Storm Warning

She was restless again.

Once she entered one of these moods, not matter how much I wanted to prevent the storm brewing on the horizon, I knew I was helpless. All I was able to do was redirect her attention, force her to focus all her attention on me, shelter my charge from the inevitable bombardment of rage and paranoia.

In the formative years, I'd actually enjoyed these times, for she was happy again, a plethora of seemingly infinite ideas and creativity would to pour from her beautiful mind. She would turn on the stereo, adjust the settings until music filled each corner of our modest home, dancing her way from room to room, she would throw her arms around my neck, whispering into my ear, declaring her undying love for me.

I wanted these moments to last forever, her contagious smile that could light up the darkest corners of this earth, her energy, her enthusiasm. The fact that I could stare deep into her eyes and, instead of seeing the usual despair, hopelessness and dejection, he saw true, unadulterated happiness.

He pulled the bottle of whiskey he hid in the garage, now kept in a locked toolbox, in and amongst various tools and other long-forgotten belongings. He use to hide the whiskey in the rafters above the garage, that is, until his wife had ransacked their home, in search of government listening devices. She had found the bottle, downing it's entire contents with a chaser of the various prescribed benzodiazepines and over the counter antihistamines. I just wanted to sleep. Take me home and let me sleep, she had begged, pleaded and eventually demanded, as he drove to the closest Accident and Emergency, still reeling from the shock of finding his wife semiconscious in the shower, their four year old playing in the next room, oblivious to the horror playing out in their unassuming family home.

She almost died that night. I can still vividly recall the scene playing out before me, feeling as though I was watching it from the outside, as though the woman in the middle of the resus bay meant nothing to me. I stood back as the doctors and nurses filled positions around her, tearing off her shirt in order to attach her to the cardiac monitors, the quick fluid motion of another as a cannula was placed in her inner elbow, immediately attached to a bag of fluids that was pushed through her, foreign words were thrown around the room…hypotensive, systolic BP 70…sinus tachy, 148…

"She's crashing... Bolus IV phenylephrine 0 .5mg, then start the infusion, 15L O2 on the Hudson"

The words meant nothing to him, normally logical and analytical by nature, he would be able to decipher the medical jargon, but not now, not with his attention firmly on his wife, on the realisation she may not make it through the night. Watching her thrash and fight against the hospital staff, screaming obscenities, kicking, screaming, biting, all he could think of was, "How do I explain this to him…"

The memories of that night bombarded my mind, and suddenly I needed the numbness only accessible through copious alcohol, more than I wanted a nip to take the edge off my nerves.

As much as he wanted to believe this time would be different, that this time she'd just remain happy, he knew it was an unattainable dream. This time of ostensibly endless happiness and energy would dissolve, soon she would be irritable, snapping at both of them for the tiniest of transgressions. A door left open would end in an hour long rage; a plate left on the sink would find itself thrown against a wall, shattering into thousands of tiny shards, various other items of crockery and glass would quickly follow.

And when the rage dissipated, her entire being would rapidly disintegrate before his eyes, her true exuberant personality would collapse, her mind fragment just like the now forgotten crockery, she would lose her grip on reality as she tumbled into her own version of the world, one filled with paranoia, delusions of grandeur, and hostility at all who challenged it.

Brining the glass to my lips, a quickly sink the contents held within, enjoying the mild burn as it washed down my throat. This is not the way Glenfiddich would be consumed. It should be enjoyed, savoured, rather than knocked back as one repetitive shot after another.

Then again, I'm too tired to care. All I need to feel, is to feel nothing at all.

I've tried, for years, I've tried. I've monitored her medications; I've ensured anything remotely dangerous was kept out of her reach. I've weathered her violent rages, fended off her paranoia. I have forced her to get washed and dressed, to at least make it to the lounge, when she couldn't even get out of bed. I've sat through the tears, through the rages, through the delusions. I've sat in waiting rooms, waiting to hear if she had succeeded this time, if she had achieved her endgame of ending her life. In my darkest hours, I've been forced to play over the conversations I had felt inevitable, telling our son that mummy wasn't coming home. In my most frightening, I'd been forced to explain her actions to him.

Just how do you explain to a little boy that mummy didn't mean it when she said she hated him? That he wasn't really her son? That he was naught but a bitter disappointment? She didn't mean to hurt him, she's just sick.

The one thing that never failed to blow me away, however, was his spirit. Through all this horror, all this madness, he held no grudges. Instead, his desire to make his mum proud, to make her happy, seemed to grow stronger with each insult hurled his way. That, in a situation that I, a grown man, could not deal with without self-destructing, he drew strength and courage, that he seemed to not only forgive, but understand her actions and words in a way I never could. He, in his short eight years, had proven himself a more of a man, more than I could hope to achieve in a lifetime.

I only hope that one day, he may come to the same understanding of me, of why I can no longer stay here. That he can find forgiveness for my sins, for failing him and his mother.

One thing is for certain. As I sit here, alone in my garage, I know that Spencer holds more courage, more valour, more inner strength, than I. And for that, I know I can thank Diana.

Really short oneshot – when I first saw William Reid, I jumped to the conclusion many people did, i.e. what a fucktard, who would leave their own child with a paranoid schizophrenic just because it got a bit hard for him? But the flip side is, being in a relationship with someone with a severe mental illness, who takes their meds intermittently, and experiences rapid mood changes, paranoia, depression, mania, and a host of other related symptoms is physically and mentally draining. As the 'crazy' person in such a relationship, I've seen the devastating effect it can have on the other person. And I'm only Bipolar/Manic-Depressive with PTSD attributes, nowhere as devastating as Schizophrenia. My mood can be erratic and volatile, but I do not lose touch with reality in the same way as a Schizophrenic would. Anyway, hope you enjoyed.