Before we go any further, I just want to point out that I do this to myself, and I know it.

One of the down sides of my lows? Overwhelming emotion. Like the kind of “use the wrong inflection and I am going to turn into a walking Niagara Falls” type of overwhelming. I am fighting the waterworks already and I’m not even 2 paragraphs in. Oh, you want an example? How about a couple minutes ago when I walked into the kitchen to make coffee and started blubbering like an idiot because my husband put the tea pitcher  on the counter after drinking the rest of it instead of filling it (I nag about it every. single. day). Or how I called my sister to wish her about a happy birthday and started sobbing as soon as she said hello. Just little things that really got me worked up.

And then comes the self inflicted torture.

Many people don’t know this, but when I moved from my hometown of Wichita, Kansas in May, all I brought was a suitcase of summer clothing and my collection of dreamcatchers. I left everything I owned. Everyone I loved.

When I went back for the holidays, my husband made it a point for me to bring as many of my possessions back as possible. Today, I started sorting through all of it.

First it was the clothes. Because how emotionally debilitating can it be for me to go through clothes? This is where I went wrong. I am a very sentimental person. I always have been. Going through my wardrobe, I felt myself starting to bottom out. I pulled out my first homecoming dress. My mom bought it for me in 2009. And then a cute tank top she had bought me just because. Years worth of traditional Christmas pajamas. Jeans she had bought me when I complained about being too fat to fit in anything. And then I started crying because I knew that stuff wouldn’t fit. I have grown too tall, my boobs are way too big. I can’t hold on to them forever.

Item after item, I was reminded of how fucking hard my mom has always worked to provide for my sister and I. She worked multiple jobs to give us the things she never had. (Gotta stop here or I won’t be able to finish this blog.)

Next, I went through another tote to find pictures. Pictures of my siblings when they were tiny and innocent and they didn’t know what an awful sister I would turn out to be. (I am really glad that I didn’t decide to make this a video blog. *cue ugly cry face*)

Lastly, I came across a scrapbook. A scrapbook that I had put together for my ex husband. I had carefully pieced together our memories over the last 5 years. Our first house, our puppies, our engagement activities. It was my wedding gift to him. He took everything else, so I am not quite sure how I ended up with it.

Finding this scrapbook really took me down a peg. He was a great guy and I can honestly say that in the end,  I was to blame for the downfall of our relationship. At one point, he was my very best friend. I had never been loved the way he loved me. We had the typical issues that you would see young newly weds run into. And then there were my own personal issues that I hadn’t quite come to grasp yet.

He was the victim of many manic episodes. I put him through fucking hell. I  didn’t experience the full intensity of  my disorder until after we started dating. There were many times where I would shut down and be hateful towards him. I stopped having sex with him. Other times I would blow a fuse and become physically aggressive. I won’t go into much detail, but when I started to be violent towards him, I knew I had to leave. He didn’t deserve that kind of domestic abuse. He didn’t deserve a wife that flew off the handle.

As a matter of fact, to this day, I believe he deserves so much better than I ever had to offer him. When I left, I tried to justify it by recollecting all the shitty shit he had done to me. But it was nothing compared to what I did to him.

We were young. He had no idea that depression was a real thing. He thought I was just being a crazy bitch when my mania hit. We didn’t know any better and we sure the hell didn’t know how to handle it.

After we separated, I stressed to my family how important it was to make sure he knew that he was still loved. Because I did love him. I still do. It just isn’t the kind of love he wants. For a wife to tell the man she had an intimate, passionate relationship with that she loves him like family? That shit is rough. So my mom took him under his wing. She helped him work through the divorce. My sister even made him the godfather of my niece! I struggled with the concept for a while, but now I am pleased with the outcome. We are no longer together, but he always has a place in my family and in my heart.

I’ve grown so much as a person in the last two years. I would have never been able to step back and look at these things from another perspective had I not came to term with my own faults. What is done is done and there is no changing the past.

That doesn’t help the continuous flood of emotion though. I am so riddled with regret and guilt. I have been selfish. I’ve been hateful. I’ve been out of control. And I am sorry. I am so sorry to anyone that is reading this. If I have ever hurt you or betrayed you in anyway, just know that I hate myself for it. I’m trying here. I really am.

Do me a favor? Call your parents and tell them you love them. Remind your siblings that they make you proud. Text you best friend and explain to them why they are your best friend. Take a deep breath before making a life changing decision. Never, ever, ever take the people in your life for granted.

And I am going to have to close with that.

Off to cuddle the pup, turn into a blanket burrito, and eat cheese for dinner. Day 2: Night edition, over and out.

 

 

 

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