My shrink likes to tell me, after I announce all the reasons I hate myself, that none of it is my fault. He says the things I hate about myself are all symptoms of my illness. He says that once I am correctly medicated, I won't be that person, anymore. He says I will just be me, and that will be a whole new mess to figure out. Fun… but he says that hating the things I've done should mean hating the bipolar disorder, not myself. Right… that's why my husband doesn't seem like he will ever want me again. Because, it's not my fault.
I think he sees me as being more devious than sick. Whatever… I was NEVER good at being devious while doing fucked up things (not bipolar fucked up things, anyway). I would've been smarter about these various indignities if I had not been nuts at the time. I mean, if he reads through one book, he would see that everything I've been through with this shit is fucking textbook for a severe cas of BPD Type II. And, yet, he holds me accountable like I'm just a [email protected] ass hole. Like I am just some greedy, sex-obssessed person, who just wants what she wants.
As I've said before, if I had any other kind of illness, I don't think I would be shut out this way. Even if the memories of all the bad stuff made him unable to see me a certain way (such that he would want to sleep with me), I at least deserve to have some basic affection in my life. He should not have to have his guard up so high that he hesitates when he starts to put his arm around me. As long as he's still here, he should try to treat me like the person I am – a sick person, trying desperately to get well, who loves him more than anything. I have always been in love with him. We've always had something special, even if it was plagued with issues (and it was/is), but we were good together. In some ways, we still are. We have fun together, but he clams up whenever I try to talk to him about anything important. It's really not fair. He should try to understand all of this, instead of just distancing himself from me.