back, even though in his last harsh email I saw tremendous judgement, almost as if my exhusband’s words were coming through a speaker, looking back I realize those same judgemental statements were made in other places, other times. Perhaps, that was just one more way of continuing to hear that I was useless, and had been horrible. Even in an apology letter, he continued to condemn me for actions in the past. So perhaps it is all for the best. Maybe this is part of the healing, and while it’s not a step I might choose, it’s one the Goddess felt necessary. Because I know in my heart, that while I may have done things that were damaging to my kids, too long have I carried the burden of being a “horrible” mother. My children are growing up into really wonderful people. And that wasn’t just a lucky happenstance. I actually did a lot of things right. Including getting an abusive person out of their life.
Even in the throes of my undiagnosed bipolar, I still tried to see the very best in people. Including a husband who was emotionally abusive. It’s taken almost 2 years for me to even admit that, let alone start to deal with it. I kept going back because I told myself he had good inside him (which I know he does) but the real reason is I needed that abuse. Needed it like a junkie. When it turned towards my children, only then could I walk away from it. Now, like a recovering addict, I recognize the damage, and I’m repairing it, instead of staying in denial of the effects. I see my elephant in the living room. And I’m getting rid of it. And (admittedly getting on my soapbox here) I don’t see my actions as the result of his actions/depression/words. They are my own, and I’m responsible for them, healthy or not. But here I am, still defending myself, needing validation for the decisions I’ve made, even when I have lots of people telling me they are the right decisions, and that they are healthy. Just another side effect of playing the victim. Time to stop.
I guess too, that the fact that that same abusive man has the power to damage relationships that I have with others who I felt close too, by claiming that “I was just too sick to know what I was doing” and apparently still am… (that is a wonder.. I don’t think my therapist or doctor would agree but hey - who are they to decide…), since his actions were the result of my illness, I really feel both angry and powerless. He is still able to cause harm to me. He can still take away. And even though I want nothing to do with him personally, don’t care what he does with his life or his world, he claims that I am still controlling him. I’d sure like to know how that control reaches across 1000 miles, when I barely speak to him. Obviously I am much more powerful than I thought. Maybe I should try for world peace. Of course, I do recognize in all this that I am completely blaming him for the loss of my friend… so I guess I should take a dose of my own words.
But the real heart of this whole post is that I feel like one of the very few people I had considered to be “in my corner” was ripped away by someone else, not because of me, and by the lonely stupid happenstance of a hurricane. Not to mention that this same person wants very much to make much of his hellish life my my fault (oh yes, he will look kindly on me, feeling sorry for me and admit that I couldn’t help it, I was an undiagnosed raving lunatic because I’m (Shhh) bipolar). All of this makes me sad in ways that are so deep that even as writer I have no words, and in reading back over it sick to my stomach.
Am I being selfish in wanting this friend to myself. Hell yes. Am I furious that the vision he now has of me is tainted and ugly, and not one of reality. Definitely. Can I do anything about it? No. The truth is, it is just yet another casualty in the many over the years. Oh yes, we’re still friends. That sort of “we’ll be friends” break up line, meaning I don’t really want to say goodbye because I don’t want to hurt you. We will have a friendship, exchange occasional emails, chat about the kids, the weather, an occasional funny story or two. But all serious talk, all deep conversation or meaningful dialog has been blown away from that discourse. And that was the greatest value to me in the friendship. So where are we left? I don’t know. I guess time will tell. But then again, as I look back, maybe that was all a part of an illusion too. After all, that is what I lived, wasn’t it?
Finally, I can get angriest that anyone looks on my mental illness, a BIOLOGICALLY BASED illness as a character flaw. As some kind of mental defficiency that makes it impossible to be a fully functioning human being. To some people, my exhusband included, this becomes the reason for every action, the excuse for all behavior and regardless of the fact that there were just as many lucid and healthy moments in my life (mostly when he was not a part of it) as there are times when I wasn’t rational. No wonder he has such a hard time accepting that his child has this illness. While he could blame that too on me, I would bet it makes him look just a little at his family life and wonder what scary things hide in the corners and closets. Even worse, what does it say about him?
