Tag Archives: borderline personality disorder

Sideways Regression

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Mitchell is going to Phoenix today to visit his sister and her husband. He wasn’t going to (because he finally started working on the waist-high weeds in the yard, and was planning to finish it); but, I encouraged him to do so. I reiterated the importance of making family a priority, and pointed out that it would mean a lot to his mom. And after fighting about it for half an hour, he finally agreed to go.

Had he and my mother-in-law invited me to go with them, I would have gladly done so (and was secretly hoping that the invitation would come)… but they didn’t. And while I know this doesn’t mean that they don’t think of me as family, it certainly feels that way. (There’s that goddam disconnect — between knowing and feeling — again. 🤦🏻‍♀️)

When things like this happen, it’s hard not to perceive the distance between my husband and I as growing ever wider. I think, “Why doesn’t he understand that I would like to go too?” And at the same time, I don’t tell him that I’d like to go. Partly, because I want him to ask me on his own; and partly, because I live with the constant fear of being rejected. (i.e. I’d rather not express that I’d like to go and be left behind than to ask to go and be told no.)

He Loves Me in His Own Way

These things don’t happen because Mitch doesn’t love me. He just loves me in his own way, and often makes false assumptions about my needs and desires. I’m almost certain that he thought I’d prefer to have a day to myself, rather than travel to Phoenix in my mother-in-law’s vehicle. (I have a weird thing about riding with other people. I like knowing that I have my own get-away car, should I need it.)

He expresses love in many other ways (versus anticipating what I want)… but most of the time, these expressions come as a direct result of me asking him to fulfill a need and/or desire.

For example, this past week I returned to in-person courses at the university. This meant that I was returning to the scene of a sexual assault that occurred in 1996. The thought of doing so elicited crippling anxiety that almost caused me to drop out of school this semester; but instead of allowing that anxiety to put an end to my career as a student, I asked Mitch if he would take a few days off from work in order to walk me to my classes.

To my surprise, my sometimes-awesome husband didn’t see this as a ridiculous request. He told me that he understood my fear and trepidation, and was more than happy to walk me to class… and he did. He walked me to my classrooms, waited outside while I was in class, and walked me back to the parking garage after.

On the second day, we inadvertently walked right past the spot where I was date raped nearly twenty years ago. My heart did a flip-flop in my chest, and I felt dizzy and weak. When I expressed this to my husband, he immediately apologized and promised that we’d find an alternate route to the building after class… and we did. (And in all honesty, if my brave and caring Mitchell hadn’t been there, I would have either collapsed in the midst of a panic attack, or bolted without going to class.)

All of this was most definitely an expression of love and acceptance on his part; and it’s important for me to hold on to that when days like today occur.

PTSD-Induced Regression

As a result of that second day’s event, however, I started to withdraw into myself. I asked to eat out almost every day over the past week, and requested junk food from the market. I also stopped going to the gym.

Why? Because if I’m fat and undesirable, maybe no one will find me attractive enough to assault. (This is twisted logic. It’s true that I was young with a terrific figure when I was assaulted… but that didn’t warrant or justify the assault. In all actuality, it probably didn’t factor in to my assailant’s train of thought, either. Still… we cope with all kinds of sideways thinking in the ever-lasting aftermath of sexual assault.)

Thus, my weight has probably increased a bit, my acne has flared up, and I’m disgusted with the woman that I see in the mirror.

I’m regressing into the person I used to be, instead of taking further steps towards the person I was becoming… and it’s breaking my heart, rattling my tenuous hold on my sanity, wreaking havoc on my marriage, and causing a free-fall into the rabbit’s hole of a looming depression.

It’s also made me over-sensitive to Mitch’s words and actions. I got angry and yelled at him about the yardwork on Friday night. I’m hurt that he didn’t ask me to go with him to Phoenix today. I’ve been short with my own words, and distant in my communication with my spouse… all because I’m haunted by the past.

I want Mitchell to see how lost and frail I am (without having to point it out) — to understand that I need to be with him right now; and I don’t want to have to say it.

Saying it feels like weakness. Having to say that I need someone feels like being revictimized. Not being asked if I wanted to go today feels like being abandoned (something Borderlines do not deal with well); and it makes me angry and sad.

These emotions are a reaction to my past; but my husband — in the present — is the one paying for the sins of others; and I hate it when that happens. (Which is why I sit here quietly writing about my feelings, responding to my husband in tight-lipped one-word responses, instead of screaming and hollering at Mitch about my hurt.)

Unfortunately, that means that all Mitch perceives is anger. He knows it’s there; and it feels as if I’m angry at him, I’m sure. But I’m not. Anger is just easier than fear. Rage is my armor; but the war I’m fighting is already over… it just feels as if it never ended, and I’m on the battlefield alone — looking to vanquish a foe that is no longer there.

So Can I Win? And How?

The only way to deal with PTSD is to trudge though it. You can mitigate the effects through therapy and self-propelled (positive) action; but it’s always there. Lurking in the background, waiting to pounce on the present.

Getting fat (and yelling at your husband about the weeds) is one way to cope; but it isn’t a healthy way to cope. Instead of empowering myself through action (i.e. going to the gym), it simply fuels the internal fires of self-hatred. This hatred was not inherent at birth; it is a lasting side-effect of sexual assault. An ill-fated response to having pieces of yourself violently stolen, never to return.

After all, isn’t that where rapists truly draw their energy from? Clearly, they must pillage their power from others, because they have none of their own. Realizing that is the first step towards healing — to understand that the brawn those bastards wield is only borrowed. Borrowed from the strength they took from you. And if you’re still standing, they didn’t win… because you had enough left in the reserve of self to survive and carry on.

For me, the how of winning can be found in my pen. For whatever reason, I cannot sort the mess of these emotions through speaking about them… but I can come to terms with the disordered feelings by trying to form them into sentences, paragraphs, posts. (But unfortunately, most of the time I don’t sit down to write about them until my formidable ire has become all-consuming.)

Before writing this, I truly felt anger towards Mitch. It was the yard, and the lack of an invitation that were causing my fury and pain. After writing this, I know that it is the past I am raging against; not my poor, procrastinating, sometimes-oblivious husband.

In the wise words of Randy Atkins:

“If you’re goin’ through hell, keep on going
Don’t slow down
If you’re scared, don’t show it
You might get out before the devil even knows you’re there”

And if I get off my duff, and return to the gym, I’ll be able to outrun that horned, hoof-footed bastard should he come to sense my presence. 😏 And then, I need to offer my sincerest apologies to Mitch. I may not have exploded at him like I normally do; but I certainly haven’t been pleasant to deal with.

Soundtrack: “Going Through Hell” by Randy Atkins

Stupid Looking Glass

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My beautiful blogging friend, Ms. Michelle at “From Famine to Feast”, reposted an older piece this morning entitled “I don’t want to get better, I want to be better” (I highly recommend giving it a read; it’s lovely); and in it was a line that I thoroughly resonate with…

“I want a vacation. The destination is unimportant; the only requirement I have is that I get to leave myself behind. I’m tired of finding myself wherever I go.”
– Michelle, “From Famine to Feast”

This is a common theme in much of my life — both as it pertains to my mental health disorders, and as it relates to my many addictions. It is a sentiment that many women in the Anonymous programs share at meetings; that no matter which mirror you happen to gaze into, the same needy bitch is always staring back at you.

Don’t Insinuate that I’m Crazy

Last night, I was in a state of utter ennui… and for no other reason than I suffer from unpredictable, seemingly inexplicable (they’re a symptom of Borderline Personality Disorder; but knowing that doesn’t help), and crippling bouts of depression.

Every answer to Mitch’s questions (most of which were typical, every day stuff like, “What would you like to do for dinner?”) was, “I don’t care.”

Understandably, this frustrated the shit out of my husband, who made every effort, and used every kind word he could, to try and pull me out of my rather apathetic despair.

He also needed to pick up one of my medications from the pharmacy, and asked me to verify that it had been sent to the correct location (we recently switched, and our doctors are still catching up with the change). When I opened my phone, I noticed a reminder for an appointment with my psychiatrist today and said, “Goddam it. I have an appointment with the shrink tomorrow. Shit.”

To which my husband accidentally said out-loud, “Perfect timing.”

My thought was, “Perfect timing? Perfect timing, you son-of-a-bitch?! You’re the problem here, not me. I’m not crazy; I’m sad. Sad that you don’t desire me, and that I feel undesirable.”

But instead of saying that, I slammed the phone down on the armrest of the recliner, glared daggers at my spouse, and spit, “You know he can’t fix what’s wrong, right?”

(Side Note: If I’m being honest, I said this to deliberately sting my spouse. He knows that I am deeply unhappy with our lack of a sex-life; and that I blame a lot of my depressive feelings on such.)

Mitch’s posture immediately shifted to a defensive position, and he said, “I’m leaving. Text me when you go to bed, so that I can come home.”

And I said, “I never asked you to leave. Come home whenever the hell you’d like.”

“What the fuck for,” Mitch yelled back, “so I can deal with this shit?!”

When You’re Nuts, You’re Not Allowed to Have Feelings

One of the worst things about suffering from a mental health disorder is that your feelings often come out sideways. By the time my negative emotions — anger, despair, frustration, sadness — find their way to the surface, my behavior goes topsy-turvy and the Borderline Bitch comes out to play.

As such, I often come off as “crazy” and/or “nuts” rather, than say, sad. I yell. I cry. I bunch my hands into fists; and as a result, Mitch tries to deal with the behavior (out of necessity), and the feelings underlying that behavior get dismissed as irrelevant.

Even in our more rational exchanges, when I am able to express my darker emotions in a logical way, Mitch often turns them around on me. “Honey, you’re exhausted and your brain isn’t working right,” is one of his favorite responses to my darker concerns.

It is true that when I’m exhausted and my “brain isn’t working right”, all of those unwanted feelings float more freely to the forefront of my consciousness; but that doesn’t mean that they aren’t valid and/or justified.

I have a deeply compelling reason for feeling slighted in my marriage — Mitch’s absolute unwillingness to meet my sexually intimate needs. (In his own words, I meet all of his needs. So how is it fair to have mine unmet?)

It hurts to feel undesirable; and I imagine that it would hurt someone who is not mentally ill, just as much as it does my “crazy” self. Their partners, however, wouldn’t have anything to stigmatize and use against them in a conversation about said hurt.

Having any negative emotions (that I might feel) recognized as “truth” is an eternal battle. Mitch doesn’t discount my positive feelings as a symptom of my disease, so why should the negative emotions be any different? They are treated as different because my behavior shifts as my emotions grow darker. The behavior is a symptom of my mental health disorder, the feelings are not.

And I have grown utterly exhausted by having to constantly explain this… especially when the explanation is ignored, as are my underlying needs and feelings.

I’m Also Tired of Finding Mitch Wherever I Go

I love my husband with all of my heart; but having to suppress a part of who I am — a truly sexual being — is a taxing endeavor.

It’s difficult to take on all of the household chores, to keep going to the gym, to try to watch my food intake, and to maintain my mental health (through medication and action) when I feel there is very little reward in it.

Doing all of those things does make me feel better about myself; but when I feel better about myself, I also feel more sexual… and I don’t have a partner who cares about that.

I fear that if I gain and/or harness more self-confidence, then my desire to leave my marriage for greener pastures might increase… and I don’t want to leave my marriage, nor the man that I am so deeply in love with.

It’s a terrible — depression-inducing — cycle.

I have a few good days (in which I perform all of the tasks on the list above), immediately followed by a crash… and when I crash, Mitchell gets hurt because I’m hurting; which absolutely isn’t fair.

Especially, when Mitch is trying.

This past week, he was up before 8 a.m. each day that he was home. But then, quite bizarrely, I wasn’t. I slept in and woke up grumpy and disconnected.

Perhaps it’s a subconscious endeavor to try and make my husband feel all the emotions I feel when he doesn’t get up and then doesn’t want to do anything. I don’t know…

All I know for sure is that I’m tired of the woman staring back at me in the mirror… and I’m frustrated with the man who dismisses my feelings due to the fact that I have mental health disorders and addictive tendencies.

We Remember Differently

I want to reclaim the couple we once were. The goofy people who went bowling and sang karaoke on the weekends, the Cassie and Mitchell that more regularly did things with friends (the Cassie and Mitchell that had friends), the husband and wife that people admired, and wanted to be.

I also miss the long nights that we spent making love so intensely that Mitch sometimes called out of work the next morning… the times when his passion was so intense that I had a hard time keeping up with it.

When I say these things to Mitch, he often says that I remember things differently… that he was never social and/or sexual; but that I was the driving force in those departments. In contrast, I think we both were.

I don’t know when or how we lost those people; and unlike my husband, I believe that they are still here… they just need to be found.

I desperately wish we had a map to our younger selves, because we both need to see them when we gaze into that damnable looking glass.

Soundtrack: “Remind Me” by Brad Paisley & Carrie Underwood

Scaling the Walls

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Ugh is the only way to describe the past couple of days within the confines of my marriage.

Mitch and I had a fight that went from quiet arguing to screaming obscenities to me throwing him out of the house to uncomfortable days of silence.

In the end, we were able to have a more rational conversation about the things that had transpired (i.e. normal marriage stuff, but with the added bonus of each of you knowing how to push the shit out of the other’s buttons); and agreed that as long as we’re still fighting — and have something to say to one another — then we’re still in this. Together.

Overcoming the Addict Within

My first gut reaction to having been emotionally disemboweled by my spouse was to act out.

I wanted to reach for the bottle of wine in the pantry (that Mitch keeps for cooking) and just get soused. I wanted to run to an AA meeting that I know is full of chaos and lies (and become a part of said chaos and lies). I wanted to grab my phone, reach out to an ex, and beg for sexual benefits. I wanted to take every pill in the house, and wait for death.

(Side Note: I do not wish to do these things to hurt my husband nor myself — not consciously, anyway — but to feel something radically different to despair.)

Instead, I did none of these things.

I collapsed onto the couch and cried into Tocho’s fur until he was soppy and covered in snot. I forced myself to get up and wash the dishes in the kitchen sink. I turned on a beloved television program and hit the mod like it was my last day on earth. I didn’t eat… until I did, and then went on a binge.

I don’t proclaim that these choices are “healthy” necessarily; but they’re a hell of a lot healthier than the destructive alternatives that first surfaced in response to stress.

Years into my recovery (in which I’ve done a ton of self-reflective work), I recognize the aforementioned gut reactions as extremely poor coping mechanisms for emotional discord.

I realize that thinking that way will always be a part of who I am (and I cannot control said thoughts); but acting on them is something I can control.

When I start to hear the insidious siren call of the addict within, I know it is imperative to think of the things I could lose should I answer it. Namely? My husband, my son, and my (rather precarious) sanity.

Having gratitude for what I do have helps to prevent the damage that my addicted self would do should she be let loose. (I’ve managed to keep that bitch caged for a good number of years, and do not intend to set her free.)

I will always be an addict… and I may never be able to stop the binge-eating or the non-stop inhaling of nicotine; but I would rather be a lil’ fluffy and vaping like a dragon than a careless drunk who thinks little about anything other than getting that next drink.

I would rather be fighting with Mitch over my lack of a sex-life than feel miserable about myself for having reckless sex (and yes, it’s always reckless at that point) with men who aren’t my husband.

I would rather know who I am than have no idea who I have become.

I choose to be more than my addictions.

Residual Fallout

Unfortunately — even when making healthier choices — mental and emotional stress always takes a toll.

In this most recent event with my husband, I lost all motivation. I stopped writing, stopped reading, stopped going to the gym, stopped showering, stopped corresponding with friends, ate a shit-ton of junk food, and was minimalistic in my attempts at doing the chores (I did keep up with the dishes).

This reaction to internal turmoil is a symptom of my disease… and it’s never easy to cope with.

It is beyond difficult to live with a mind that seems determined to unravel itself; and the knowledge that you will have to deal with said self-destructive mind for the rest of your life can be more than a little daunting.

I have yet to scale the walls of the rabbit hole I found myself falling into this past weekend; but I’m getting there… and really, that’s all that I can do — scale the walls one tremulous step at a time.

F*ck It Hamster’s at the Wheel

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I woke up this morning feeling apathetic, which is a pretty predictable cycle in my world. I tend to have two really good days, followed by a lower one. (And thus far, my psychiatrist is at a loss regarding how to explain it.)

For lack of a diagnosis for this phenomenon, he has been encouraging me (for several years now) to return to traditional “talk therapy”; but after I was betrayed by my last therapist — which did significant damage to my professional life — I haven’t had the heart to look for another one.

Trust, in my world, is a deep and complicated thing. I give it freely — and upfront — in all of my relationships; but once that trust is broken, a person becomes dead to me (unless they’re family, and can’t be easily tossed aside). Thus, my track record with therapists has left me not wanting to re-enter that type of an association. (This, unfortunately, is a common problematic theme with Borderlines.)

I’ve also been dealing with moderate back pain for the last couple of days, and was forced to defend my “agnostic” approach to twelve-step programs last night in a meeting (which I did vehemently)… add all of that up, and the steering wheel that guides my emotions was rife for the taking — and it seems F*ck It Hamster was eager to step up to the task.

This same time yesterday morning, I was already back from an extended workout at the gym, showered and doing laundry. Since I’m not in that same position today, it’s tempting to flog myself emotionally for not adhering to my usual routine… an activity that will lead to negative direction and/or choices, rather than positive.

The only rational thing to do is to summon the energy to overthrow the fuzzy lil’ apathetic bastard currently directing my train of thought, and fight my way towards the opposite path… but right now? I just can’t seem to summon the energy needed for such a coup.

I’d rather sulk, and hit the mod with an unbridled enthusiasm for a nicotine high… but sadly, that doesn’t seem to be improving things much either.

Sigh.

If I want things to get better today, I have to hit the mark for at least one of my goals; because as Mitchell Tenpenny sings, “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,” and sadly, I have neither.

Let’s see if I can summon the strength required to knock the arrow, pull back the bowstring, and hurtle myself out of the recliner, shall we? Ugh…

Soundtrack: “Horseshoes and Hand Grenades” by Mitchell Tenpenny

An Awful Cycle

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Mitch and I got into it — yet again — yesterday. We had the same argument that we’ve been having for nearly twenty years; and though I don’t fight the same way I used to (i.e. screaming obscenities and often getting physical), Mitchell does (with psychological warfare); and I don’t know how to break this awful cycle.

The Crux of the Problem

Mitch doesn’t sleep well. He’s up until past midnight — often until after 3 a.m. — and then sleeps until noon (or later) if unchecked. I, on the other hand, am often in bed by 9:30; and then I’m up before 6:30 a.m.

Because my health issues (migraines, seizures, stomach/intestinal discord, etc.) usually strike in the late afternoon/early evenings, making plans after 3 p.m. is a difficult feat for me; and Mitchell knows this — not only because he’s lived with me for more than two decades, but because I have to remind him of this fact on a regular basis.

For awhile, he set an alarm for 10 a.m.; which meant he was up by 11 a.m. Then, he spends over an hour in the restroom (something that frustrates me to no end). As a result, we don’t start our days before noon.

I shared with my husband that if he is determined to keep to his morning routine in the bathroom (whatever that entails), that he must compensate by getting up earlier… and unfortunately “earlier” for him is actually getting up at 10 a.m. But when he does, he spends nearly ninety minutes in the powder room — so it’s all a wash.

Plans? Why Make Plans?

Mitch sucks at making plans. He doesn’t like to commit to anything until the last minute; and he’s always running nearly thirty minutes late.

Earlier in the week, he had spoken to his mother on the phone and asked us both if we’d like to go to lunch and see a movie this past weekend… and we were both up for it.

When he didn’t attempt to rouse himself at a decent hour on Saturday, I figured he’d set aside Sunday for our visit with my mother-in-law. When he didn’t get up early on Sunday, I knew he hadn’t made any plans at all… and I was really disappointed.

An Emotional Curve Ball Makes It Worse

My folks are currently in Montana for a family reunion (and my cousin’s wedding). My baby brother, Rige-o, will be flying into Bozeman on Friday to join them. I’m not there, because we can’t afford to travel. (Hell, we can barely manage to pay our bills on time.)

Yesterday, my Dad — very thoughtfully — sent me a short video of my beloved grandmother dancing with my cousin, with my extended family laughing and having fun at the wedding in the background.

It made me smile; and then, it made me cry.

I get to attend all of these types of events with Mitch’s family, because they live here. My family lives clear across the country; and I haven’t been home to see them in more than twenty-one years. So I was a bit sad, and frustrated… and rather surprisingly, angry. Angry that Mitch gets to see his family, while I do not.

It Simmers to a Boil

I managed to explain to Mitchell that I was both happy — and sad — after having watched the video my father sent me, and he totally blew me off.

We got in the car; and on the way to the gym, I broke down into tears. Partly, because I miss my family. Partly, because I knew we weren’t going to see my mother-in-law after all. Partly, because it was so late in the morning that I just wanted to throttle my spouse.

He pulled into the lot, and asked me what was wrong.

“Well, obviously, we’re not going to see your mom today as you promised. I was really looking forward to that, you know?”

“I can call her right now.”

“No, you can’t. We won’t be home until after 12:30. It would take two hours to get ready, and another ninety minutes to drive to Tubac. By the time we get down there, it will be after four in the afternoon; and you know I can’t do that.”

“Clearly, that’s not all you’re upset about, Cass. Let’s have it.”

“I just… I just don’t understand why I’m not as important as all the other priorities in your life. When you tell your mom you’re going to do something for her, you follow through. When you tell your siblings you’re going to do something, you follow through. When you tell Bug you’re going to do something, you follow through. When you tell your boss and/or co-workers you’re going to do something, you follow through. When you tell me you’re going to do something, you rarely follow through. What kind of message am I supposed to receive from that?”

“What do you want to do right now?”

“Do you want me to be honest?”

“Yes.”

“I want to go to Great Falls.”

“F*ck. Why not say you want a million dollars? Or to fly to the moon? You know I can’t make that happen. Jesus.”

“That’s a little hyperbolic, don’t you think?”

“Bring it on, Cass. Tell me all the ways in which I’ve disappointed you and f*cked up your life.”

At this, I began to sob uncontrollably, “I never said you were a disappointment or that you f*cked up my life. I just feel like you don’t recognize my needs. I’ve asked you repeatedly to get up earlier in the morning. If you had done that today, we could already be with your mom. I was really looking forward to doing something with her this weekend.”

“I did get up early!”

“No, Mitch. You didn’t. Early for most adults is before 8 a.m. Not after 10.”

At this, Mitchell took a stronger grasp on the wheel and began to grind his teeth, before saying, “You can always get up as early as you’d like and do this shit on your own.”

I felt like I’d been slapped, “I know I can; but don’t you understand? I enjoy doing this with you. It’s one of the few things that we do together.”

“Like you give a shit if I’m here or not,” Mitchell growled.

“Of course I do! That’s why I wait for you!”

Dead silence. I broke it by saying, “I can feel that you don’t want to be here. Let me take you home.”

“I’ll walk,” Mitchell said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s over one hundred degrees outside. That wouldn’t be safe. I can take you home, and come back. Like you said, I can do this alone.”

Mitch turned away from me; and we sat in silence… me, with tears sliding down my cheeks. When Mitchell spoke again, he said, “What’s really the problem here?”

“I feel alone. I feel unseen and unheard. I feel disconnected from you and everyone else, which makes me want to die. You know how hard these kinds of feelings are for me… but I’m starting to wonder, what is the point? I keep trying and trying with you. I’ve changed everything, and you’ve changed very little.”

After some more arguing, Mitch pulled out of the lot and headed home. While looking at the road, he said, “I’m what’s wrong with your life. I make you miserable. I do nothing right. I’m a total failure.”

“You’re not a failure. You don’t make me miserable. I just wish that you would try a little harder for us.” I then spent the rest of the day trying to console my husband.

And that is what Mitch does. He twists the argument with words I’ve never said, and I switch gears to soothe him.

And nothing ever changes.

Are You F*cking Kidding Me?!

Mitch returned to his day schedule today; and because he has to get up so early to make it to the summit, I told him that I was willing to go the gym in the evenings. Because he doesn’t get home until almost six, I also offered to cook dinner — as long as he was willing to clean up the horrible mess in the kitchen, so that I could.

He seemed pleased with this. He vowed to clean the kitchen, and promised me that we’d keep going to the gym, as long as I was willing to make these changes for him.

And then this morning? The kitchen is a fricking disaster area; and this is how our text messages read:

Me: Have a good first day back as commander-in-chief. Hopefully, they managed to keep the ship in tip-top shape. Love you!

Mitch: I hope so, too. Thanks, Beautiful. If you need to workout in the mornings this week it’s probably best until I get back to a normal schedule. Love you.

And there it is. I know my husband; and what that text really means is, “I had no intention of going to the gym on the days that I go to work, and probably never will.”

And I could clean the kitchen myself; but that and the yardwork are Mitchell’s only responsibilities here at home, and I’m so tired of picking up the slack.

I am exhausted — physically and emotionally; and I am f*cking sick of feeling heartbroken.

I love my husband, but I don’t know how much fight I have left.