The Tao of Aithinne

Dear Gentle Reader, (yes, I totally LOVE Bridgerton)

Welcome to my blog.  I never imagined putting these pieces of me out there for the whole world to see.  For a long time my inner logic told me that if I didn't tell the stories, then maybe it would be like the bad things didn't really happen. (you'll see this faithful coping skill of mine show up frequently) If nobody knew about the bad things, then people wouldn't be able to see the scars on me.  That's what I told myself.  

Thanks to dear friends, family, my therapist, and a couple life saving support groups where brave people told their stories, I've learned my stories need to be shared,... - for my own healing and perhaps for others who might see echoes of their own experiences in my words.

This is where I will put down what I've been carrying.  I don't know yet what it all means, or what lessons might be found in the mess of it all. I’m writing to find perspective about so many things I don’t understand  

For 17 years, I shared my life with a man I loved deeply. We built a life together, created memories, and weathered challenges as couples do. But beneath the surface there were moments - episodes, random, sporadic, inexplicable moments - when the man I knew would behave as someone I didn't recognize.

Then, in 2021, what had been sporadic became constant. What started as a quest to tend to issues through therapy spiraled into a nightmare I couldn't have foreseen. A therapist prescribed Adderall, and suddenly, the man I had known and loved went "poof," replaced by someone, hostile, angry and aggressive. (here is a helpful blog that talks about Madderall, and the tragedy of mis-prescribed Adderall)

The situation only worsened when another therapist introduced an antidepressant. This combination appeared to trigger what I later learned was dysphoric mania, and my husband was swallowed whole by it. The man I knew was replaced by a terrifying version of himself. 

In July 2023, after my mother told their shared doctor about behavior she witnessed, he was given a preliminary diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder.  

Adderrall and SSRIs are known to trigger mania in those with bipolar disorder. Dysphoric Mania is a common presentation of the disorder. It may also be called Mixed Episode. (here's a little bit about dysphoric mania)

Adding to this volatile mix was his nightly use of marijuana. What should have been a relaxant instead turned his anger, anxiety and paranoia up to eleven. He believed it helped him, but what I saw was anxiety, paranoia, delusions, accusations, and rage. It was beyond terrifying - it was paralyzing. 

I was caught in his cycles of unpredictability, and I was desperately trying to hold onto the real him, believing something could pull him out of it, and stop the nightmare. (a little bit about the fuckedupness marijuana adds to someone with bipolar)

For over a year and a half, before his preliminary diagnosis I was trapped in the chaos, struggling to understand what was happening and why. I clung to the hope that something would break through and bring him back to me. 

The situation escalated to a point I never imagined possible. Physical harm became a reality on three occasions over three months last summer, in June, July, and August 2023. 

The last one was on the same day I had gone to his psychiatrist appointment with him.  The PA wanted him in immediate intensive treatment and he refused.  He blamed me for his misery and said being rid of me would solve his problems. The PA was concerned about his weed use, and confirmed he was exhibiting the symptoms of Dysphoric Mania.  

When he was physically aggressive that night after the psychiatry appointment, the look on his face... the hatred.  I'd never seen anything like it, and certainly had never seen anyone look at me that way.  The more aggressive he was getting, the more gleeful he looked.  Whatever monster had captured him delighted in him crossing the rubicon. He looked like someone who wanted to kill me.

In addition to his willingness to be physically and verbally aggressive toward me, came the chilling words he wrote in a shared note application that still echo in my mind: 

"Being dead is the only language some folks understand." 

In his 18 months of mania, he would often write bizarre notes in the app, and later scream them at me in a tantrum.  I didn't picture him screaming those words at me.  I pictured him shooting me, though. 

It was at this point that fear for my safety forced me to make the heartbreaking decision to leave and seek the legal protection of a divorce and a restraining order.  I still can't wrap my head around having to do that.

Now, here I am, trying to make sense of it all. My husband has moved out of state, started a new life, while I sift through the wreckage of our old life. Some days, the weight of devastation is so heavy that all I can do is curl up amidst the debris, wishing it would all just disappear, ...wishing I could just disappear.

I refuse to let this experience define me or silence me. I don't want to carry it anymore. This is my way of getting it out of me, of processing the trauma.

To those who see themselves in my words: You are not alone. Your experiences are valid, and there is hope, even when it feels impossible to see.

Healing isn't linear. There will be days of progress and days where all I can do is breathe. But each word I write counts.  It is my voice and my story. It is my truth, unvarnished and complex

Thank you for being here, for reading, for witnessing.