Is This a Joke?

I'm waiting for that one punch to just take me down. I've been teetering on the edge of sobriety for several weeks now, trying to plot some way to go out and get drunk and yet still make it home in time to shower and sober up before The Boy gets home. Then, they put him back on the day shift, so that sort of helped keep me from making stupid decisions. But he was still working 12-hour shifts for 7 days a week, so I was alone more often than not.

I had to go away for 5 days. For as many summers as I can remember, I've been a camp counselor. As an adult, I've shifted into being a group leader, but all that really means is that I try to break up all the hi jinks the counselors enable. It's a specialized camp - not just a fun-in-the-sun kind of camp - and so the schedule is a bit more rigorous than your leisure kind. I don't mind the hours; I truly believe in the camp program and we always have fun.

The problem came in right around Day 2, when I took a break to call The Boy. He was panicky and nervous and very angry. Apparently, the dogs don't do too well when I'm gone for too many nights. I didn't know that. The last time I left, they were just fine. It seemed to me that The Boy contributed greatly to the canine unrest because he just couldn't stick to the routines we've had in place for years. The dogs were freaked out because of the break in schedule, and made The Boy's life a living hell. But being 5 hours away doesn't give me much pull, and talking to the dogs over the phone didn't seem to help.

The last day of camp was excruciating. The kids were keyed up that night, so I got 3 hours of sleep. We had a formal awards ceremony where all the parents attended this banquet, and I had to meet with each set of parents...it was exhausting. Typically, the staff and counselors and everyone stays that final night after the kids are gone. We clean up camp, tidy up, maybe a few people get shitty drunk and we play cards, and then we all wake up at 8 and leave to go home on that Sunday.

The Boy wasn't having any of it. When I talked to him on Saturday after the ceremony, he was almost in tears. He was begging me to come home. I explained that it was too dangerous; I hadn't had enough sleep and I wouldn't be getting on the road until about 9pm, which would put me at home at 1:30 or so, if I didn't wreck and kill myself. He continued to beg. So, against my better judgment and the protests of all the staff, I took off Saturday night to go home and fix all the unnecessary BS that had been occurring in my absence.

Everything seemed to be fine until the middle of Sunday. The Boy had decided to go to work anyway, and I went off with my Dad to do some stuff. Then The Boy called, screaming and crying, telling me he was moving out, that he just couldn't take it any more.

Needless to say, I was confused, befuddled, and slightly annoyed. How dare he completely mismanage a household of ONLY 3 dogs for 5 days and 4 nights, and then make it sound like it was all my fault and freak the fuck out and walk out on me!

It didn't take a genius to figure out he was having a nervous breakdown.

When he finally decided to talk to me - only in the presence of my parents, if you believe that one - he threw a lot of accusations at me. Mostly about my irresponsibility and depression. I will totally take ownership of the depression, but I've been holding the home together for months while he abandoned me for voluntary work hours, so that thing about irresponsibility isn't even remotely true - I've been doing everything by myself. He put a lot of the blame on me, and requested some pretty unreasonable things in order for him to stay around.

I didn't give in to him, though. He was being unreasonable, I told him so, and I told him that if he didn't feel like I was being fair, he was more than welcome to walk out. But he didn't.

There was no way I could resist from mentioning the long list of things he said he was going to do help his wellbeing. He was diagnosed with PTSD and anxiety and depression. He was taking a medication that was ineffective and causing nasty side effects. He simply wouldn't ask his doctor for new meds. He refused to get counseling or even attend a support group, even though he told me he would. There were many gross inactions on his part that led up to his breakdown and, in turn, caused my parents and me ridiculous amounts of stress and heartache.

Things have gotten better in a little less than this week's time. His medication change has begun to take effect and he's pleasant, calm, and reasonable. His libido has returned and I have actually had sex twice. Yes, with HIM! He's helped me around the house as much as he can between work and the AA meetings he's decided he must attend. He agreed to cut down to 10-hour days and 6-day work weeks. He's willing to give me one whole day - just us and the dogs - and I guess I'm happy with that.

I can't say what the future holds. I am assuming that he's got this under control. He promises me that after he gets this one credit card paid off, he will begin attending regular counseling sessions. If so, then I guess things will stay fairly manageable. His biggest thing is that he needs some serious stress management skills and he needs to quit trying to do it all. The Marines made him believe he's a machine. Machines are almost flawless. Machines never quit. Machines can do all things to perfection, every time, and have no problems. (of course, we know even machines need maintenance and do break down on occasion, but try convincing The Boy of that...) I think once he realizes that he simply cannot do it all, he'll be fine.

For awhile, there, I was beginning to think that my life was just one big joke. The Universe was throwing all these horrible things at me, laughing about it, watching me and my failed attempts at management. I felt like I couldn't catch a break. For me, that's where the desire to get drunk and high was coming from. Has it disappeared completely? Nope. But I'm still working on that part.

I never really expected my blog title to become a self-fulfilling prophecy.