Things have changed a lot since the last time I updated the blog. I apologize to my readers for not keeping up, but things around here have been busy and chaotic.
So, in August of 2018, Marcus and I decided to move to Weatherford. We couldn’t find jobs where we were living and decided that it was time to try our luck near the metroplex. Marcus found a job right off the bat. It took me a couple of weeks, but I found something, and it wasn’t all that great so I found something else. A month later, after finding his first job out here, he quit. He said that it was due to his anxiety, which I could definitely understand; I was upset because we were supposed to be saving for our own place. So he quits and the deal was that he was supposed to be looking for a new job to replace the one he just quit. He went on a couple of interviews, filled out some applications.
Fast forward three months, he still doesn’t have a job. During these three months, we started seeing MHMR here in town. He changed medication and started skipping doses and stopped taking it all together. His attitude changed. He became more depressed. He had a passive suicidal episode for two nights in a row. He would ignore me during the day and get mad when I would fall asleep after taking my night medications. Things just got weird. He was rude, lazy — he wouldn’t help around the house, he just sat on the couch on his phone all day, and just weird. This person living with me and my mom wasn’t the man I married. When I would confront him about his behavior he would ignore me. When I would ask him about getting a job, because at this point he wasn’t even trying to look for a job, he would say that he gave me six months. There was a time, two years ago, when I got really sick and had to leave the workforce for a good six months. My mom confronted him one day, and told him he needed to get a job by the first of the year, he was not happy.
The first of the year rolls around, and he still doesn’t have a job. Needless to say, my mom isn’t happy. He’s still not doing anything around the house other than sitting on his phone. He’s not taking care of Rockee or anything. Just sitting on his phone all day. Finally, I get in his face, because I’m tired of the behavior and tell him straight up how it’s going to be. He needs to get a job, stop ignoring me, help around the house, get his stuff together or get out. He looked shocked, but I’d had enough. I couldn’t take walking on eggshells anymore, and I couldn’t take being ignored. And when I wasn’t being ignored, he would gaslight me. When I would say something hurt my feelings or something he would tell me that it didn’t happen that way. Nothing was ever his fault or anything. Like I said, things just got weird. I had enough. So, when I got in his face and everything, the behavior changed for a day. He was pleasant and he was talking more.
A couple of weeks later, things are back to the way they were. He’s trying to get accepted into a trucking school. I have a Saturday off and I have some things to do, like laundry because neither one of us have clothes. He wants to go to his parents’ house because the school needs a W-2 from last year, and it’s in a file cabinet in storage. He told me all week that I didn’t have to go because Saturday was my one day off and he knew I was tired. Well, Saturday comes and he’s asking me if I’m going. I told him no, because I had things to do. And he gets mad because I didn’t want to go. He said “You should want to go!” I told him it wasn’t because I didn’t want to go, it’s just that I had things to do. He took off that night and stayed the night. He was supposed to come back that Monday but he didn’t. When I called him, he said he didn’t know when he would be home. He stayed away for a week and a half and came back when he was supposed to start school. The day he started school, I found profiles on his Instagram that he was following of half naked people. I got really mad, and that was the last straw. I’d had enough. I was done being ignored and bullied when he wasn’t ignoring me. And then to find that? No wonder he was spending so much time on his phone…. So he went to school and I called his parents to pick him up. Worst. Idea. Ever. They called him before I could. He was mad when I did get to talk to him. And I completely understand. So Mom and I packed his stuff. It was waiting for him when he got home. He took off in my car and I didn’t hear from him for a while. His parents started to ignore my calls and everything.
A New Reality
I filed for divorce on February 15. I signed the car over to him so I could get most of my stuff out of storage, so when I move out I’m going to have to start over…again…
We tried to make another go of it. That lasted two weeks. It just felt forced and fake. He still had the same behavior and attitude. And I was apprehensive about the whole thing. Finally, it came time for him to take his CDL test, and I kept asking him what happens when he takes his test. He said that he will go over the road. And I asked what happens to us. He shut me down. He said that I should be supportive. And then he left and I haven’t heard from him since. I thought that maybe I would hear from him when they served him papers, but I didn’t.
This is for the best though. I’m thankful for him and the love he gave me when it was there. I miss him sometimes. But I don’t miss how he treated me. He became a toxic person in my life and people have noticed the difference in me. They say that I’m happier and that I glow when I smile.
The divorce should be done some time next month. I just need to finish paying the fees and we will be done.
To be honest, I haven’t been this happy in a long time. I wish him well, I pray for safe travels for him, and I hope he finds everything that he’s looking for in this life.
I love that line, “welcome to my world” comes from a Sick Puppies song. I have a lot of new readers and followers, and a few changes in my life, so I thought I would update a little bit about me and my blog.
So, my name is Preslee, I have been dealing with mental health issues since I was 10 years old but I did not seek treatment until the year 2012. I was hospitalized in 2013 and I have been working closely with doctors to take care of my mental health ever since. My first diagnosis was Depression. I now have a diagnosis of Schizoaffective Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), Major Depressive Disorder (MDD), Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), and Anxiety. While that is a lot to deal with, I am learning to cope with my list and learning to live normally. I have bad days like everyone else, but for the most part, I’m pretty stable right now.
I have a wonderful support system which includes my husband and my mom. They are amazing people to have in my life. I really don’t know where I would be without them. They are in the pictures below. They make me so happy and support me no matter what.
I have a dog named Rockee and a cat named Felix. Don’t let the pictures fool you, they are spoiled rotten trouble makers.
This is my life so far. And I’m glad to share this piece of it with you all.
I think grieving is weird. They say there are five stages: denial/isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. They say that everyone experiences these stages differently or out of order. I don’t know where I am, or if I have experienced any of them.
Let me take you back to July 3, 2018. I got a phone call from my aunt. She told me that Donna, my legal mother – the lady who adopted me and never told me, was on hospice and gave me a number to call a guy named Clint. So I called. I got the information and we left the next day. When we got there, she was unresponsive. We were told that she had went in for surgery to remove cancerous tumors in her brain. One was behind her ear, they got that one, and one was at the base of her brain, they couldn’t get that one. They suggested hospice to her, she agreed. The nurses said that she was up and talking to them when she got there, but she was going down fast and probably wouldn’t last but maybe a few more hours…maybe days.
I stayed. I stayed most of the day, every day for a week. I called every morning before I went up there and every night before I went to bed.
One week turned into two. Two weeks turned into three.
At one point, I remember that she opened her eyes and she saw me. The look on her face said one of two things. I’m not sure which one really. But that was the day they brought in a therapy dog. She tried to talk to me, but you have to understand that from her previous run in with cancer, she doesn’t have the roof of her mouth, it makes it really hard to understand her. Semi-consciousness doesn’t help either. So I did most of the talking. I apologized for the way things ended the last time. She said she forgave me. I forgave her for all the things that happened.
At some point, we decided we had to get back home and back to work. She didn’t seem to be doing any worse, and we had bills to pay. I didn’t want to leave her, I didn’t want her to die alone. I wanted to be there in a way she never was for me. I wanted her to know that I was there for her. But we had to go. But I had been out there for four weeks already. The nurses said that they would call with any changes. The day that we went back to work, they were going to lay us off. I had to explain what happened, I told them where we were and what was going on. The manager went and talked to the higher ups, and we got to work. That day…That day was the day that I had 6 missed calls and I knew, I felt it. She passed away with a nurse and an aide by her side. I told the manager that I was leaving and I didn’t know when I would be back.
We got there just in time. They were getting ready to call the funeral services, but they had been waiting for us to get there so we could see her. I cried. I was sad and scared. As a CNA, I’ve seen death. But it was different being someone I knew so personally. She looked so small and fragile. She didn’t look like the woman I grew up with. The woman would was out for herself, who demanded love that she didn’t know how to return, who expected perfection in everything… She finally looked at peace. And peace looked good on her.
I didn’t expect it to hurt. After everything that happened in my life with her, I kinda thought that this would have been a peaceful transition for me. But it hurt. It actually broke my heart. I guess because I don’t know how to hate, I never have. There are plenty of people that I don’t like, but I don’t hate them. I don’t hate her, I still love her. At her funeral, I comforted others while they were crying.
I went through her storage building. I kept some of her clothing, but I got rid of a lot of her things. Doing that kinda helped. Unfortunately, a lot of her things were damaged in storage anyway. I cried a few times going through her things. I could remember where she had them in the house. The more things we went through, the more things we got rid of, the more I came to terms with her death. It was hard, but I accepted her death.
I had a few times where I would randomly remember somethings that she would have said to me or something she would do. Or I would remember seeing her in the hospice bed, and it would make me cry. I did isolate myself for a bit, but not for long. I was good. I moved on.
Then I was watching a new episode of Grey’s Anatomy, they mentioned that Thatcher Grey was on hospice. That’s all they said, they said he was sick and on hospice, and let me tell you that I lost it. I had to clear the room. I got to the bedroom quick and started crying and hyperventilating. Fortunately, I have a great husband who stepped in and got me to calm down. We didn’t watch the rest of the episode until the next week. We watched it from the beginning, and when they said something about being on hospice, I wanted to cry but the feeling passed quickly without incident. I’m glad, at this point, that everyone talked me out of trying to work hospice care.
Anyhow, the point of this post is that grieving comes as it comes. People have told me that I’m still grieving, and I didn’t really believe them until the Grey’s Anatomy thing happened. I never really went through the 5 stages. I do believe that I did some isolation, there was some anger, some denial, and acceptance. But I’m thinking that it’s a cycle that takes time. And what is important is you, you grieve in your own way and don’t let anyone rush you.
I hate that recovery isn’t a straight line. That you can go up and up and then something happens and you fall down. Down into the deep pits of hell and you have a choice to either climb out or just give up.
I feel like for most people, it’s like driving a car. Everything is going good and you hit a pot hole. There’s no damage to your car, so you just keep driving. For me, it’s when I hit that pot hole that my car breaks in half and I’m left stranded. I have no idea how to pick the pieces up and put them back together and start driving again.
Of course, logically, I know that I’ve been here before. I’ve been through worse before. I can overcome this little set back and come out on top again. I can pick my journey up where I left off.
But right now, I feel like I’m in the middle of the freeway with a busted up car and no ideas how to put it together again.