I am living on Denial Street. It’s a new year and with all the starting over b.s. in the air, I have moved into full-time denial. The fiance’ had until the end of the month to find a new couch to ride full-time, so I was prepared for a month of moving out misery. Instead, what I have received is a guy who is actually turning it around. He’s re-enrolled in school, and is actually doing the work. He went out and got himself an honest-to-God job five days a week and likes his co-workers. He’s made two appointments with his therapist and has a referral to a psychiatrist coming. And so, I, the standing firm girl, have slipped into denial.
I want to believe- the way eight year olds still want to believe in Santa. I want to believe in that born again moment, in getting our love back on track along with his life. I want to still think that all those fantasies of a little, but happy, life- children, a small house, vacations, dinner dates for anniversaries and birthdays and Valentine’s Day. Talking about the news headlines and work over the dinner table and falling asleep next to eachother. I want to have the naive belief that commitment means forever and faithfully- that we can work through anything, come what may.
The problem is, I’m not sure I can believe anymore. I know the roller coaster that is having a bipolar partner. That who he is when he is evened out is who I love. And I wish I was a good enough woman to love him staring at the tv for days when he’s down, to love him calling me eight times at work in two hours when he’s manic, begging me to quit my job and run off with him to have adventures. I know how hard the path is to staying medicated and even, how being “normal” feels so abnormal to him, that he misses feeling bad, to get back to feeling good. I know that a week at a new job could turn on a dime, that he could give it all up tomorrow to drink and ignore me.
But, for now, against my own best advice, I want to believe. I feel like I deserve this perfect month of dates, and goals, and long serious romantic conversation, making love, and kissing, and curling up in eachother’s arms, really listening to the sound of us loving and the tenderness in how careful we both are treating the fragile, shattered, pieced-together life like a broken vase, hoping this time it will still hold water.
And no one I know would advise me to carry on. I know that. I wouldn’t give any friend of mine that advice. But for myself, I will take my selfish month. I will watch what I’d always wanted unfold and not hold my breath while I wait for the other shoe to drop. But I’ve moved here for now. This month, forward my mail to my new address.
It’s here- on Denial Street.