Meltdowns

At the door of our bedroom, there's a pile of Pete's clothes on the floor in front of his closet.  Half of my closet resides at the base of our bed or on our comfy chair.  Our closets threw up the other day when I had a meltdown. 

I had a meltdown. (I'd like to give a full disclaimer at this point... this - this kind of experience - is why this kind of book is not written yet.  People who are caregivers, and people who are chronically ill, are stressed individuals.  We live each day acutely aware that we are not in control of our lives.  We get that no one is actually in control... but trust us... we encounter the land melting beneath our feet more regularly than others.  I'll go out on a limb and say that most people who are caregivers to the chronically ill are chronically angry.  They're suppressing it, and therefore depressed, because the world tells them that their job is to be kind and merciful and compassionate to the one that they love.  People who are caregivers have limits, we are finite and we come across our finiteness on a regular basis. I can only speak for myself at this point but my finiteness frightens me.  The world is unsafe.  Even my little life in NJ is filled with unspeakable turbulence and my flailing in the waters of life is both grotesque and laughable.  But here goes... I'm telling the story... stand back if you don't want to get wet.) 

After a meltdown, I'm a mix of embarrassed, angry, confused, bitter, helpless, vulnerable, depressed, discouraged, and disgusted. 

Here's what happened:  I had an event for work and Pete was going to attend with me.  I was running late from another meeting.  I called on my way saying that I would need to change clothes quickly and we would need to head out as soon as possible.  He greeted me in the kitchen wearing blue dress pants and a linen white, black and turquoise shirt, given by a friend as a gift from Ghana. 

Two things were wrong:  he did not match and the dress pants were two sizes too big.  I don't really remember Pete losing weight but suffice it to say - the man has hardly any clothes that fit him now.  He hates to shop; he finds fashion unnecessary.  I had suggested the shirt but that was when I thought it would go well with a pair of black dockers. 

And now we're getting to the piles of clothes.  Picture if you will - me.  I've dressed and applied make up in 4 minutes flat.  I'm ready to go but Pete... there's no way he can go dressed like that.  I run upstairs in my heels to look for said black dockers.  They are MIA.  Every pair of pants we both own - just in case his pants made it into my closet somehow - is now living in a pile somewhere in our bedroom.

In creating the piles, my internal monologue worked overtime saying things like, "You've got to be kidding me... where the hell are his pants?  What?  He only has one pair of pants that fit him?  This is crazy.  I don't want to shop for men's clothing.  This is not my job.  I can't win here.  If I don't help him, he won't go with me.  I want him to go with me, so I have to help him.  Why am I helping him dress himself?  When did his mother stop doing this?  It must have been a long time ago.  When did I start doing this?  It must have been a long time ago.

I ignore my inner voices enough to realize that I'm not going to find the black pants.  So, I choose a different shirt to match the over-sized pants and we're off to the event.  Once in the car, my overactive monologue seems louder and picks a fight with my wounded caregiver, saying, 
"SAY SOMETHING!" 

There is no need to say something because this is never going to get better. 
ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND... YOU'RE NOT HIS MOTHER.  SAY SOMETHING! 
No, you don't understand my lot in life is to let go of expectations, no matter how realistic or reasonable... I will never get my way, ever again. 
USE YOUR WORDS FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. 

The screamer wins and once we turn onto the main road, I'm screaming and shouting about the injustice of having to help someone with tasks that they can do themselves... like pick out clothes.  

I'll spare you the details.  If you want, go back to the post entitled "yelling" for a bit of our psychological drama that plays out in our arguments.  

I arrive at the event, feeling foolish, having to put on a professional swagger as I now play the part of the non-anxious pastor.  "Here, let me serve you."  All the while my internal monologue (who clearly needs to take a freakin' night off but never sleeps) seemingly changes sides and now begins complaining about me.  You're a horrible human.  Who yells at a sick person? 

The answer to that question is... a lot of people.  A lot of people yell at sick people.  Sick people are human, and they're hurtful and they're selfish.  They aren't always good at communicating what they need and sometimes they take more than they need.  In that sense, sick people are no different than well people.  Who yells at sick people?  A lot of people yell at sick people. 

Here's a question for though... Why do sick people ignore and/or hurt the people who love them the most?  Why do others get the best of our partners sometimes and we're left with the partner that's too tired, or too weak?

I got another question... why can't I ask for what I need?  I know the answer to that one... I'm afraid that the answer will be no.  And let's face it the answer has been no many times.  And so I'm standing on whatever ground is left and it's melting from underneath me. 

Another question?  Why do I have to ask for what I need when dozens of times each day I ask, "what can I do for you?"  It seems that maybe, sometimes, my partner could ask the same to me.

Why the meltdown?  I wanted to get dressed up and have a partner who could drink a glass of wine with me and share a tasty meal.  For me it was a date and he showed up in clothes that didn't match. 

Does that make me shallow?  Maybe.  Mostly it makes me human.  And that makes me feel vulnerable and discouraged and disgusted with my meltdown.  Honestly though, large portion of my life have melted.  My footing is slippery and there is less ground to stand on each month.  The footprint of my life changes on a regular basis. 

Regardless, I'd like to respond with a little more maturity.  And so I'll pick up the piles and I'm going to ask the guys to shop with Pete for some clothes that fit him.  I'll try to ask for what I want and try again to parse what is mine to do and what is Pete's to do.  I'll re-define the boundaries of my life... again.  But mostly I'm going to give myself grace to be me and to learn, change, reflect and mature as I go.