Daydreams
About a year ago, just after Christmas, Marc and I were visiting
my brother and his family out of town.
My niece, Izzy, was just under 2 years old then. Marc had really enjoyed playing with
her. I had quipped that he could stay at
home all day with our future kids. On
the drive home he grabbed my hand and told me that he was really excited that I
had brought up “our future kids”, because he had always imagined himself being
a father. “There’ll probably have to be
a wedding in there somewhere too!”, he added.
We got home that day and started picking out our favorite baby
names. It was exciting to start planning
our future. A future, that up until
then, I never believed I would have.
Though I was going through a major depression, I was feeling
somewhat optimistic about 2015. It was a
difficult time for me, but I was grateful that I had this amazing partner to
support me. I declared this in my first post about mental health awareness back in January ’15.
Nightmares
What I didn’t discuss was Marc’s underlying drinking
problem. He disclosed this to me when we
first started dating. I had admired his
strength to keep himself sober, despite not regularly attending meetings. He had been to rehab, so he told me – though,
he never wanted to discuss the details. I was never one to press.
In 2015 he began falling off the wagon regularly. I was already off work attending groups to
help manage my own mental health, and I encouraged him to do the same. “It’s too much work.” he would say, referring
to the amount of paperwork, money, and doctor’s visits required to take work
leave. I encouraged and supported his
passion for cycling, because I knew that it was the only thing keeping him sober. Putting on his cycling kit made him feel like
a super-hero.
Though never physically violent when drinking, he was
irrational and moody. I walked on eggs
shells. I was yelled at for wanting to
go skating with a friend on the canal. I
was yelled at for deciding to clean the house “at the wrong time”. I was yelled at for being in the wrong place
at the wrong time when he came home from work.
The added pressure of Marc’s increasing moodiness and me desperately wanting
to help him did nothing to improve my own mental health. I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t help myself. Could I ever have kids? Could I ever have a
future worth living? This negative thought spiral lead me to my March 2015
suicide attempt, which I disclosed in my last post.
I omitted the part about coming home from the hospital and
having to nurse my heavily intoxicated boyfriend. Bruised, weak, and freshly discharged from
the ICU, there I was trying to haul his drunk ass into our bed. As I did so many times when he was that
drunk, I went to lay town in the spare room.
I listened to him moan incoherently, and my heart would race every time
I thought he would try and come into the room.
I was utterly bewildered. I laid
awake all night until I had my mom come pick me up in the morning. It was safer if I stayed at my parent’s place
for a while.
After a few days at my parent’s house, I stopped hearing
from Marc and began to worry. I was
driving back from visiting my brother’s new baby in Petawawa when I got a text
from Marc, “I’m at the hospital. Trying
to sober up.” Jesus Christ. I thought. My parents ended up bringing Marc back to their
place as well. He spent the weekend
sobering up, until he was ready to meet up with his cycling team for an indoor
training session.
After that he started seeing a therapist, much to my relief;
however, it wasn’t long before he stopped going. He stopped wanting to be involved with anything
that got in the way of his cycling.
I was having a difficult time coping with the aftermath of
my suicide attempt, so unfortunately, when he would fall off the wagon, I would
join him. Putting out fire with gasoline.
As I spoke about in my last article, my grandma passed away
in the summer. I went to Thunder Bay to
be with my family. After a few days of
not hearing from Marc I began to worry.
I messaged his cycling friends to see if they had seen or heard from
him. Someone mentioned he had injured
himself mountain biking. I had a feeling
that was bullshit.
The long drive home from Thunder Bay to Ottawa with my
cousin’s two sick kids was made even longer with me worrying about Marc. Was he
at home choking on his own vomit?
My cousin pulled up in front of our house and we went
inside. The smell of alcohol was strong
as soon as we walked in. Marc was passed
out on the couch. I dropped my things
off and went to my parent’s house. When
I felt strong enough to go home later that day, I walked in to find Marc had vomited
on the couch and in the living room. I
had just spent the last two days cleaning up vomit from the sick kids, and here
I was again.
I had had enough. I called
the Detox center, but they didn’t have any beds available. I would let him sober up at home, but he
clearly needed to go back to rehab. I
went up and talked to Marc. I had never
felt so angry and so in love with someone all at once. It killed me that I could see how much
potential we had in our future if we could just pull ourselves together. Both of us.
I was doing the hard work in therapy.
I needed him to do some hard work too.
He took it upon himself to see his doctor to get his medication
changed. We went to the Royal and he
made an appointment to get an assessment.
I knew it would take months before anyone saw him, but at least he was
on the list.
The rest of the summer I focused on discovering new
hobbies. Not hobbies that made me look
good, or gave me bragging rights, or awarded an prizes… hobbies that simply
made my soul feel good. I spent a lot of
time gardening. I indulged in puzzles,
coloring, and using my home-design program.
It pained me that this wasn’t enough for Marc. He wanted that girl back who would be out
running or cycling for hours at a time.
I tried to explain many times that “that girl” wasn’t gone… she was just
needed a break. When motivated, I would
go out for short runs or rides, but that never seemed good enough for him. He never wanted to run or ride with me
because “it was too hard for him to go that slow.”
I was excited when he told me that he was going to train for
a marathon! And then he told me he was
going to yoga! I had tried our whole relationship to get him to do these things…
but the answer was always “no” because they would get in the way of his
cycling. Maybe things finally were turning around for us.
One afternoon I was doing some yard work in the backyard when
Marc opened the backdoor and said to someone, “oh! Here she is!” I was shocked when a familiar face appeared. Her name was Veronique. A 26 year old I had met through my swim
club. I knew she was familiar with who
Marc was from when they both did indoor cycling at Eurosports, but I had no
idea they knew each other well enough that he would bring her to our house. I thought maybe he was trying to encourage a
friendship between us, since I had been isolating myself so much. “We’re going running.” He said.
I played the good girlfriend and smiled and told them to have a good
time. He never wants to run with me…
The next Sunday morning Marc was up to get ready for a
cyclocross race. I could hear a girl’s
voice outside. I peered out the window,
only to see Veronique getting her bike from her car. Why did he avoid telling me
that she was going to a cyclocross race with him? Why does she even need to
ride with him – she has her own car!
Again, I tried to play it cool, but the following week was
filled with tension between us. It was
like I didn’t exist anymore. It was
crushing me.
I didn’t trust my interpretation of my situation, but I knew
it didn’t feel right. “It doesn’t sound
good, Jill.”, I was told by anyone who would listen. I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew
he was pulling away from me. I learned
she was entered in the same marathon he had signed up for. It likely explained why he had started doing
yoga too. I knew Veronique had become
newly single earlier this year. The more
I thought about it, the more it hurt.
I confronted Marc. He
went straight on the defensive and turned everything on me. “I don’t know what your problem is!” and, “You
used to do all these things… and now you do NOTHING. You’re not trying hard enough. You’re not trying hard enough to get better.” It was killing me to hear this from the person
I loved. What more could I DO?! I was
attending all the programs at the Royal, taking my medication, going to my
doctor’s appointments, spending my time doing mindful hobbies, getting in some
exercise here and there. I felt
defeated.
“Do you want to live with me? I can’t even tell if you like me as a person, let alone
love me anymore.” I pleaded. I never received a straight answer.
The next weekend I asked Marc if I could go watch his
race. I had asked him in the past, but
he always had an excuse why I shouldn’t go.
I began to realize this was his “bro-time” and accepted that. Until it wasn’t just “bro-time”.
“Well, there’s no room with the two bikes.” He stated.
This meant he was driving someone else.
“It won’t be that much fun to watch anyways. It’ll just be me and her going around doing a
relay for an hour.”
I didn’t know what to do with my emotions. I never trusted that the intensity of them
matched the situation. Did I have a
right to feel as upset as I did?
Being “Facebook friends”, I decided to write Veronique. I basically said that Marc and I need some
space (from her) to work on our relationship, and it would be helpful if she
could find other people to race with.
“Oh, I am so sorry!” I could almost hear her obnoxiously perky
French-accent. “I had no idea I was
causing problems. After tomorrow, I will
find other people to race with. And I
won’t run the marathon anymore. You really
should run a race with Marc – he would really like that. You should come meet my horse sometime – he’s
really great.” I felt a sense of relief.
Perhaps my point was made to both of them, and that I would be
respected.
The following week things really seemed to improve between
Marc and I. I was all set for the
following weekend’s cyclocross race – my first! Marc even came out to do a
practice run with me. That weekend we
were in great spirits at the race. I was
deathly out of shape, but did my best and had an awesome time. With no Veronique in sight, Marc was
attentive to me like he hadn’t been in a long time. After his race he pressed me up against his
trunk and kissed me. “I love you”, he
said. “This is a new start for us! Our
new racing career.” Despite all our
hardship and crazy ups and downs, I was still so, so in love with this man.
The Statement of the Year
The following Saturday Marc ran his first marathon in
Gatineau Park. My mom and I were there
to cheer him on. “I guess you’re going
to allow yourself a break, and not race cyclocross tomorrow morning?” I said. “No, I’m still definitely going tomorrow.” I knew he always felt like he had something
to prove to the cycling community, but I was pretty shocked/worried that he
would still race the day after a marathon.
That evening things were getting steaming when he kept being distracted
by his phone. “What IS it on your phone
that is distracting you so much right now!” I tried to joke. “I have to make my plans for the race
tomorrow” was his reply.
The next morning I woke up, hearing the sound of a girl’s
voice outside my window again. Groggily,
I pulled back the blind. Vero! After everything I said to both of
them, why is she here again?! Messaging her last night was so important that he
was distracted from having sex with me?! EW.
All day I was pissed off.
I didn’t even know what to say to Marc when he came home that evening.
That week Marc returned to his moody self. He was so preoccupied with his bikes that I
pretty much didn’t exist again. I was
signed up to do another cyclocross race that upcoming weekend, but he had zero
interest in helping me prepare this time.
“I’m going to visit my brother in Petawawa. I’ll be back on Saturday.” I decided.
After some much needed time with my little nieces, I came
home on Saturday night. Marc was in a
strange mood. “My sister is coming to
visit.” This was nothing unusual –
after all, we were living in her house while she was living in Florida. She often had to make trip back home because
of her visa. “Cool, when?” I asked.
“Tonight. I’m going
to pick her up soon.” This was shocking
an unusual.
“Why don’t you tell me these things?!” I pleaded.
I proceeded to get my gear ready for the race in the
morning. Marc told me he had to be there
extra early, so I was driving on my own. “Is it better if you take my bike?” I
asked him, since he had a roof-rack. “It’s
more convenient for me if you take
your own bike,” he said.
The next morning I excitedly drove to the race. As I pulled into the parking lot, I saw
Marc. I parked and ran up to him. He was distant, but I gave him a big
kiss. “Babe, I have to pee SO bad, but I’ll
be right back!” I dashed to the bathroom, but when I returned to the parking
lot, Marc was nowhere to be seen. I
looked up at his car. No wonder he had
no room for my bike. HERS was there.
Any excitement or desire to race immediately drained from my
body. It was like a bad dream. I went to go get my race number at the
tent. I stood there and watched the
final race. I stood there long enough
that if Marc had any desire to come talk to me, he could have seen me. I paid
for this race… I’m still racing dammit.
I went off to warm up.
I saw other couples we knew warming up together. Where the
hell is Marc? I heard them before I
saw them. Marc was with Vero. She was practicing going downhill and he was
cheering her on. She wasn’t even on his team. My heart sank even further into my
stomach. I made my way to the start
line.
“So, you gonna win?!” Marc rode up to me and said in his
chipper “cycling” voice. I was so angry
I didn’t know what to say. “What, you
not feeling well?” he asked.
“If you don’t know what’s wrong, then maybe that’s the
problem,” was all I could muster.
I lined up at the start.
Veronique didn’t have the decency to acknowledge me. I could hear Marc tell
someone on the sidelines “I don’t know what her problem is”. The
race began and I started pedaling, but my heart wasn’t in it. I just wanted to go home. I rode my bike to the tent and took off my
race numbers. “Mechanical error?” The
race director asked. “Human error.” I
replied.
The whole drive home felt like a bad dream. I got back to our place to find that Marc’s
sister, Tanya, was awake. I told her
about what had happened. We started
talking and comparing notes. We started
talking about Marc’s drinking. She said that
he told her that he had been sober all year, except when she came to visit for
two days while I was in Thunder Bay and he showed up drunk to the airport. She said she was angry and sick and tired of
spending her whole life trying to keep him sober. “And he didn’t even stay in rehab”. She went on to explain.
That last statement hit me hard. There he had been, telling ME that I wasn’t
trying hard enough to “get better” when he didn’t even have the guts to do the
work himself.
I had to leave for a family dinner. I still hadn’t heard from Marc. He didn’t seem to know/care that I had
dropped out of the race and went home. “I’m
going to stay at a hotel for a couple of nights, but I’m going to have a talk
with Marc when he gets home. I’ll keep
you posted!” It felt good to have her on
my side.
That evening I got a call from Tanya. “I confronted him on everything. His drinking.
Veronique. As usual, he has an
answer for everything and it’s never his fault.
He’s on the defensive.”
That night I went home with my parents and my cousin to
confront Marc. And his sister was right –
he was defensive had an answer for everything.
I told him his sister had told me that he didn’t go through rehab. “Well, my sister is crazy!” Was his response
to that. My parents chimed in. “Do you even love Jill? Do you want her
living here? Give her something to work with here.” He couldn’t answer.
Then I confronted him about the way he had been treating
me. “I’m on an ELITE cycling team. I don’t have time to babysit YOU.” He replied
defiantly.
The statement of the
year.
Jesus, had I known he
was so “elite” then I would have stepped aside.
I didn’t realize I was getting in the way of his Tour de France
training. I didn’t know he was getting paid
to do this – all along I thought he worked for the government- silly me!
I spent the next night and day in our spare room. He came to me when he got home from work, “you
want something to eat for dinner?” trying to keep playing house, like
apparently he’d always been doing.
“No.”
Slow-Burning House Fire
That night I crawled back into our bed, but it felt foreign
to me. That feeling where you are inches
away from someone, yet miles apart.
Around 6 a.m. next morning I heard a loud noise in the
house. Marc was still asleep beside
me. Was it his sister making that
racket? Marc stirred and went downstairs.
And then the yelling between them began.
Yelling so loud the whole neighborhood had to have heard it.
“I want you and Jill out of my house!!! On top of my own
shit, I’ve got Jill bitching because she thinks you’re having an affair… I’ve
got YOU lying to me about your drinking and you bitching at me that YOU CAN’T
GET JILL OUT OF THIS HOUSE – “
My heart almost stopped.
My whole world collapsed in that moment.
It was my nightmare coming true.
I sat sobbing and paralyzed. The
yelling stopped and I heard shuffling around, banging, and eventually a door
slam. I guess that was Marc leaving.
Coward.
I went down stairs to check on his sister.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She had tossed the contents of her suitcases around the living room. She was holding a pair of scissors. I was legitimately frightened.
“NO!” She yelled.
I spoke calmly to her.
“This is YOUR house Tanya. I’m
going to pack some of my things and then I’ll be out of your way.”
It was like being in a slow-burning house fire. I went around the house and collected several
items that were the most important to me, if I was to never return here again. I had a friend who had offered up her condo –
I could live there if I needed to. I had
to grab a few remaining things from my closet, but Tanya was in the room using
the computer.
“Tanya, I just need to come in the room to collect some
things, okay?” I was still frightened of her temper. As soon as I entered she turned around and
apologized.
“I’m so sorry about all this Jill.” She went on to explain how she was stressed
and overwhelmed with issues in her own life.
I asked her, “I just need to know what you meant when you
said Marc can’t get me out of this house.”
She took a moment. “I’m
not going to sugar-coat it Jill.” She
went on to explain that he had been talking to her for months about wanting to “get
rid of me”. How when Marc picked her up
drunk from the airport he wanted her
to call me in Thunder Bay to break up with me.
But it was financially convenient for
him for me to stay. What a fucking selfish
coward.
"I'm leaving. I'm going to live at my friend's condo." I told her. We talked a little more. She told me that this was exactly how his last two relationships ended. He simply discards the people who try and love him and never speaks to them again. She felt that me leaving was probably in my own best interest. Marc was only holding me back.
Before leaving, I made sure to leave Marc a Christmas Card.
Merry Christmas - I'm leaving.
That morning I showed up at my parent's house with my suitcase and some belongings. "It's over."
The next day I conveniently had my PTSD group at the Royal. Beforehand I went in and spoke with my social worker. I confided that I wasn't confident I was handling this sudden upheaval very well. I was scheduled to return the next day for sessions with her and my psychiatrist.
It was Remembrance Day morning. I planned on going back to the house to get more of my belongings, and hopefully speak to Marc in person before heading to my appointments at the Royal.
I got to the house. Marc was eating breakfast, so I went upstairs to started packing my things. I went out to the backyard and got my bird feeders. I was overcome by a wave of emotion. I was dismantling all of my hopes and dreams. It was too much to process. I finally found Marc in the basement with his beloved bicycles. He tried his best to pretend I wasn't standing right in front of him.
Long gone was the man who once wanted to marry me and be the father of my children. The man who only a week before was still saying "I love you". I didn't really know who I was talking to in that moment.
"I hope you're still going to your appointment at the Royal when you get it," I begged. I had no idea who was going to look out for him now when he slipped. He had discarded anyone who got too close. Now even his sister was tired of being there. I had no idea if his cycling acquaintances truly knew him, and if they were people he could go to in a time of need. He seemed so hellbent on impressing them.
"Well, a lot of my stress with be gone with YOU out of here," was his response.
I tried to pack up some more things, but the things just didn't matter anymore. Marc appeared in his cycling kit and tried to hug me. Maybe part of him still had a soul? "I'm going out for a ride. I'll be back in a while." And that was the last time we spoke.
I wanted to wake up from this bad dream. I had just lost everything that was important to me. I felt discarded and unwanted. Why did this always happen!?!? I started blaming myself. I realized I would have to start over again. I was so, so, SO tired of constantly starting my life over again. I didn't know if I had the energy or the willpower to do it.
At my appointment with my social worker, I emotionally collapsed. She suggested that it might be a good idea for me to voluntarily stay in the hospital for the night or two. I agreed. She didn't know how the process worked, but my psychiatrist would be able to help.
I went down to see my psychiatrist. She was late and rushed as usual. I tried to convey my emotional distress. "Well, you can't stay here. We don't have any beds." She stated.
An oh-too familiar sentence I've heard before.
"The best I can do is refer you to the Mobile Crisis Unit. They will call you within a day or so to check-up on you." And then, as so many times before, I was left on my own.
The drive home, I probably shouldn't have been driving. Overcome with despair and frustration and I let out several long primal screams. I went home and drank whatever been was left in the house and went to bed.
The next morning I woke up early. It was grey and dreary outside. I wondered how I was going to make it through the day. I didn't want to feel what I was feeling anymore. I just wanted to lay down and go to sleep. And I knew what worked. I would just have to try harder this time.
To be continued...
