Everything seems to be going better in my home. After having a headache
last night, I feel better this morning. I was able to communicate how my
husband’s constant obsessive worrying about medicine affected me. When my
husband worries, I feel stressed out. This has been happening since we went out
to eat on January twenty-third, the anniversary of my last battle with a blood
clot.
Over the past few months, my husband has been taking a sleeping
medicine known as Klonopin. Recently in my husband’s recovery group, a man
joined for his addiction to Klonopin. My husband described the man as having
bruises on his face because of fights. The man’s wife left him because of his
verbal abuse. This woke my husband up. My husband was heading down the same
path with me.
Since being off of Phentermine, my husband has been a bit obsessed
with my recovery. He blames himself for blowing me up last year with food. Things
did get worse in my marriage since the twenty-third. I told my husband to call
his doctor or we were going to part ways. I was feeling stressed out, moody,
agitated, and not wanting to be at home much. Since the temperatures outside
were low, I could not go outside.
One afternoon – I believe
Friday – my husband called one of his friends in recovery to discuss his
behavior towards me. The man told my husband to concentrate on his own recovery
and let me deal with mine. There have only been one or two times my husband has
gotten out of line since this talk. Each time since, I have put my husband in
his place.
Yesterday was a prime example. My husband had an eye appointment. When
my husband is alone, he has a tendency to dwell on the negatives of everything.
This is part of his mental illness. My husband was worried about his liquid Trileptal
would be switched to the pill form and approved by his insurance. He was
worried about having to go back to a psychiatric hospital if he had a relapse. My
husband worried about everything under the big bright sun.
I told my husband to have faith in God. I told him other things as
well, such as being proud of how far he has come in recovery. I wanted to lift
my husband’s spirits. I did put my husband in his place but in a nice way. I do
not need to be mean to get my points across. My husband knows I love him and
want the best for his life. He thanked me for putting him in his place. Being appreciated
is something I look forward to.
Living with a mental illness is not easy for my husband. I believe
my husband is worried I will leave him. One of his male friends from college in
New York kept going inside hospitals. At the time, the man was married. He would
take his medications at different times of the day or he would forget. Eventually
the wife became tired of this behavior. She moved to Atlanta with their young
daughter and filed for divorce.
I married my husband for the man he was. I did not see my husband as
larger than life the way I did with another in my younger days. I did not paint
my husband out to be somebody I wanted him to be. I saw my husband’s compassion
towards his church and love of friendships. My husband seemed real to me. My
husband loved me for me and did not panic about little issues with my physical
disability. My husband has poetry from his college years that I love to read. His
poetry provides me with hope.
Last night, my husband told me Hastings has begun to buy records. I
told my husband he should keep his family records. As he was going to walk
away, I pulled him closer. Maybe I was having a moment of break down. I usually
don’t become sentimental over things like this but I was last night. I told my
husband I do not have anything materialistic from my paternal grandmother. The only
connection I have to my grandmother is a love of the criminal justice system. We
also attended the same college. We have dark brown hair. We both love to smile
and laugh. We love people.
Other than that, I do not have anything else of my grandmother. When
I read Saturday Matinee by Maxine Neely Davenport, one of many of my
grandmother’s younger sisters, I am able to have more of a connection with both
women. I know Grandma would be one proud big sister if she were alive today. My
grandmother has several wonderful sisters, a brother, a sister-in-law, nieces,
nephews, and greats. My grandmother is inside of us each day that passes.
My grandmother is no longer in our my world through material possessions. Grandma is in my world through my imagination. When I was
younger, I used to imagine what smelling Grandma’s clothes would be like. I wondered
if she looked in her mirror each morning as she applied lotion and make-up for
work. I wondered what clothes Grandma wore to work each day. I do know that
Grandma was a lady in every way. I like to think about the woman Grandma. This did
not seem real to me in my early years. In a young person’s eyes, a grandmother
is romanticized. A grandmother can do no wrong or suffer from any pain. A
granddaughter would love to take that pain away from her grandmother so she
could live longer.
As a thirty-three year old wife and mother of a small Chihuahua, I see
Grandma in a new light. I wonder what Grandma would look like in the clothes I pick
out for her to wear. I am sure she would look lovely in a light pink sweater
with white jeans. I am sure Grandma would smell good in perfume. I am sure she
would look beautiful wearing black sandals inside her home. This is the image I
see of Grandma. I imagine Grandma in modern times instead of the woman she was
thirty-years ago. Grandma was one beautiful lady, and in my mind, she still is.
Grandma had a glow that showed the radiant woman she was.
I do not know if Grandma liked dogs. I am sure she would love
Luigi, her great grandson. I am sure Luigi would lay on Grandma’s lap the way I
used to for hours at a time. I imagine Grandma would play hide-and-seek with
Luigi and act silly with him the way she did with me. I like to imagine Grandma
kissing the top of Luigi’s head with her angelic lips. I imagine Grandma smiling
down at me as I am by her feet admiring her shoes. I imagine Grandma’s smile
the way I do writers composing great characters in stories. I do not believe
any great writer could have ever written Grandma’s part in this world to be the
way she was to her youngest granddaughter.
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