I used to have this fantasy about summer nights, slightly windy, a little chilly, high above the sea on a ferris wheel. In the fantasy I had a boyfriend with a grey sweatshirt, and his arm was around me. I was full house date levels safe, and it’d be ok.

My husband was institutionalized on Thursday. We’d been planning to send him Saturday, and I acted without telling him, organizing our loved ones to get him to sign in Thursday instead. He’s furious.

I don’t fucking care.

I mean, I do. That’s the stupid shit, really. He’s been manic as fuck, escelating over nothing to literally abusive levels of rage. I thought he might kill me and the baby during one of these episodes, and he has this thing when manic where he has regret, he does, but it only happens ten to twenty minutes after the act itself. Before then, it’s almost like he’s still drunk on hurting us. During the worst one, with me and the baby, he shouted from the bedroom five minutes later, with me clutching baby boy and hyperventilating where he’d forced me down at the top of the stairs, “Stop whimpering, fuck, can you just try and be less annoying?! I’m trying to sleep.”

Twenty-ish minutes later he came down and apologized, shook. I told him he needed help. He agreed.

The next morning, the whole event had been softened in his memory.

My husband stable rarely grants himself grace. He’s self-deprciating to annoying levels, self-hating more like, it’s pretty often he says something dreary and I roll my eyes and respond, “Sure, Eyore” or “Got it, Sasuke.”

Manic, the pitcher of grace he grants himself is ever-flowing, never ending, and most of it is reaped from what he’d allow others to drink. Me, especially.

I can do nothing right when he’s manic.

I handle everything, though.

The next morning he hadn’t been that bad.

By the end of the week, he rolled his eyes when I brought it up and began to lecture me on blowing things out of proportion. I screamed at him, and instantly, I was the villain.

He stared me down, that sick joy in his eyes. Called me a hypocrite and let me know that if he ever shouted, surely I did first, surely I was the one who brought us ‘to that point.’

How stupid could I be, to suggest he did it alone?

A week later I told him I was going to seperate from him. He began to lecture my dumb self on how impossible that was financially, what I’d be stealing from the chidlren if I tried to act on my stupidity.

(our daughter is so scared of him, these days)

I told him I’d already reached out to organizations that would help us move. Us–me, and the kids.

He scoffed.

I said he needed help.

He took the opportunity, kind of. He agreed to sign himself in on Saturday, if I arranged it. He was too tired, and it was pretty pointless anyway. He was a total fucking genius at knowing hismelf and his states, and I was just a dumb ignorant stupid piece of shit who didn’t know any better and was probably telling him he was manic as a manipulation tactic and also I was wrong and worthless and wow isn’t it kind of abusive of me to pull this.

I laughed. He startled.

“Why’d you laugh? What?!”

“Eh, whatever. You won’t get it.”

He freaked. I didn’t let up. He left the room shook.

That was Tuesday.

Wednesday night was a miracle. He was himself, he was kind, he was not only willing, but seemed interested in sitting with me and watching one of our old shows. We joked about our favorite characters and their reception. Our legs were touching.

(maybe it’ll be ok)

Thursday morning he was angry at me before he opened his eyes. I’d been up with the baby all night, but he’d still had trouble sleeping, and he was always a monster without sleep. He was always a monster without sleep. He was always

I got him locked up, fuck you. Now when I call it’s all about what I’ve done, how stupid I’ve been, how manipulative, how worthless, we really have to consider my selfishness because he doesn’t know if he can stomach being with someone who’d pull this shit.

Ok.

I always get scared he won’t come back.

He always eventually does.

I might kind of be scared he will this time, to some degree. That he will, but it’ll just repeat, and he’ll hurt me a little more each time.

He went off his meds. It’s my fault because when I cleaned the house I accidentally threw out the envelope he needed to re-up his benefits and insurance. He was keeping it on the livingroom floor, evidently, with his other trash.

How stupid and selfish could I be, really.

That was almost a year ago. Nothing’s changed. It’s still my fault, I guess.

(leave us alone)

All I ever wanted was to feel safe, someday, maybe, maybe, someday.

But yeah, as a teen, while my mom was dying and my stepdad was drinking and my sister wasn’t home and it was late and it was thundering raining and it was STILL summer and it was humid af, I sat on the porch alone, and the world was a rush of soft, repeating sound, and the smell of damp earth.

That was so nice.