After the storm

So for a few days after I made the decision to leave jean, all was quiet. I felt as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, that I had been given a new life. Unfortunately, jean didn’t see it that way.

In the months leading up to our split I had become depressed and withdrawn, signs I would notice in myself now but I was not in the right mind at the time to do so. I grew quick to anger, I was always looking for arguments. Jean convinced me it was my fault but deep down I knew the truth was that I wanted to escape from her and my anger was caused by the fact I couldn’t.

To pacify jean, I went to the doctor. I told him I was depressed, struggling with unstable moods and outbursts of anger. He diagnosed me with cyclothymia, and I was pleased I had a diagnosis above and beyond depression, something to explain my erratic behaviour patterns over the years. On thinking back, I knew the diagnosis wasn’t quite right but I chose to ignore it, because I was so pleased to have something. The doctor put me on Seroquel and Mirtazipine, and booked me yet again more counselling, this time with the Adult Mental Health Services as by now I was over 18.

So, after we split, I returned to the doctor who swapped the Mirtazipine for Fluoxetine (the Mirtazipine game me some weird symptoms) and increased the Seroquel (quitiapine) to a higher dose. Jean kept visiting the house, trying to speak to me, and when she managed to she would pull a guilt trip, she would turn up with a red blotchy face, a packet of anti-depressants in hand, telling me she couldn’t live without me. She went to all our friends and spread lies about me, lies I neither had the energy or will to fight. Slowly but surely the old behaviours crept back in. I started cutting a lot more now that there was no-one to catch me out, and drinking seemed to soothe the pain I was going through.

My feelings at the time were mainly confusion, I was hurting because I had lost someone I cared out, hurting and guilty for what I had done to her but also angry and spiteful for what she was now putting me through. Most if ‘our’ friends had labelled me a home wrecker for splitting her family up, and my own friends I had lost contact with as Jean didn’t really like me speaking with them. The final straw came when I tried to speak to my father about the situation and he made a cruel jibe, I later found out jean had visited them earlier in the week.

It got to a point where I physically nor mentally could longer cope. I was still working, but felt like most of the time I was having an out of body experience. I could sit and stare at the wall for hours, just thinking nothing. It is only now I realise this has a name – disassociation, and it still happens in times of extreme stress.

Take Care. X


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