I feel like I’ve failed, though I haven’t. I have to remember that, that I haven’t. He has to move away, back to California, to stay with his parents for awhile. He’s packing right now, packing up his apartment, getting ready to put things in storage, to take what he needs on his “extended vacation” and leave the rest here.

And I will have the relief of knowing, late at night when he’s having hallucinations, or when the demons visit, or when he’s just overcome with the futility of survival in a world where his mind plays such tricks on him, that he’s safe under his parent’s roof, that he’s not living alone. That he is not alone.

He feels he’s too old to be living with his parents. I tell him that doesn’t enter into it. Age and need are not related, age and where we should be at any particular place in our lives aren’t necessarily connected, and for now this is the best solution.

I need time to get back on my feet. I’m just one person, and though I’ve kept him safe for several years, it’s time for someone else to take a turn. A team of people, this time, people who don’t have to work for a living anymore. I must work, I don’t have the time, I don’t have the emotional resources to carry on like this indefinitely. Does anyone? Perhaps, I tell myself, if I were a better person, I would have managed it. But I’m not, I’m just who I am.

There’s no reason why I can’t do everything, is there? Other than the fact that I’m just one person, that is. Other than the fact that I’m stretched in all directions as far as I can go, and there is very little stretching left that I can do without breaking something. Something that I might need later. Like my mind. Or my health.

So he’s preparing for his move, and he’s managing it well. He’s dealing with it well, especially considering how difficult change is for him. He’s going to miss me, and he’s going to miss Dog, and so Dog is staying with him as much as possible before he goes. February 2nd. That’s when he’s supposed to go. I told him he must come back and visit now and then.

He’ll be close to his best friend too, after he moves, to the best man who stood up at our wedding. His friend is glad to have him back. I’m glad too – that’s three whole people he has down there for support, instead of just one.

Instead of just me.

I tell him he’ll do fine, and he will. I will do fine also. Will I still have an identity when he’s gone? I’ve invested so much of myself into his care but I know that it’s not me, that there is much more to me than that, and I will be fine. I have my life here, I have my love, I have me. We’ll communicate frequently I’m sure. I’ve told him to keep his cell phone, so he can call me anytime. We still have the computer to talk through. I want to make it clear that he’s not being abandoned, or sent away because I’ve suddenly decided to concentrate on my new relationship, but that this is what is best for everyone. It will alleviate my stress knowing that he is not living alone. Living alone is not working for him right now. He may have thought it was, but he doesn’t pay his bills, he doesn’t clean up after himself usually, he forgets to do the things that must be done on a regular basis when one is a functioning member of society, and he lives in his own little world. He has improved so much though. His self-awareness is quite good. Sometimes too good. Sometimes knowing your mind has betrayed you is worse than not knowing. I want him to find his place, and I think he needs his independence from me to learn what he’s capable of.

Am I rationalizing? Am I saying he needs this or that to make myself feel better about having failed? I don’t think so. I think I am right. Some might say he’ll then be dependent on others, but it’s a different dynamic, and he’ll have more incentive to find his own way.

It’s time. I have a life I need to concentrate on right now, a very significant relationship, and work to get back on my feet. To get upright again.

So here we go.

Sometimes it’s just the side effects that are unbearable. Anti-psychotics are not particularly good for the system; they may keep the demons at bay, but they may also prove quite discomforting, if not downright unpleasant.

He’s sleepy a lot of the time. Gets up in the morning to find that he must go back to sleep shortly thereafter. Constant sleepiness. Hard to get anything done, and some people don’t understand why he can’t do more. His eyes are getting bad, bothering him quite a bit. He’s always had floaters, but now he can’t see at night, and the shadows that follow him around demanding his attention only make it worse. Since his eyes are bad, he can’t even be sure, much of the time, if the shadows are shadows following him around, or if it’s his eyes bothering him.

He doesn’t know what to do. He must have the anti-psychotics, we know that, he knows that, yet he thought of going off of them for a few days to see if that would help his eyes. That is how it works, that is how schizophrenics go off their meds. Will it be better without their meds? Will I be able to stay awake? Maybe I’ll be better now, maybe I can manage without the anti-psychotics. Whatever the side effects are, they wonder, as they must, if there’s another way.

Those close to them wonder also.

He feels useless sometimes, incapable of helping out, of earning his own way. I tell him that if it weren’t for his help I wouldn’t be able to do this business, that my productivity would be greatly decreased, that I wouldn’t be able to go out and do as much as it seems I sometimes do. My client load is becoming, perhaps not burdensome since I need the clients, but it can be overwhelming with the conflicting demands. I need the money, so I try to do it all, but being on my own . . . with his help I can do more. He does errands for me, walks the dog when I have to be gone all day or even when I can’t, like today when I have an inner ear problem and can’t get around without falling down. He makes bank runs, he goes to the store, he sorts for me, he does spreadsheets from statements I give him, he writes copy, he advises, he even makes me dinner. He does so much more than he realizes, and I tell him it’s okay if he needs to sleep, it’s okay if he can’t keep up with me, few people can, and he laughs.

He does much more than he realizes. He supports me. He does not let his illness sour him, he keeps up with his meds even when he doesn’t want to. He is capable of so much, but it’s hard, with his illness and the meds that are supposed to make him better, to see that.

He asked me one day what would happen to him. “What will happen if I live to be old,” he asked me. He’s only 32, almost 33, and the prospect of having no one to care for him and help him concerns him. I told him that I’d make sure he’d be okay and cared for, that it was something he didn’t need to worry about. Hopefully he’ll get better enough that it isn’t an issue, but I know there are options for him. There are options for all of us. His schizophrenia is not nearly as bad as it could be, and hopefully it won’t get worse. With that, his BPD, and his anxiety and depression (as I say, who wouldn’t be depressed with all that going on?), I am impressed at how well he does hold it all together. I admire his resiliency, and though he becomes discouraged, he is still one of the strongest people I know.

That’s what he knows when he’s bad, and he forgets anything that gives lie to this illusion, or he buries it, or he dismisses it as a fluke.

And so I remind him. I remind him when he’s in a bad place, and when he’s happy and laughing and things are going well I point it out to him, I tell him he’s been caught, that life is not all bad and that there is joy in it. “Damn!” he says, or something similar, or he laughs, and I can tell that he feels almost embarrassed, that he feels as if he’s not even entitled to be “not miserable,” that perhaps he’s acting inappropriately.

We’re only driving to Barnes and Noble to go book shopping – we’ve had something to eat, we’re going shopping, then back to my place to watch TV. And he’s laughing, we’re talking and making jokes, and when I point out to him that he’s been caught being happy he’s almost ashamed, as if his illness should preclude such an event, as if he’s supposed to be miserable all the time.

He has just now been declared disabled and unable to work by the State of Washington. He has been unable to work for several years, but that was with private disability, and now that’s gone, so now he needs public assistance. And he thinks, I know he thinks, deep down, that as a recipient of aid, he should not be happy, or enjoy life.

This is, of course, absolutely ridiculous, but we are not always logical about these things. While receiving aid makes him feel worse, it can also help him. He is now eligible for other programs, for other aid, perhaps now he’ll be able to get help with medical and drug expenses. So far, that’s all been out of pocket, at retail, and the pockets are not particularly deep and some of the drugs are particularly expensive. (But they keep the demons at bay and are necessary for survival.) And perhaps now he can get some of his medical issues looked at. His bad eyes. He can’t be out much at night at all by himself, not just because he sees and hears things, but also because he can’t see very well. He is sick often, retching and nauseated and in pain. Perhaps his ulcer is back. All of this has been neglected because it is expensive and there has been no health coverage. Maybe, I desperately hope, some of this can be looked at now. I must see a doctor soon myself, but that can wait. It has to. I don’t have medical insurance. I need a couple of things looked at and I need a crown. But let’s not even go there.

The demons visited him the other evening again. They were behind him, hovering, and we chatted online about it, and I told him they probably just wanted to use his computer, that he should go to bed, get some sleep, and by morning they’d be gone. I think it worked. Of course, the concept of demons being computer literate does not do much for my peace of mind, but it would explain the increased spam I’ve been receiving. Who else would be involved in such things?

But I caught him being happy, and I pointed it out to him, and we laughed about it, and he was glad to be caught. One of his greatest fears is that he’ll be considered not disabled. It’s an awkward position. He IS disabled, but he can still be productive and happy and NORMAL, but if he is, it’s as if being those things negates being disabled. And if he’s not disabled, there is no help for him, he’d be declared “lazy” and “unwilling” instead of unable. I take the position that he can be all those things. Not lazy and unwilling, that’s not what I meant. Disabled. Unable to work in a conventional environment with conventional hours. He can still be productive (and IS), he can be happy, though of course his “issues” will mean he’ll have more than his share of unhappiness, he can be as normal as any of the rest of us wandering around doing our own peculiar thing. Normality is, in my opinion, not only highly variable but also highly overrated.

And it’s the little things we have to look for in order to enjoy life. Some days I feel overwhelmed and hopeless and incapable. And then the smallest thing, seemingly insignificant, will make me laugh, or be a positive indicator of things to come, or make me feel safe, and I will feel as if I’m the luckiest person on the planet. I tell him to try to see the little things, because that’s what makes up our whole. Happiness does not come in large chunks, but in little pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle, and we have to put it together ourselves.

But I’ve strayed. I caught him being happy and feeling joy, just doing routine things, and I pointed it out to him. That’s my job.

 The thing is, I can’t remarry unless I’m divorced. Officially, I mean. Not that there are any offers, don’t get me wrong. There isn’t anyone on the horizon, nor is anything expected for, oh, at least a few months, possibly longer. Possibly much longer. Still, being married while not being married would greatly interfere with the entire remarriage process should that become an issue.

Then there are the other considerations. Once the disability runs out, he’ll need state aid. (Unless I become wealthy very quickly, in which case I’m more than happy to help support him.)

Filing for divorce is something we just haven’t gotten around to; it became a non-issue. We knew where we were, we agreed, it’s just paperwork. The packet has been sitting in my living room for a very long time, just waiting for us to actually fill it out. There’s nothing for us to not agree on . . . we’re quite amenable, each ready to take over the other’s debts, willing to keep supporting each other if necessary, whatever it takes.

But it is one of those things that eventually must be dealt with, so tonight I picked up the packet while we watched Sports Night on DVD, and began attempting to fill out the forms.

Obtaining a divorce is not an easy process. Fill this out, fill that out, agree to this, agree to that. Then do that another ten times. File here, file there. Why can’t we go to court, say, “Hey, we’re divorcing, he’s mentally ill, I can’t be a caretaker and a wife at the same time,” and have it over with?

I see inside the packet that there’s a free divorce workshop every other Friday. I ask Stew if he’d like to go, since it’s free.

He says sure, he can do that. (I figure I can send him, then I won’t have to miss work.) (Well, he is high functioning.)

I tell him it’s not a big deal, just since it’s free . . . and I don’t want to do anything wrong.

Then I thought about it. “But what’s the worst that can happen?” I ask. “We have to stay married?”

And then we can’t stop laughing.

Imagine the call at midnight. He can’t close his eyes because of the images that come to him then. I ask him what the images are, and he tells me, and the images have to do with him hurting himself again some more.

A prospective landlord questioned me yesterday about his behaviors and his problems and how it could affect others. She wants no problems in her house. I told her the biggest threat he poses is to himself. Otherwise I see him as no more dangerous than anyone else.

And it’s true, he doesn’t have problems with people. He’s not argumentative. He doesn’t go out in public and act “crazy.” Sometimes he withdraws, sometimes when he’s out in public he wants to just shut down, lock himself in a corner and melt down until there’s nothing left, but no one even notices those times, and if they did he certainly isn’t dangerous to anyone then.

He still has his sense of humor. He’s also sensitive about some things, and it can change from minute to minute, so even though humor is used frequently around here, it can also backfire. We just persevere, when it does, apologize, reassure, and go on our way, making fun of the next item on the agenda.

We are looked at oddly, me and my friend. I am, sad to say, the one person most skilled at dealing with his illness and with him. That’s not particularly sad, I just don’t know why it’s so difficult to understand that he’s still a person with normal person feelings and emotions. And some feelings and emotions not quite so normal, but so what?

Try renting a house with a friend who is mentally ill. Try explaining that. I explain because I don’t want anyone to say, later, “Why didn’t you tell us he was crazy?” He’ll tell them himself. He’ll come right out and say it. He won’t hesitate. Sometimes I hesitate, sometimes I’m unsure about saying it out loud in front of him, as if he doesn’t know and I can keep it from him for just one more day. Which is ridiculous, because we talk about it all the time. I suppose it’s letting other people in on it that I hesitate at. People don’t understand.

Sometimes what they don’t understand is why I’m still taking care of him. But who better to do it? He is my friend. He was once my husband. No longer of course, I’m in a good relationship now with another, but he’s still my friend. He’s still smart and funny and wants to do good. Wants to do well. And he needs a bit of help with that. And there seems to be no one better equipped for the task than me. Imagine that. Me, well equipped for anything. Hard to believe.

So we continue to look for a place to live where he’ll be under the same roof, so that when he has terrifying visions in the middle of the night and calls me I can tell him to meet me in the kitchen, and I can make him hot chocolate and talk him down from it, and then send him off to bed. I have, for an amateur, remarkably therapeutic powers. As it is now, I talk him down over the phone, and it’s simply not as effective. But there’ll be no traveling back and forth in the middle of the night.

We look and we tell prospective landlords the truth, and sometimes they look at us funny, but they are unfailingly polite.

A place to keep him safe. That’s what I’m looking for. But it must also be a place I can work and be comfortable in. I don’t think that’s asking too much. When I first made my search known I heard from many quarters. Many houses were too small. I need my private space, and he needs his. I was offered master suites in other people’s houses. A couple of rooms in someone else’s house. That’s not what I was looking for, but perhaps people thought I was desperate for a place to live. I’m not, I want someplace where I can keep him safe and where I can also work. I work at home, for the most part.

A place to be safe where I can look after him easier and where I can control his household expenses. As it is now, with him living alone, it’s too much for me. People think this will be worse for me, but I think it will be better. He’ll feel safer, with other people in the house with him, perhaps not so isolated, and if he feels safer and less isolated he’s healthier, and if he’s healthier he’s easier to deal with. He’s easygoing, always willing to help out when he can, to do things for me, and I think he’d do better not living alone.

Besides, I like living in houses. I’ve always had houses before, back in the distant past. I usually owned them, but that’s probably why I’m choosy about my rental. And I’d like my dog to be onsite. Right now she’s with him most of the time because I know it’s really good for him. She’s good therapy, and having her ensures he gets out during the day to walk her. But I miss her. This way, he’ll still have her around, and so will I.

And so I continue the search for a house where I can keep him safe.

____________________________________________________________________       

The house did not work out. Did not materialize. We could have had the top part of a house, two floors, part of the garage, but there were no appliances included, the rent was too high considering there were no appliances included and the yard was not fenced, and the basement she would not rent to us at all, but wanted to rent it to someone else. Anyone else. I wanted the basement for Stew – it had a kitchen, a living room, a bathroom, a bedroom, all its own, with access to the backyard. His own space, and I could have mine upstairs. I considered it. Thought about putting Stew in the three small bedrooms upstairs while I took the master suite. That left the ground floor, the kitchen, living room, dining room, family room, one of which could have been my office. Then the landlord started talking. The dog was extra. Access to the backyard would depend on who was living in the basement, and the only access would consist of going out the front door and walking around to the back. Which we could finish fencing in if we wanted, and she’d pay half. No appliances, but perhaps we could share with the other tenant?

I didn’t call her back. It wasn’t the arrangement we’d talked about, and she knew it.

Found another house, but someone else got to it first. Nice fenced yard for the dog, she would have been happy. Floor plan not the most amenable for me, but a great yard.

Found a better one though. Loved it when I saw it. An older house, but remodeled on the inside. Lots of room for Stew downstairs, lots of private room for me upstairs. Reasonable rent. I didn’t get it of course. Someone with better credit did. Stew was so stressed by that time, and I was so tired, and our leases on our apartments were due to be signed, that after a spectacular crash we quietly gave up on finding a house. Change is so difficult under the best of circumstances, and these were not the best of circumstances.

It would have been good, but sometimes getting from point A to point B is just too much, and so I elected to stay at point A until I could get things together a bit better.

So I’m perfectly fine myself, thank you very much for asking.

And I wonder what people are thinking. It’s human nature to judge, to form opinions about things which one does not know about, and for those who are unfamiliar with mental illness (though I do wonder how anyone these days can be unfamiliar with it, it appears to be everywhere, whether you want to be there or not as the credit card commercials say) the propensity to step back when confronted with mental illness may be strong. Why not? It’s unfamiliar. On television, the mentally ill are always committing crimes and causing disturbances. Certainly there can’t be a modicum of stability and safety with one of THEM hanging around.

I beg to differ, but I can do that later. No, wait, I’ll do it now. Dealing with the mentally ill isn’t that much different from dealing with anyone else, as long as one remembers who one is dealing with.

It is not in my nature to lie. So with potential landlords I am unfailingly honest. “He’s schizophrenic.” If I don’t say it myself, he will. He does not hide from it. “I look after him.”

I’m looked at askance at times. Whatever. If being looked at askance is the worst thing that happens to me I’m in pretty good shape.

We need a house. I can no longer look after him in his apartment without going nuts myself. It’s knowing he shouldn’t be out at night but he often is, at least to walk the dog, but I let the dog stay with him because she’s good for him. It’s knowing that sometimes he needs someone close by, and on those rare occasions when he’s needed middle of the night intervention it would be much easier if he weren’t way over there. No one likes to be up and about at those hours. If I could just go downstairs or whatever it would be much easier for me. I can no longer manage bill paying for two separate households. I can barely manage it for one. And it’s not even the fact of the money, though that is in short supply, as much as it is the duplication of everything that must be paid. Making sure his household is in good working order. That things aren’t falling down around him. Hard to do, it isn’t always easy to get over there. That’s silly, isn’t it? It’s not as if he’s that far away.

Just everything all together, and this is what it comes down to. He needs a bit more supervision, and it will also make him feel a bit safer, a bit more secure, which can only be good for him. And I’ve been wanting to get back into a house for quite a long time – I want more room, more storage, a bigger kitchen, I want more. And I found a house that gives me so much of what I want. But there are some drawbacks, so whether we’ll take it or not is still a good question and no one knows. Because there will be someone else living in the downstairs apartment. Which causes me to wonder about access to the back yard that I want for my dog. The garage is a 3 car garage, so we’d have two of those, which is still good. And 4 bedrooms, 2.5 baths. The living room for my office, the big kitchen and family room. A bedroom for him, a bedroom for his office, an extra room for him. His own bathroom. My master suite has a huge bathroom, very nicely appointed, a huge walk in closet, it’s great, it’s what I WANT.

But another house is better for him. The downstairs in the other house has a bedroom, a full bathroom, and a large family room he can use for his living room/office. Upstairs is a living room, a kitchen, a dining room, 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. My office would have to be in the 2 bedrooms. I can’t fit everything into one bedroom, it just won’t work, it doesn’t work now, it certainly won’t work then. The master bedroom has a closet and a bathroom with just the basic accoutrements, a shower, a toilet, a sink. But I want more. I want THE OTHER HOUSE.

Well. Be that as it may. When looking at houses with the mentally ill, it’s important to remember two or three key facts: there are always more houses to look at, so if the landlord is looking askance or the house is simply not suitable, do not despair. It is possible to rent even with the worst credit history on the planet, as evidenced by someone willing to let us the rent the really nice house, but only the top part of course. The mentally ill person will be better off when the move is done, and so will the mentally ill caretaker, the one who is tired and fragmented. It is possible, and it will be done.

At the end of the day, everyone is doing okay.

The following email was sent by Stew on the evening of the 18th. I called him when I received the email, about an hour after he wrote it, and he was doing quite well – Monique

Hi all.

On the trip back, Dad had asked me if I had experienced any demons during my stay in California, and I had indicated that I hadn’t.

I’m currently experiencing demons right now.

They started when I was walking the dog tonight. I had an inclination that somebody was following me, but there was nobody there. In fact there wasn’t anybody around. (Which, for 9pm, is actually a little unusual.)

The demon(s) were telling me that I should remove my skin. Not just cutting it like I tend to do, but to take a potato peeler and peel away the skin. (I’m not even sure if I own a potato peeler.)

They kept showing me images of how it would feel better (can you really “show” a “feeling”?) if my skin was removed.

The often-asked question is what was I doing or thinking about right before this happened.

I was watching TV. I was flipping back and forth between the Olympics and Smallville (not a show I normally watch.) The last Olympic event had been swimming (men’s 200m backstroke I think)…and the only thing that stands out in my mind about that is that American Olympian just recently celebrated his 22nd or 23rd birthday. The episode of Smallville (Smallville is a TV show about Superman [well, actually Clark Kent] as a teenager going to high school and the mis-adventures he gets into learning about his powers) Anyway, one of Clark’s friends got mixed up with illegal street drag racing, because it was the only thing he seemed to be good at, and it allowed him to get out of Clark’s shadow.

So, that’s the status of the demons on August 18, 2004. Whatever that information is worth.

Oh, and no… I did not cut, nor am I inclined too.

Stew