My Confession: the Blaming

My Confession, the Blaming

It has been my experience, of nearly two decades, that the schitzoaffective is never at fault. 

It is always somebody else, something else or part of what “they” are plotting. 

The problem that rapidly develops is that as his spouse, I now blame myself for everything. I should be more clear-headed, know better, but a lifetime of insecurity makes it impossible.

Too Much Information 

My marraige is essentially sexless. 

When we first met this was not the case but it slowed to a crawl and then a complete halt. He is not of the belief that we have a chaste marraige because occasionally I will tend to his “needs” – mine are ignored. 

Last night I was given yet another “blame”.

Him:  “It is all your fault that we don’t have sex because you made these specific TWO statements!”  

FYI: These statements are truly overblown in his mind and from well over a dozen years ago.

Here is the tricky part, logic does not work. 

Defending myself, I list off the things that he’s said to or about me over the years. Hurtful words, always told as a joke or followed by “I’m just kidding“, about my body. 

My weight, my eternal battle, is fair game depending on the season. These words that I’m told that “I misunderstand”, have embedded themselves in my own self-loathing.

I’m told that it is “my fault“, “the blame is all mine“. 

Inside my head I am screaming the truths but refuse to retaliate. I am the prey in the wild who cannot or will not fight back for fear of hurting the predator. 

The true words are a huge lump in my throat that will never be set free. 

My Chance at Blame

My thoughts are pounding in my head, shrieking the words of blame! 

• You drink too much, I have no desire towards you with the alcohol. (See Dr. Freud and recovering alcoholic father)

• You are selfish, the world revolves around you. It began with your mother teaching you this fact (again, Dr. Freud) and continues to this very day. This accepted selfish behavior extends from your “inability” (selfish AKA: illness) unwillingness to help with simple household tasks and extends to the bedroom. 

• His forked tongue. His true joy in mocking which in all likelihood is more about boosting his self-esteem than tearing mine apart. An eternal dark cloud that may burst into thunder, lightening and rain at any moment. Where is MY shelter?

Words have always destroyed me.

Simple Truth

Over the years I have learned an enormous amount about his illness, his family and friends. 

The simple truth is that I should know better than to expect what is impossible. 

Schitzoaffective disorder has no cure, his doctor attempts to keep him properly medicated and hopes for the best. She is lucky enough to have the doctor-patient wall; his life (while important to her on some level) really has no effect on her life. An occasional text, email or hospitalization is her only contact with him outside of his bi-monthly meetings.

Having read what I can about his illness and know (learned) to be true are difficult to manage on a day by day basis. 

I believe (no, wish) that by taking on 90% of the responsibility is more than enough. Dare I imagine that, at the very least, I will receive some accolades OR any show of affection from him. 

Anxious, overwhelmed and admittedly resentful. 

UNDERSTOOD:  It is the disease, that I have no right to these emotions. 

ALAS:  Self-blame coupled with a sense of eternally embedded guilt and his recurrent blaming have led to a tidal wave of loneliness. 

The Question

Still and more often than not, my whole self cries out for affection that comes far too infrequent and usually requested. 

Last Night:  After another evening of too much alcohol, cigarettes and “words“, he expects affection. (certainly not intimacy)

The question I pose to him: 

“Are you telling me that I will never have sex again, for the rest of my life?”

Anger, fueled by alcohol, his always present paranoia and a slap to his manhood, his reply is once again that it is my fault because of two comments made well over a dozen years ago. 

He then goes on to a mild rant about how I should cheat with “HIM” (name withheld)! A man that I never felt any attraction to but was my closest friend for years. He and I no longer speak. It is a friendship that I miss deeply but is gone forever. WHY?  It is because my husband , along with a friend from childhood, decided that HE wanted to marry me – woo me away. 

I am sure that this is not true but my words do not count; I am to blame. Despite the fact that I was already married. Although I had absolutely no thoughts of HIM as anything outside of a pseudo-brother. HE, who I never desired in any way. 

HE was (whether understood or admitted) a threat to my husband: A man who I could talk to about our shared occupations on Walk Street, go shopping with and who opened my car door. 

To placate him, save the pain and badgering, I abruptly ended this positive friendship because my husband demanded it. I do miss HIM, if only for the conversations, the understanding, laughter and the real friendship. As my reward for giving up one of the few friends which I had, he uses it against me no matter how many times I insist that he (and his meddling friend) are wrong about my former friends’ intentions. 

Today, I have almost no friends (just one: female, of course).

He accuses me still (many years later) and blames me for having an “emotional affair“. 

His insecurity or illness (Yes, I prefer to believe that all of his flaws can be assigned to a DSM code!) has created a wife in isolation; and he needs it to be that way. 

Blame

• He blames me for issues with his siblings, our total lack of intimacy and for “working with those who conspire against him” (a frightening delusion, part of the incurable disease). 

• I blame him for my loneliness, lack of affection-intimacy, feeling used by him and his family and for making me be “on the defensive” at all times.

Neither of us are right nor wrong.  At the core of our relationship there is love and true caring. All of that plus humor, laughter and mutual crippling fears keep us bound to one another. 

Our individual and entwined pasts, the current state of our collective and a constistantly uncertain future are to blame. 

His illness is as irrational as are my boundless insecurities; they are both to blame.

Insanity Defined

Lore dictates that the real definition of insanity is:

“Doing the same thing over and over again but expecting a different result.”

Color me insane…

San Francisco

San Francisco 

  
He arrived from San Francisco just as I remembered him:  tall with broad shoulders, an athletic build at fifty and salt and pepper hair that offset the mischief in his blue eyes. 

I was as taken with him at that very moment as I was the first time we met. 

Wearing his usual grey suit and cheshire grin, I felt the room immediately grow warmer upon his arrival. 

It had been two years since we had last met and time had intensified the fire. 

The distance over the years had ignited our adore. 

Instead of my usual demure self, I chose to embolden myself and reach for him at the the hotel bar. 

His reaction was immediate. 

Over drinks we spoke of our longings from so far away and why we stayed away. 

My marriage was still intact and we chose to be strong and do all we could to respect that truth. 

It was when he heard that I was free that he flew to New York to “fold into” me. 

I laughed at the thought of being “folded into” and wished that I hadn’t waited so very long. 

I was unsure of what “fold into” meant but was quickly educated as we both dissolved into what was probably inappropriate behavior for an upscale Manhattan hotel bar. 

His hands were as strong, rough and encompassing as I had remembered. 

We had one wonderful evening while I was still “legally involved” but quite “abandonded” by my spouse.  It was pure physically but emotionally entwining. 

It was that night that kept me sane throughout the most lonely of times. 

But that was a million years ago…

It was a long flight from San Francisco and he hadn’t eaten dinner therefore he was ravenous for more than simply me. 

I was kind and impatient, toying with him the entire time as he attempted to swallow a few bites of his dinner. 

Half-eaten, we had found our way to his room at the very hotel where we first felt the “electricity” so many years ago. 

That was so long ago and our attraction was palatable.  

He drank Martinis and kept his hands on my knees, stared deep into my eyes and begged me to follow my heart. 

I did all that I could to breathe. 

Now our breathing was in synch and labored but in a much different fashion.  

The letters and phone calls which led up to this moment never could have cast a shadow on this night. 

He was exactly as I imagined:  strong and careful, forceful but not too aggressive. 

Giving and receptive.  

We laughed and not once did I worry about my body or if he was judging me.

He took everything in; leaving no part of me untouched or ignored. In return, I showered him with the same gifts of intamacy and passion. 

This was not what I was accustomed to – this was nirvana. My head was spinning and my only fear was that I would wake and he would be gone.  

In the dim light of morning he was still there, hair rumpled and well-pressed suit missing; I smiled and it was as though he could feel it because he turned over. 

“It’s 6:00 am, do you know what time that is at home?”  This time I got to be the Cheshir cat and gave him cause to “rise” earlier that morning. 

We woke in time to shower and have lunch delivered to our room. 

He would stay as long as I would like or I could go to San Francisco. 

For the first time in my life I had choices that were all mine and all positive. 

My only baggage would be my sweet little dog and his only desire was to see me happy and for more steak. 

As he napped, I ran my fingers through his thick hair and wondered if I could do this for the rest of my life. 

If he would want me for that long. 

With a sudden movement he grabbed my wrist tightly and frightened me. 

I gasped, he spoke slowly; “Come home with me. I need my heart filled, my bed  filled and I think I may die if you stop running your fingers through my hair”. 

And he laughed – we laughed. 

He continued:  Yes, it began as lust and longing.

 And, yes, there is still incredible lust and longing. 

Except now you are “home”. 

Not in my Bedroom

I cannot recall the last time I slept in the bedroom, instead opting for the sofa. 

On the sofa any one of my lovers can visit me without your prying eyes or disapproval. 

He can sneak in through the corners of my mind and open me up like you never could. 

While you sleep and snore upstairs, my favorite lovers come and go (pardon the poorly written pun) in your place. 

They woo me and makes feel beautiful; not once do they turn their backs on me or make me feel undesirable. 

I can speak freely of my secrets far from the bedroom.  

The sofa is where I am no longer uncomfortable in my skin. 

Rather, here my skin is warm to the touch instead of cold and forgotten. 

When my lover arrives from my dreams, he is varied. 

And amorous. 

I bask in his attraction and he is grateful for my attention. 

When I reciprocate in the most intimate of ways, he cries out rather than merely breathes a sigh of relief. 

It is passionate and strong; what I need and desire. 

None of it is in the bedroom. 

All of it resides within my mind and my control.