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.
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.
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.
• 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.
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…