Confessions of a Psychotic Woman Married to a Man with ADHD

“Hi, my name is Rachl and I’ve been married to ADHD for 726 days.”

And my poor husband says:

“Hi, my name is Jack and I’ve been married to Bipolar Disorder for 726 days.”

Where, oh where are the 12 step programs for people like us? I could really use some common grounds order in my home. Jack has to deal with a crazy wife who is currently un-medicated, flip-flopping from euphoric childlike happy playfulness to depressive sensitive irrational irritability. Both of which are often triggered by his own state of mind.

Example, last night beginning at 6:00pm:

I pull up to my house at 5:58pm after a day at work and being stuck in traffic for 50 minutes. Where is Jack’s car? It’s not here. He’s not home. He told me he’d be home when I got here because he was getting dinner together. And I’m hungry and he knows that I get incredibly angry when I’m hungry and now he’s nowhere to be found. I walk in the door and I throw my purse and jacket down like a toddler about to start a temper tantrum

The dogs start to bark. Their dad is home. I look out the window and scour but wait…what’s that he has in his hand? It’s and Olive Garden bag! Aw, my baby went to Olive Garden to get us dinner. He’s so sweet. I love him so much! He opens the door and I give him a big old hug and kiss. We sit down to eat. I pull out the salad, the breadsticks, his chicken alfredo pizza and my…..what is this? He says,
“It’s pasta fagioli. I remember you told me you liked it.”
“It’s soup.”
“No, it’s pasta.”
“no…it’s soup. Look at the container it’s in”
“I’ll go get you something else”
“No, no baby. It’s fine” And I pout.
So I eat part of my soup, a piece of his pizza and we go about our normal evening. I watch my latest addiction, Vampire Diaries and follow the show with an episode of Supernatural. I turn the t.v. off, ready to head to bed and I say,
“So, what are the plans for your friend’s bachelor party?”
“we’re going to grill out then head out and go to..”
I interrupt “you’re going to grill out HERE?”
“yeah, just for a little bit and then…”
“HERE?”
“Yeah, but…”
“And you were going to tell me this when exactly?”
I ask as I stand up and storm into the kitchen to start cleaning up. Saturdays are my days to clean because I’m too tired to do it during the week. So that means that by Friday evening, my house looks like it’s been bombarded with various items from a garage sale, covered in dog hair, dirt and this time of year, leaves.
“Baby, I’m going to do this tomorrow. I get off at 2:00 and the guys aren’t
coming over until 6:30. How long do you think it takes to clean the first floor?”
“For you? Four hours. But you won’t even get to it at all because you say you’ll
get off at 2:00. That means you’ll get off at 3:00, head home, forget something,
head back out, stop at the grocery store, then back to work to do something, back
to the grocery store, stop at a friend’s house, forget to do something else, go do
that and then be home at 6:00”
“Thanks for the encouragement.”
“You’re welcome”
“Smartass”
“Whatever.”

I clean the kitchen, start on the living room. And where is Jack? In the basement….going through his tools. He comes upstairs carrying a piece of drywall. I say,
“Are your friends going to be in the basement?”
“No”
“Then why the hell are you cleaning down there?”
“Because it’s garbage night and this needs to be thrown out!”
“And you were down there for forty minutes when you could be helping me clean
upstairs for YOUR friends coming over tomorrow because….????”

He doesn’t respond. I fluff up the couch pillows, clear the table, dust, vacuum and Jack comes back inside. What exactly he was doing outside? I have no idea. He must have been distracted by something shiny and sparkly. I totally want to by him the shirt that says: “People tell me I have ADD...”:


Jack helps me sweep up a bit but by then I’ve already cleaned the first floor. And I’m satisfied. And I head upstairs to bed. I stomp up the stairs, wash up for bed then start yelling for Jack like a lost child wanting mommy. I hug him and start acting like my goofy self.

And my head hurts.

I feel like such a bitch sometimes. But when I have the ugly side of myself dominating my life, the short fuse is going to make me blow. And it did just as it does often. I suppose the good thing about having a husband with ADHD is that he quickly forgets the events that take place. And the good thing about him being married to someone with bipolar disorder is that he doesn’t have to wait long until my happy side comes around.

I'm getting a new Schnocker!

Went to the doctor and he confirmed what I already had known. Time to operate! Although the process was a lot easier than I thought. No x-rays, no MRI, just a nice look into my nostrils with a flashlight that could have blinded me. “You have a deviated septum, a bone spur, (insert other stuff he said about the tissue in the other side of my nose needing to be taken out here). Don’t worry, it won’t change the external shape of your nose (Damn. I was so hoping he'd be willing to partake in insurance fraud), so let’s set you up an appointment for surgery”. My kind of doctor. No waiting, no fuss, no extra appointments, no mess…at least until the day of surgery when ungodly amounts of snot and blood will drip from my nose.

So on November 10th I’m going under the knife for a septoplasty turbinectomy combo. Basically I have the pleasure of getting parts of my nose taken out and shifted around so that I can finally breathe properly. But this means the days of showing off my trick nostril are gone. I’ll miss my nights of having a few too many drinks and trading weird human body tricks with strangers…. no more gathering air through my nose and showing these people how my right nostril gets sucked inside. I’ll just have to use my few days off of work to discover a new talent to share with the world.

I’m going to be incredibly happy when I can finally breathe through both nose holes. I’m just not looking forward to sleeping upright for two weeks then having splints pulled out of my nostrils. I slammed my nose in a door once and ended up having to get my nose packed. When they pulled the packing out I swear some of my brains came along with it. Awesome head rush though…nothing like a little pain and cold air to the brain to get the endorphins going.

Oh left side of my nose, you haven’t worked in so long and I know you’ve been feeling neglected. So get ready! Your day to shine is just around the corner.

The Stench

I know I know, yesterday it was poop and today it’s more talk of stinky bodily functions. Must be something in the air. Get it? Something in the air? Ha! I crack myself up. So a little background to what I shall be discussing…

First of all, let it be known that I have a horrible gag reflex. I gag when I brush my teeth, when I smell rotten food, when I see someone getting sick, when any bodily function happens, and most often when my husband farts because he thinks it’s hilarious. And six out of ten times I end up emptying my stomach of its contents into whatever toilet, trash can, or grassy area that I can find. I’ve been like this since I was a child. I remember one time when my family went on vacation and I headed to the bathroom in the hotel room after my father had blown up the port-a-potty sized bathroom. My mom still remembers this moment since it must have been the first of a lifetime of these types if incidents. I came screaming out of the bathroom with my shirt covered in that morning’s continental breakfast. Of course my father thought it was the funniest thing ever.

You should also know about my place of employment. It has quite a few departments. The department that I work in has roughly 20 employees. We have a unisex bathroom which is also used as a storage closet in the back of the office, completely out of the way from my desk, so I sometimes use the hall bathroom which is much more convenient for me. This hall bathroom is also a public restroom. Close to this bathroom is another department. They do not have their own bathroom. And inside the walls of that office is the female owner of what I shall call “the stench”. I know that she works in this department because I have sometimes turd burgled her in the public restroom and received an aroma of the stench plus the remains of a fast food meal she must have eaten. For those of you who do not know what a turd burglar is, please refer to this article on bathroom etiquette. (http://www.strangecosmos.com/content/item/107506.html)

This stench alone is not that of a bowl movement. It is that of her “area”. And no, it does not just appear around that time of the month. It is around ALL THE TIME, lingering for hours inside the walls of the bathroom stall after she is long gone, seeping into the only other stall available. She is a regular user of the toilet by the wall, so I’m always sure to only use the other stall. But sometimes I’m caught off guard because I have to pee so bad and before I realize the stench has been let loose it attacks me as my stream is just starting. And I’m stuck, gagging, wobbling and weaving (since I don’t sit on public toilets, I prefer the squat method), trying to dodge the horrible green cloud that is making its way to my nostrils. I try to breath through my mouth but it is so bad that I can taste it. And then the gagging starts.

If I’m using the restroom myself, I can usually hold it in until I’m finished, then do a quick 180 to make a puke-n-rally into the toilet. But lately I’ve learned to do a once-over of the restroom, and it usually results in me high-tailing it out of there, running into my office, eyes full of tears, hand covering mouth, body heaving as my other hand holds my stomach, and recovering with some heavy yoga breathing.

Yes, the stench is that bad.

This has been going on as long as I have worked at my job since the stench’s owner has worked there for years before I ever came along. This is definitely not something that can be discussed with her personally. Even if I were really close with her, this is subject that well….you just don’t go there. I don’t even feel comfortable going to HR about it in the hopes that they can approach the subject. And no, I’m not the only one that knows about the stench. I have fellow co-workers who will inform me and each other of the stench’s schedule.

But my question is: Really, how does she not know? They say that people can’t tell when they stink, but she must really have some smelling issues going on if she can’t tell that she smells like rotting meat. I’m almost tempted to leave an anonymous care package of “products” made for this sort of thing, but I don’t think that’s appropriate. I mean, what if it were me stinking up the place? How embarrassing.

So for now, I’ll use the bathroom in the back of our office. And when that bathroom is in use or being organized since a bunch of office supplies are back there, I’ll scope out the hall restroom and continue to walk in and walk straight back out when I sense the green cloud of doom.

Just Poop

I have two dogs but I prefer to call them my fur children. They go by the names of "Mister Henry" and "Doctor Beans". We've had Doc for about two years and he has gotten used to a routine of waking up, watching me get ready for work then eating and being let outside to do his business. No accidents. No problem.

And then there's Henry:


I swear that dog can hold his poo for 48 hours. It's either that or he's taking a sneak poop somewhere then cleaning up after himself. I had a dog once who did this. She'd walk outside, do her thing then turn right around and eat it. Should have trained her to just go in her food bowl. Maybe she was discovering a new way of recycling.

So Mr. Henry is a rescue dog that my husband and I got about a month ago. He's about 2 or 3 years old, pretty well behaved for being a feral dog. He has had a few accidents and eaten four pairs of my favorite shoes....this is okay, I deal. But the thing that gets me the most is that I can't get him to poop. Every time I think he's going to go I get all excited like it's Christmas because then I can pick it up and head back inside where it's not cold, wet or dark (I live in a townhouse where we have to walk our dogs and be on constant poop patrol or we'll get fined). Just as his butt hole starts winking, he lifts his leg and pees instead and I get all let down. So I was running late for work this morning and he hadn't gone potty since yesterday morning I thought he'd definitely go. So I waited. And waited. Walked some more...and nothing. 15 minutes have passed, Doc has already done his business and is back inside. 20 minutes....and it's 8:15am, I have to be at work at 8:30 and I have a 30 minute commute ahead of me so then I start getting aggravated, bending down, getting at his level and waving the plastic grocery bag at him that I was hoping to use to pick up after him.

"POOP!" I yell. "CRAP! JUST DO YOU'RE THING AND POOP!" of course Henry just looks at me and cocks his head to the side and sniffs some more. "Alright, if you don't sh*t in the next 10 seconds we're going in" and then I find myself counting down (like he can understand me or something) "10, 9....8....JUST POOP!!!!". "Is everything okay?" I freeze. My little old lady neighbor who's on the verge of death totally just caught me yelling at my dog to take a crap. I say, "oh...yeah....everything's fine! Sorry!" Then she shuffles toward me and says, "Maybe you should try an enema", stands there for a minute sizing up my dog like he's a thanksgiving turkey she's ready to shove bread crumbs in and turns and walks away.

An enema? For my dog? REALLY? Then I realize that I think she was talking to me. I was in a bend over and take it position as I was yelling at the dog, blocking the site of Mr. H from her view with my big derear. I really hope she doesn't think I was trying to poop outside...who would do that anyway? Okay, so besides the homeless person that craps all over the side door by my parking garage at work. But honestly, who? Oh well. I'll let her go gossip with the other old women in my neighborhood who I call the Poodle Patrol (every single one of them has one of the fluffy white purse dogs) and tell them I was trying to defecate on the sidewalk. I'll wait for a lovely note from our condo association informing us about something like proper waste management since they prefer to leave notes. Like the note we got last week with a picture of our garbage can next to our front door telling us we can't keep it there. Yeah, I have the paparazzi after my garbage can. I wonder which bushes they hide in?

Hopefully no one will start calling me the condo pooper-there are an awful lot of human sized turds in the grassy area that haven't been picked up (I wouldn't pick 'em up either-they're the size of a volkswagen). But the crazy old lady is a bit senial. So... a.) she'll forget about the whole thing b.) she'll realize it was the dog that was supposed to poop. or c.) she'll tell the poodle patrol but then get shot down because no one would actually crap in their yard (unless you're locked out of your house and REALLY have to go) But if one of them has the balls to actually ask me about it, I might just say "Yes, I was." and turn and walk away.

Broken

I've been called many things: Crazy, Obsessed, F**ked-up, Weirdo, Crackhead, Stalker, Quiet, irrational, random...the list goes on. At some point in time I'm sure I fit each of these descriptions but I was never truly all of these. If I could sum it up in one word I'd call myself Broken. But there's a bit of breaking in all of us so I don't feel so alone. I've made a recovery from mental illness, but it's a constant battle I'll always need to fight through a balance of pills, self motivation and will, reflection, and my own therapy since I refuse to sit on a couch in an office where I'm supposed to talk to someone about things that make my own head hurt and who "listens" to me while watching the sixty minute timer tick down to zero. I'm not discouraging anyone from therapy because I do believe that it moves mountains for some. But for me it's more like kicking over ant hills in the sidewalk and watching the little critters spill out and run around frantically as I try to not squish them under my feet. The kid with the magnifying glass on a sunny summer day? No, that wasn't me. I prefered to smear lightning bugs on the driveway and try to make my own version of a neon sign.

Sometimes I wonder how I ever got to be the person I am today and if I've become who I'm really supposed to be. But the fact remains that I am me and I'll take it rather than leave it. And I'll never be the person I'm meant to be because we're all constantly evolving. I just need to remind myself that it's never too late to be what I might have been. Even if that means I need to pick up the pieces of myself along the way.