Over a decade ago, I was seeing a woman who had some serious mental health issues. At first, it was fairly tolerable – extreme social anxiety, phobic behavior (mostly terror on public transit, she literally couldn’t go anywhere without someone to hold her hand, etc.)
I thought it would be better when she got away from her husband, who was much more mentally ill than her. (They had no relations at all, he would only eat directly out of tin cans because he believed anything else might be poisoned – by her – and if he set a can down and turned his back on it for even a moment, he had to throw it out.)
It didn’t get better – after she moved into her own place, she completely fell apart. She was completely overwhelmed by coursework she was doing, and trying to keep her calm became a full-time job.
My schedule quickly turned into a nightmare. I’d work until 5:00, (taking a few emergency calls from her a day,) and then directly to her apartment to try to talk her down from the full-blown hysteria that she’d get worked into during the day. I’d do my best to reassure her and talk her through her crisis, but I think nothing really helped – she just had to go through her stuff – which meant hours-long crying jags every single day – except weekends, when she seemed relatively okay.
I’d get over to her place around six, prepare a meal, and by seven or so the sobbing would start. This would continue until she was exhausted, which was usually around 1:00am. Every night, there would be a gradual transition from amateur talk therapy to cuddling, rocking, hugging, and petting – and when she was calmed down enough, she wanted sex. She was a very beautiful woman, but after her daily catharsis, she was pretty repulsive. (Ever kiss someone with a mouthful of cold mucous?) And she wanted a lot of sex. It was usually after 2:00am that we got to sleep – and then up before six for the commute to work.
This went on for weeks, and soon I was a wreck myself. Huge sleep deficit, and I found myself falling asleep at my desk several times. My work was suffering. I loved her and felt helpless. Couldn’t convince her to go back into therapy, but I couldn’t keep on. I was internalizing her phobias – I was starting to panic when riding the bus alone, because I was so used to it being a trauma to get through.
I didn’t break up with her, of course. But I did tell her that I needed a few days to catch up on my sleep, and tried to get her to turn to some of our friends for help, because I simply couldn’t do it. Just for a few days.
Holy shit! She turned on a dime, and all the sudden I was the devil. She called again and again at work, until I worried that I’d lose my job. She called me every name in the book. She knew that I was really breaking up with her and was just being evasive. Eventually, I had to agree – I couldn’t take it anymore.
The calls stopped, and I felt a guilty relief.
And then she deliberately overdosed on Xanax.
Some of our friends acted as though I’d tried to kill her myself.
That was pretty ugly.
…and then there was the one who left me waiting at home with the wine, meal & cake I’d prepared for her birthday, (not to mention her daughter) and showed up blind drunk in the small hours of the next day to announce in a slurry voice “I fucked somebody else.” Ugh. She even stuck her chin out as though to dare me to hit her. I don’t think I’ve ever been that angry and disgusted. But I’d take twenty of those over another situation that made me feel as helpless as the spectacularly depressed and irrational. At least you can walk away and not feel any guilt.
