A Christmas Gift of Suicidal Depression

Smiling (and probably drunk) at my lowest point

Boundaries???What are Boundaries???

As earlier mentioned, setting and maintaining boundaries was not something I did often during my relationship with my husband. In fact, prior to the incident with Robbie, I am not sure I set or maintained a single, solitary boundary in our entire relationship. I always gave in to what he wanted because it was easier than having conflict in our home. That is why I didn't bother to say or do much when he kept talking to the woman he'd dated before me behind my back-- even though we were already living together. Or, when he tried to get her to come out drinking with our friends on St. Patrick's Day when I was at home studying. That is also why I didn't say much about the wedding driving me to the edge of sanity, or that I remained totally overwhelmed and fragile in the months after. I was determined to make our relationship work come hell or high water, and in order to do that, I had to put my own needs and feelings aside.

In all fairness to my husband, I believe that we teach people how they can treat us. I taught him that my feelings, my needs, and my desires were not as important as his own. By saying and doing very little to stand up for myself, or defend what I knew to be best for my mental health and well-being, I taught him that those things are not worth considering. So when Robbie overstepped my boundaries and I finally stood up for myself, he had no experience dealing with it. In the past, I had always given in, and turned to alcohol and prescription drugs as an outlet for the emotions and experiences I was having difficulty handling.

But this time was different. The verbal abuse and hateful stance that Robbie had brought into my home was not something I would back down from. I knew that someone like that would not be safe for me, and would not be safe for my children or family. It was a stance I took in defense of my morals and values. I will compromise all day long on my comfort and well-being, but I will not compromise on my fundamental core values. Those were instilled in my as a child, and are far more a part of me than I even knew until that event occurred.

From my perspective, I had finally reached a point where I knew a boundary needed to drawn and a discussion must ensue. I felt I had given up a lot so my husband would be happy. And when I finally felt so uncomfortable that drawing a boundary became a necessity/need rather than a desire/want, I did it.

As the weeks passed and my husband said nothing to his family, and did nothing in response to the events that had transpired over Thanksgiving, I began to feel, on a gut level, that our relationship was not going to work out. For me, it was an urgent matter and needed to be dealt with immediately. But no matter what I did, there seemed to be no way to convince him to take action--or even take a stance for that matter! I started to feel like he wanted the conflict between he an I. I started to feel like he was setting up a situation that would result in an inevitable conflict between his family and me.

Passive Aggressive vs Passive Aggressive

Nightly fights began to ensue about the events that had occurred at Thanksgiving, and what my husband was going to do about it. He kept promising me that he was going to talk to his family, but nothing ever happened. Day after day would pass, then week after week.

Perhaps my husband thought it would just pass if he left it alone. After all, that had been his past experience with me. And, to be truthful, that is my own fault. But at least a couple times a week, we were up all night fighting about it. I cried, I yelled, I became completely unraveled.

Eventually, to put more impact behind my argument, I began bringing up past grievances. At the time, I didn't know that I was being passive-aggressive, I just thought that if I brought up other times I had gave in to him, he would understand that it was now HIS turn to give in to me, and talk to his family about the event that had so greatly upset me. But it seemed like the more I tried to convey my discomfort and the urgency of the matter (for myself), the more he dug in his heels and stubbornly refused to take action. So, like a true passive-aggressive, I began to bring up all my former grievances as time without resolution went on. I brought up my deep unhappiness and feelings of violation I had about our wedding. I brought up the fact that my parents had paid such a ridiculous amount of money for me to be deeply unhappy and feeling violated at my own wedding. I brought up the fact that I gave up my own hope of my dream wedding in order to make him and his family happy. I brought up the fact that I had turned down an excellent job with excellent benefits in order to support him and his career--at his insistence, moreover!

But despite everything I said, despite how much I cried, pleaded and argued, nothing happened and nothing changed. There was no compromise. His stance remained the same as it was the day the events transpired: he would talk to his family when the time felt right. He would do it before Christmas so everyone was on the same page.

Depression and Despair

As time passed and Christmas drew closer, I began to sink into a very deep depression. The events of Thanksgiving had caused a rift between me and my husband,  and I started to feel very lonely and isolated.

We still had not been in Florida for very long, and I really didn't know anyone that I actually trusted and felt safe confiding in, so I just internalized my feelings of depression--depression about the miscarriage, depression from not being able to find meaningful work, depression from having no friends, and depression from the rift in our marriage. I started to feel like I had made all of the wrong choices in my life, and now I was stuck in a marriage where I didn't feel respected or considered, in a state where I felt lost and unhappy, and with little to look forward to in terms of career goals or family plans. After what had happened and the fact that nothing was ever done about it, I started questioning whether or not it was even a good idea to start a family with my husband.

The icy, cold distance between me and Garrett was palpable. We were like two ships passing in the night: neither one of us felt seen or heard. And, as usual, I blamed myself for making poor life choices that put me in circumstances where I felt extremely unhappy.

I began to drink more and more. I also became more dependent on the benzodiazopines to even relax. I started having panic attacks again. Things were falling apart quickly.

Christmas

I've always struggled at Christmas, I wont pretend to know why. But ever since I was a child, depression had reared it's ugly head during the holidays, and I did my best to cope with it. That year, my best was alcohol and Xanax.

My husband and I went back North separately that year. I went to New Jersey to visit my best friend and my family up there, and Garrett went straight back to Buffalo. At first, I found it a great relief to visit my family and my best friend. It made me feel happy and feel like myself again. But as the time to go to Buffalo grew closer, I started getting anxiety.

A day before I was supposed to go to Buffalo, I called my husband and asked him if he had spoken with his family yet. He had not. Of course not. That night, I proceeded to get wasted at my best friend's house. I fell down the stairs backward, in the dark, slamming my head in several places on the way down. I just laid there in pain. A couple of my fingers were possibly broken, my head had taken a legit beating, and my legs would surely be bruised up the next morning...and they were. I never told anyone except my husband how serious the fall actually was--I didn't want anyone to confront me on my drinking. I'm fairly sure I got a concussion and that I broke at least two of my fingers. I never went to the hospital. Those two fingers are crooked to this day, and hurt when I bend them and when the weather is bad.

I arrived in Buffalo, and at first everything was fine. Garrett had told me that his grandparents were aware that Thanksgiving had been a deeply unpleasant experience. I felt relieved and ready to move on, and so I did--for about a day.

Garrett's sister and Robbie were not at Christmas that year, and that was the only reason why I felt comfortable going. And, as things had not gone well at Thanksgiving, I felt like I wouldn't have to worry too much about hearing about them. Again, I was wrong.

His sister and Robbie kept having car troubles and financial troubles on the way up to visit his family in Georgia. Obviously the blow by blow of their misadventures became a topic of frequent discussion. This was an annoyance, but one I could deal with. But something made me snap that Christmas, and I don't even know why.

On Christmas morning, one of Garrett's Grandparents showed everyone a picture of Garrett's sister and Robbie in the matching pajamas they had bought for them. His family made a series of comments to the effect of, "Look at how cute they are in the matching pajamas we sent them!" and "Look at how happy she is! Look at how happy Robbie makes her! They are such a cute couple!!!"

In my state of abject misery following recent events, I felt greatly offended by the fact that everyone was glossing over the immense amount of stress and conflict Robbie's actions had generated in our own home and in our own marriage. I was offended by the hatefulness he had brought into our house, and the abusive comments and abusive attitude he had directed towards me. It offended me how he was still portrayed to the family as some sort of good guy that had really turned things around for Garrett's sister. Fuck that. Although I didn't say anything at the time, I had reached my last straw.

Later in the night, Garrett and I stayed up all night arguing. Eight or more hours straight. It was redundant, it was the same argument we had been having for over a month, and the solution was still the same: he would say and do nothing. I was done. Done. I saw myself going down a dark path, and I needed to leave to be OK. So I did. I left his grandparents house in the middle of the night and went to a hotel. My husband went back to his family. I stayed alone in the hotel drinking and crying--so angry with myself for getting into such a mess with my life. And then I started thinking about it--I had thought about it before at Christmas, and this time seemed as good as any: suicide. I could see no way out of my misery. I hated myself for putting myself in such a position (again). I hated being alone--I had felt very alone for months at that point. I was depressed, exasperated, and unprepared to deal with the circumstances in which I found myself. I was also too drunk to come up with a solid plan, but I began to call people and let them know that I felt backed into a corner and didn't know how to get out. As I talked to people, I began to feel like I was burdensome to them, and they would be better off without me. I felt like a failure; a fool. I had actually thought I could have a nice, normal life and a happy marriage and family. I was wrong. And I was stupid to think that something like that was even possible for someone like me.

Eventually, my husband came to the hotel. We flew back to Florida early. I didn't think it was even possible, but Christmas had gone even worse than Thanksgiving.

Stop Being Weird, Liz/Be Productive, Liz

Stop Being Weird, Liz (i.e. Stop Googling the History of Ron Howard's Family)

This morning it dawned on me that I've been a little weird the last couple of days. The decent into weirdness was quite gradual, and I only hit my rock bottom when I woke up and started googling stupid shit again--and by stupid shit, I mean stupid, random nonsense that no one really needs to know about.

I feel like this started last Wednesday before I went to mediation for my divorce. I got dropped off at the courthouse three and a half hours before the meeting. This was unfortunate because I had a little too much time on my hands to think about what was actually happening. Free time and thinking are generally not the best for my psycho-social stability. First, I sat down at a diner and tried to do step work for my recovery. However, that quickly got way too deep and a little too boring for the morning of the mediation for my divorce. Then, I started texting everyone I knew saying whatever random nonsense was crossing my mind at that moment. That kept me occupied for about an hour. Finally, I bought and consumed an energy drink, and quickly devolved into repeatedly asking online tarot cards and computer oracles what was going to happen at mediation (Yes, I actually did that).

By the time my lawyer finally arrived, I was crashing off of my energy drink and more or less had deteriorated into Gollum from Lord of the Rings. But rather than "precious" being a powerful ring that held mysterious and magical powers, "precious" became any and every free online fortune telling device on my iPhone. Which, in my opinion, made me way creepier and weirder than Gollum ever was about that ring. I had a seriously crazed look about me as well. Not one of my finest moments.

Soon after, we went into mediation and it seemed like everything was going to be easy breezy. I actually wondered why I had got myself so worked up over it all! Within the first five minutes, my husband's lawyer "accidentally" got my DUI confused with a domestic violence charge. Yeah, because those two offences are so much a like--easy mistake. I'm a buck 10 soaking wet, domestic violence? How did she even come up with that? And how is that in any way comparable to DUI? I immediately burst into tears, and we had to be separated into different rooms. Next, my husband tried to say that there was no equity in the house and that neither of us had any assets. Mediation ended right after that. We spent a grand total of 20 minutes in mediation, and decided it wasn't working out. So, I waited three and a half hours for a 20 minute meeting and spent an hour and a half (or more) asking online fortune telling devices what would be happening during those 20 minutes. None of them predicted that debacle. What a surprise.

I was later informed that it could take up to a year to go to court for the divorce, so I would remain married for the foreseeable future. This was disappointing because I was hoping to take a post-divorce vacation to Ireland this fall in an attempt to meet a hot Irish guy to ease my pain. Damn it.

I had to work long hours four out of the five days after mediation, so I didn't get much of a chance to process it. On my one day off, I let my roommate, Jake, convince me to send a "suggestive" picture to the Italian guy I've been ogling for the last two months. Good life choice, Liz. Please, continue to seek relationship advice from a 25-year old single dude that has gone on more dates this week than you have this entire decade. I'm sure that guy knows EXACTLY how to reel them in. I mean, I've only dated two guys in the last ten years...what do I know? It turns out that I know A LOT. I know a fucking lot! And, in the future, I am going to trust experience won by my AGE and LIFE EXPERIENCE rather than listen to a millennial. It was, however, fun to "live on the edge" for a minute--I'll give it that.

So, acting like a 25 year old millennial towards a grown man with several children didn't work out according to plan. I wonder why. Luckily, I had to work the next day, so I didn't initially overthink it.

Weirdo in the middle

That being said, Tuesday came along and I found myself with three days off in a row. Thus, I was surrounded by my two worst enemies: FREE TIME and THINKING.

On day first day, I read as much of Florida divorce law and case law as possible. When I came to the conclusion that what I read was basically what my lawyer told me (and therefore he knew how to do his job), I became disinterested and decided to focus on the other blunder of that week: the text to the Italian.

I had not received much of a response from him, so I immediately considered every horrible possibility that might have happened. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that he was probably dead and started crying. I mean, that is the next logical conclusion, right? He hasn't texted me in 48 hours, so clearly he's dead. Children at home? Business to run? Break-up to deal with? Those seem a little too plausible if you know what I mean--and let's face it: none of those reasons have anything to do with me, so it doesn't even make sense.

Eventually Jake convinced me that I was being irrational, and he probably got back together with his ex or simply didn't like me. That made me cry even more. When I got back home, I finally decided enough is enough: my face is puffy and my nose is red! I'll just gracefully exit this situation without making any more of a scene than I already have, and refocus my energies on my dog, the potential hot Irish guy that I would eventually meet when I got divorced and took a trip to Ireland, and accept that I would probably be an old spinster-- the dog version of a cat lady. I also decided to write to my friend in England to confirm a backup plan to my backup plan.

Well, now that that was all taken care of, I should be fine, right? Nope. Of course not. In lieu of obsessing about my divorce or humiliating debacle with the Italian guy, I decided to watch every movie I could find on nuclear war. Then I googled all sorts of facts related to nuclear war. Then I wondered if I just got myself put on a watch list because of the content of what I was googling. Then I decided I was already on some sort of watch list because I had googled the same nonsense many times before. My ex actually made me a nuclear weapons blast calculator for my birthday one year. It was one of the most thoughtful, memorable gifts I've ever received. I still have it in case I have to calculate the size of a bomb against my distance from it. Always good to have, just in case.

Soviet weapons Whiz Wheel and nuclear blast calculator!

After I decided my nuclear war obsession was a bit morose, I decided to watch the last season of Arrested Development to cheer myself up. While this initially did the trick, it eventually deteriorated into reading the entire history of Ron Howard's extended family in order to see whether or not it matched up with the plot line of Arrested Development. Very informative, but I remain unsure about the application of such information in my future en devours.

After seeing the total and utter psychological deterioration and demoralization I had suffered as the result of my days off (including the day that I sent the text under Jake's advisement), I decided to call my sponsor, go to a meeting, tell on myself, and do something remotely productive before I went to work today. And this is what I did!!! Ta DAAAAAA!!!! Thank God new episodes of BoJack horseman just came out!

Thanksgiving, The White Supremacist and the Last Straw

Thanksgiving

It had been a difficult year: the felony strangulation investigation against my ex, the stress of the wedding planning, the wedding, the move to Florida, buying our first home, and the miscarriage. A lot was going on, and I think it is fair to say that I didn't handle it all that well--and that is if you consider slipping into full-blown alcoholism "handling" it.

Roughly a month after the miscarriage, we invited my husband's sister and her boyfriend up to Orlando for Thanksgiving. The month since the miscarriage had been stressful and depressing for both my husband and myself. And I can't speak for my husband, but I looking forward to some reprieve from the isolation and melancholia that had become almost oppressive in the weeks following the loss.

We had reason to be excited that Thanksgiving because we had bought our first home less than a month before, and it would be the first time we had guests or family members over to our new home. In our excitement, we went all out in preparation for their arrival: we spent several days cooking and cleaning, spent several hundred dollars on groceries and niceties for their stay, and even went so far as to put a bottle of champagne and expensive pastries in their room. We were excited to share our new home with others, and truly looking forward to some respite from our troubles.

That did not happen...instead, we had a four day onslaught of white supremacist views from Robbie, the significant other of my sister-in-law.

The White Supremacist 

I can't even begin to describe the level of hatefulness and aggression that came out of Robbie's mouth that holiday weekend. I've never heard anything like that before or since. To put it plainly, Robbie hates everyone that is not white, male, and Christian. Moreover, he will force his views on you whether you want to hear them or not. Being that he was a guest in our home, he literally had a captive audience, and for him, Thanksgiving was clearly an optimal time to unleash is fanatical and controversial world views upon those who had no desire to hear them. I literally felt like a hostage in my own home. I definitely considered bailing on my husband for the rest of the weekend and going to my parents place on the coast.  

Personally, I find this kind of behavior a little hostile and abusive. It clearly made me uncomfortable, I stated that it made me uncomfortable, I stated that I did not agree, but he never stopped. In fact, he specifically directed his racist comments at me after I had expressed the fact that I felt uncomfortable and disagreed with his views. Most people, when seeing that I'm uncomfortable with what they are saying, are respectful enough to back off and understand that my views are different than their own. The reason that whole situation felt abusive is because, after expressing that I felt uncomfortable, Robbie actually increased the frequency and level of offensiveness of his comments.My husband had addressed his sister regarding the issue, his sister had addressed him regarding the issue, but he didn't stop. In fact, he escalated.

 Moreover, instead of making general comments to the group, he specifically started to address them towards myself directly. And after expressing my uncomfortably, he specifically told me (and his girlfriend) to "put a tampon up your pussy and cry while you watch Oprah."

I had just married, miscarried and bought my first home, I was overwhelmed and still a bit unstable after all of the stress in the months prior. We had just moved to Oviedo. I didn't even know my way around, never mind know where to go, who to talk to, or what to do. I ended up calling friends and family out of state, and honestly, no one really knew what to do because no one could recall ever being in a comparable situation.

I made it pretty clear I had no interest in listening to is bullshit. But why would my comfort matter to him? He is a guest in my home, and my husband and I offered him and his girlfriend our warmest welcome with the utmost thought and consideration for them? But why would our feelings or comfort matter??? After all, I am a woman, so I can pretty much go fuck myself because I'm not equal and he is entitled to treat me any way he wants. 

It is totally normal to make a person feel uncomfortable in their own home, right?

Robbie said so much hateful stuff, I can't even remember it all. But, to give the reader some idea, here are a few choice comments that I remember:

"Those s**d n*****rs and Jews are always causing our country problems. We should just a-bomb the whole middle east and that'll solve it."

"Mexicans (Latinos) are ruining our country and stealing our jobs. We need to deport those fuckers so white people can work."

But among the most confusing and astounding things he said was, "Come on now, honestly, honestly, don't you believe, on some level, that you are better than other people because you are white?" Um, No, Robbie. There are a hell of a lot of people out there from all variety of races and religions that are doing substantially better for themselves than I'll ever do. That doesn't even make sense. I'm sorry, but how dumb can you be? In what degree of denial do you have to immerse yourself to be able to believe that is even remotely true?

The Last Straw

Frankly, I've been through enough in my life. I am not interested in inviting verbal abuse and hatefulness into my home. Moreover, there is no way I would feel safe starting a family in a situation where every holiday would put me in circumstances where I felt uncomfortable, disrespected, and generally stressed out. Nor would I want to have children around that level of hatefulness or aggression. It is not normal, and it should not be treated as such.

At some point, I started to feel like I was in crazy land around his family. I was the only one who would even seem to acknowledge what happened (other than his father), or express any concern about the implications of what had happened. My husband kept trying to ignore it, his sister kept trying to ignore it, and the general message I received from his family was to ignore it and pretend like there was no problem. No. Not going to happen. His views and behavior were extreme and I'm not going to pretend like nothing is going on. Racism is a deal breaker for me. So is verbal abuse--or, for that matter, abuse of any kind. I made that very clear to my husband, and he told me he understood. Still, he did nothing about it. He promised to say something when the "time was right"...but as the weeks passed, it was beginning to become clear that the time was never going to be right.

My husband never had a conversation with Robbie, his sister, or his parents about the events that had transpired. In retrospect, I can't entirely blame him. The first time he had called to tell his Mom about the events that occurred on our way to Key West, she shut him down and dismissed his concerns. So why would he bother trying a second time? Also, my husband is uncomfortable with conflict, so he will avoid it at all costs. Because conflict, verbal abuse, and a generally abusive stance are all fine--as long as they are directed at his wife and not him.

I felt like I didn't matter to my husband--or to anyone else in his family. The interpretation of events that I internalized were that it was not only OK for my husband's family to act out towards me in a hostile manner, it was OK for their significant others to do that as well. Does that mean it would be OK for them to do that to and around any children we would have?

Robbie left that Sunday, but the conflict he brought into our home and into my relationship with my husband and his family remained. He still has there full love and support, I on the other hand, do not.

And well, saying or doing nothing in response to statements like that??? Why??? Unless...if you catch my drift...

And I thought marriage was about being on the same team--supporting each other, sticking up for each other, having a united front. Unfortunately, it became pretty clear that that wasn't happening in our marriage.

My husband promised me he would address the delicate situation with his family, buttttttt.......

The Miscarriage and the Beginning of the End

Struggling to even smile

**Note to reader: this may not be the most humorous post, I struggle to find much of any humor in the following events

A Honeymoon Surprise

Not long after we returned to Orlando from Akron, I started to notice that I wasn't feeling very well. I did not immediately assume I was pregnant because there were a wide array of factors that may have been contributing to my discomfort--factors such as excessive alcohol consumption, an ulcerative colitis flair up due to excessive alcohol consumption, prescription drug abuse, poor diet, little to no exercise, and excessive stress in recent months.

I only knew it was time to take a pregnancy test when I had become super sensitive and disproportionately distraught about some comments made by a client at work. This reaction seemed odd because I had been secretly drinking my "adult libations" throughout my shift to eradicate any possibility of caring about what anyone had to say. Yet, somehow, feelings seemed to be emerging despite the fact I had been taking specific action to eradicate all feelings and sense of humanity.

On the drive home from work that night, I had an irrational fit of road rage and aggression. At that moment, I knew it was time to take a pregnancy test. Something was just off. I stopped at the store on the way home, picked up some pregnancy tests, and took them as soon as I walked in the door. It was positive. I was pregnant. No more booze, benzos, or cigarettes for me. My feelings of elation were mixed with an overwhelming dread of the reality: 9 months (and most likely more) of life on life's terms. There would be no more numbing, no more escapism, no more vacations from my own mind. I was going to have to face reality head on, and the thought was terrifying.

My fears were temporarily subdued by the overwhelmingly joyful and proud response of my husband.

The Miscarriage

The day after I found out, I bought a bunch of baby books at Barnes and Nobles. I told my mother and some of my close friends, and upon their suggestion, bought even more baby books. I was all in. I even bought a little pregnancy journal that I dutifully filled out every day in the hope I would one day be able to show the little baby how much it was loved, wanted, and thought about from the moment we knew we were pregnant.

A week or two later, I went to the general practitioner and had the pregnancy confirmed by a blood test. At that point, I was approximately six weeks along. I still had a hard time watching other people drink alcohol, but my desire to drink was superseded by my desire to be a mother. I did, however, take a few drags of a cigarette when I was craving the alcohol very badly. It instantly made me feel horrible, and I was determined to not give in to my addictions in the future.

After I saw the doctor, I scheduled an appointment with a doctor at the hospital one of our friends had recommended. It was exciting to sit in the lobby with all the other pregnant women. I felt so overjoyed with my life--with the marriage and pregnancy, it felt like all of my dreams were coming true.

About a week after my initial appointment with the OB/GYN, I started to experience spotting and severe cramping. I immediately flew into a panic; I had a bad feeling. I went to the OB/GYN, this time quite distraught as I sat in the waiting room with all of the other pregnant women. I finally saw the doctor and he told me that the bleeding and cramping was normal, and to call if I experienced any further problems. When I got home, I miscarried. I saw it. I knew exactly what happened.

Shock

Even before I miscarried, I had entered a state of shock. It all happened too fast, and it was too painful for my mind to even begin to process what had happened. I felt numb. Actually, I felt beyond numb. Absolutely nothing interested me: not music, TV, politics, NPR, myself, or any other human being. It felt like I was outside of the world; like I was just an observer looking in, an observer with no judgement or feelings about anything that was happening. I literally could not feel. I could not care. My husband was absolutely crushed as well. The look of anguish on his face was even more devastating than my own pain.

I couldn't help but blame myself; hate myself. I knew I sat in that hotel room in Akron doing close to nothing other than drink box wine in large quantities, pop benzodiazepines, smoke cigarettes, and watch the Bachelor on my iPad. I hadn't even been good about taking Lilly out for a walk more than once or twice a day. In no way had I actually taken care of myself or my body, the whole time knowing that it was always a possibility that I would wind up pregnant. We hadn't used protection for several months before the wedding--but I used, and used to excess that entire time.

Thus, the first several weeks I was pregnant, I was smoking, drinking heavily, using benzodiazepines and prescription uppers, not eating right, and not even bothering to shower or brush my teeth on many days. I justified my behavior by telling myself that I needed to be doing what I was doing in order to recuperate from the stress of the wedding and wedding planning.

It was at that time, a part of me started to blame my husband for wanting such a big, overwhelming, unmanageable scene of a wedding. I felt a little bitter. However, part of me still knew that I was being unfair and I was just looking for anyone but myself to blame. And besides, he was the most upset I had ever seen him, and I couldn't help but think, deep down, that I was the cause of his suffering.
Of course, I never talked to him about the feelings that had begun brewing up inside of me--the inner conflict I had tried so hard to blot out.

The White Supremacist

Prior to finding out I was pregnant, I had reserved a room at a pet-friendly and unique bed and breakfast down in Key West for my husband's 30th birthday. I wanted to do something really special, and a trip to Key West was the best that I could do considering the fact that we knew almost no one in the Orlando area at that time. The only people we ever saw, or spent time any time with, was my husband's old roommate from college, his wife, and their children. At the time, they had an infant and a toddler, so they were often quite busy. Thus, a vacation seemed like a great idea. The B&B was right in the heart of the downtown area. It even had a giant tree growing in the bathroom. Until the miscarriage, I had been extremely excited about our little getaway. We had decided to take the trip in spite of what had happened because I think we both needed a break from our harsh reality at that time.

For most of the car trip, I was largely despondent and silent. I don't even think I was drinking at that time. I was simply too numb to have anything that needed to be blocked out.

We stopped to visit my husband's sister and her boyfriend, Robbie, near Key Largo. They had been living down there for several months at that time. At first, it was largely my husband who felt uncomfortable about his sister's situation. They weren't exactly living in the safest looking area, and her and her boyfriend had impulsively bought a dog that my husband did not particularly care for. He shared his thoughts with me, but kept them from his sister. He was worried, legitimately worried for her.

I was rather quick to dismiss his concerns until we went out for drinks with them. When we were out with them at a local bar, Robbie started spewing racial slurs, and ignorant generalizations about other races. My husband and I both felt uncomfortable, so we tried to change the conversation. The hint was NOT taken, and Robbie continued to utter hateful and distasteful statements that were very clearly racist, and quite frankly shocking. It almost seemed like he was trying to provoke an argument or reaction from us. I had just miscarried the day before, so I was not in the mood. My husband has a fear of confrontation and conflict, so he just swallowed his discomfort.

When we got in the car, however, all hell broke loose. To my husband's credit, he was equally as shocked, disgusted and concerned as myself. Our entire car ride between his sister's house and Key West was entirely consumed by our attempts to merely process what we had just heard. And it was tough for us to process, especially right after the miscarriage. I can't speak for my husband, but I had never heard such overtly racist and hateful words come out of another human being. It literally disgusted me.

The next morning, Garrett called his Mom to report the shocking events of the evening prior. He was genuinely concerned about what he had heard, and genuinely worried about the well-being of his sister. However, he did not receive the response from his mother that either one of us had expected. She glossed over the whole issue in a way that suggested that she was not surprised and, in fact, well aware of the fact that her daughter was dating a hateful, white supremacist. She dismissed and shut down all of my husband's concerns (and mine as well), and artfully changed the subject. To be quite honest, I was somewhat horrified and put off by her response. Strong feelings of anger and frustration began to well up inside of me.

Yes, I am angry about my husband's mother stifling his completely normal and appropriate response to horrific and offensive language, world views, hateful ideas and behavior. Thanks, lady, for teaching my husband not to trust his own moral compass. I'm sure that can only serve him well in the world--I mean, look how well it worked in our marriage.

I Guess This Is What I Deserve...

Years ago, when I was in an abusive relationship, I had found out that I was pregnant with twins. I was overjoyed. However, my boyfriend at the time, was not. In fact, he told me that if I proceeded with the pregnancy, he had no part in my life or in the lives of his children. He made a particular point of telling me that he would never give me a dime in support of the children either. If I went through with the pregnancy, I was on my own. I was in graduate school at the time, had not finished, was working in retail for a wage that could only support myself, and was a bit unsure if I would be able to manage it all on my own. After speaking to family and friends, I made a difficult choice. I've never fully recovered from that choice.

When I miscarried, I believed that it was a punishment for the difficult choice I had made years before. I was sober, healthy, and doing relatively, although not completely, well at the time I made that choice. When I miscarried, I was a drunkard who abused prescription pills, had a bad flair up of ulcerative colitis as a result of my stress and drinking, and was in no way stable. Punishment. Punishment on several different levels. And to be quite honest, I have not yet processed all my feelings about either situation.

So, that is why my husband let me chase the ghost of Hemingway in Key West on his birthday. I had, in a very real way, lost touch with reality. He felt bad. 

The Honeymoon Part 2: The Last Happy Days

Lock we put on a bridge in Paris--we threw both of our keys to the lock in the Seine to symbolize our eternal love

Barcelona 

We arrived in Barcelona still in our sangria stained garbs from the San Fermin festival. A guy with a top hat opened the door of the cab for us as we arrived at our five star hotel. I can't speak for my husband, but I most certainly felt a bit out of place. We had just spent 4 days up in the mountains wearing the same clothes for the entire time. I had one giant dread in my hair after going so many days washing, but not brushing, my hair. Our white garb from the San Fermin festival was stained many, many times over with red wine and sangria that we had either spilled on ourselves, or someone else had spilled on us, during the festival. San Fermin was basically a big party with non-stop drinking 24 hours a day for as long as the festival lasted. For someone who loves to drink as much as myself, it was perfect!

However, eventually we had to return to reality, and that reality seemed almost surreal after San Fermin. This reality included me starting to detox after all the alcohol I had consumed over the weeks prior. I was getting cramps in my calves, getting the shakes, and getting very, very nervous. I had a few Xanax with me, so I started to cut back the drinking by consuming less alcohol, and using the Xanax when I started to feel symptomatic. I really didn't want to keep drinking at that point, but I was physically addicted. I never had a conversation about any of that with my husband. To this day, I'm not sure if he knew what was going on with me, or if he knew that I knew what was going on with me. It just seemed like a bad time to say, "Sorry, babe, I know this is our honeymoon, but I'm detoxing from all the drinking I've been doing."

Paris

Paris was amazingly Romantic. Garrett absolutely loved Paris. In Paris, we shared some of our most peaceful moments in months. One afternoon we brought a blanket, some food and some wine and had a picnic out in the gardens in front of the Louvre for a good portion of the afternoon. We relaxed, people watched, napped, cuddled--it was amazing. Another night, we bought some food and wine at the grocery store and ate a little picnic right on the banks of the Seine.

My detox continued in Paris. We actually had to go to the pharmacy once because I was getting such severe cramps in my calves and I was beginning to worry about my potassium levels and the effect that both the drinking, and the detoxing, were having on my heart.

But, I got through with the little Xanax I had left. I had to divvy it up into smaller doses to make it last longer, but that seemed far more comfortable and sensible than detoxing off of alcohol and Xanax in a foreign country.

In spite of my growing discomfort as a result of my detox, we were still able to do some fun touristic things. We went to the Louvre, and dashed out after seeing the Mona Lisa to go to Hemingway's favorite bar: Harry's New York Bar. I think we both agreed that it was the best tourist attraction we had been to in Paris. It was small, quaint and exactly like one would imagine "Hemingway's Bar" to look and feel like. I even got a picture of myself under the Ithaca College pennant that was hung on the wall there. We went to other Hemingway haunts, but that was by far the best. We also took our token boat ride down the Seine, climbed the Eiffel tower, and went to Notre Dame. At Notre Dame my husband told me that he was creeped out by the fact that I would actually pray when we went into the churches. I did not tell him the great peace it had brought me in my younger days, that I did it every day when I lived in Venice, or that it was a part of my cultural heritage that I deeply valued and to which I felt deeply connected. That would be an argument for another time.

At Harry's Bar in Paris under the Ithaca College pennant

Reykjavik

In an effort to save money, I bought a ridiculous amount of vodka during our layover in Iceland. I bought it in duty free, and I wasn't supposed to use any of it until I went through customs in the US. I started drinking it right there in the airport, and was completely out of it half way through the flight back to Boston. 

Akron, OH

Akron was interesting. It was neither bad nor good. We had to stay in a rather dumpy, antiquated motel in Hudson because it was the only motel my husband's employer would cover that also allowed dogs. It was pretty gross. It smelled, we saw raw sewage leaking out of one of the rooms, it had bugs in the bed, and it was a generally unpleasant place to be.

At that point, staying at home was not an option. In the months prior to the wedding, my husband had been away two weeks of every month. I didn't feel OK going a whole month without him at that point. Particularly in a place where I didn't know anyone and could barely manage to navigate around (Orlando). Too much had been going on in the previous months, and though I didn't tell him, I needed him.

I spent all day drinking wine out of a box and watching every season of the bachelor I could find on the internet. Smug in my newlywed life, I very much enjoyed judging the relationship decisions of other people. I think it made me feel good to believe that I had figured out the secret to love when none of those other people had had any success. Little did I know. 

The Bun in the Oven

Shortly after returning for Akron, I found out I was pregnant. We had conceived some time during that trip.

What Is My Issue with Italian Men? Plus, Some Other Stuff...

**Disclaimer: lamenting about my honeymoon has taken a real back burner to a much more pressing question this week: What is my issue with Italian men? This is a very serious question that needs to be probed with the utmost urgency--the struggle is real!

Regular guy to Italian guy conversion chart

Now that I'm no longer drinking, my mind has been freed up to obsess about other things that have historically interested me. I have come up with a short list of some of the other things in an effort to provide some clarity into my latest debacle. It also gives some insight into some of my more "simple minded" priorities.

Most Basic Obsessions with No Alcohol in my System:

1. My Dog
2. Ernest Hemingway
3. Dogs in General
4. Italy
5. Italian MEN!!! (Realistically, this should be listed much higher on the list, but I'm trying very hard to give the impression that I'm a more reasonable person than I actually am).
6. Sour Patch Kids
7. Candy in General
8. Numbered Lists
9. Having Children
10. Halloween
11. Ghosts and Haunted Houses

For those readers who are not already well aware, I feel like it is important to disclose the fact that I have struggled with an irrational attraction to Italian men for all of my adult life. And by irrational, what I actually mean is senseless, irresponsible and actually quite deranged. This statement is best evidenced by the fact that I met an Italian man on an Art History trip to Italy when I was in college and decided to peruse and intense and fantastical relationship with said Italian man. And to clarify, I should probably mention that I "fell in love at first sight" with an architecture student who worked at the local Irish pub in Venice.

This is where the story gets ridiculous...

I stole a phone book out of the hotel in Mestre the night before I was supposed to leave Venice. I called EVERY Irish Pub in the Veneto trying to reach this man whose name I could not even manage to properly pronounce. Finally, I reached him, and he said he would try to make it to Mestre that night to see me before I left. He did not get off of work in time, and we did not meet. The next day in Assisi, I told my sister that I had to see him again--that it was "fate" or something ridiculous like that.
My sister replied by nearly shouting at the top of her lungs, "Liz! Life is NOT a Jane Austin novel, grow the f**k up!"

Not liking the advice my sister had given me, I went and asked the Italian tour guide what I should do. The lady told me to "follow my heart...it is Italy." And thus, being entirely deranged from watching Only You one too many times as a teenager, I left with about 70 Euro, hitch-hiked down to the train in Assisi, took the train all of the way to Venice, and tracked down the guy at the Irish pub. In the meantime, my sister was distraught and flew back to the US alone before the trip was over. The state and national police were also called. Soon after, I dropped out of school moved in with him in his tiny efficiency in Venice.

Therefore, reader, I have had a quite lengthy history of irrational attractions to Italian men. I wish I could say that that was the only time I did something that stupid because of an Italian man, but it isn't. I also wish there was some deep psychoanalytical explanation, but I don't think there is.

In an effort to uncover the root cause of such irrational thinking and behavior, I have come up with a list of possible explanations from my formative years.

Possible explanations for irrational attraction to Italian men:

1. One of my Grandmothers very much admired the celebrity, "Fabio." This may be significant because she died 24 years ago, and I very clearly remember the fact that she loved "Fabio"(an Italian) and "Rambo" (a fictional character of Italian-American/Navajo descent).


2. My other Grandmother had several novels with "Fabio" on the cover. I remember going upstairs in her house to the room where she stored her books and pointing out to my sister, "That's Fabio. Fabio is handsome." My seven year old mind probably had no idea what handsome even meant, but I knew enough about Fabio to make a point of educating my sister on the importance of Fabio.


3. Vivid memories of Fabio on TV commercials, particularly in regard to romance

4. Teenage obsession with the romantic comedy, Only You, that takes place in Italy and stars Marissa Tomei and Robert Downy Jr.

5. Looney Tunes episode where "Pepe LePew" chases the cat with the white paint down its back in Venice...and the cat, "Penelope," almost submits to his advances

6. Robert DeNero in the Godfather trilogy (enough said).

7. Panettone?

8. Pasta?

9. Pizza?

Italian-American Crush

I realized this week that I have a crush on an Italian guy. Well, Italian-American, but that can be equally devastating to my logical reasoning. While I noticed him and found him attractive before this week, things escalated to a level of urgency this week with one too many conversations about him being Italian, his Italian family, a few cute expressions in Italian, and the fact that he offered me all of his green skittles and told me that he would "have to remember" that Sour Patch Kids were the key to my heart--and various other small conversations about candy and Italian things. This crush has reached the point of distracting. For the sake of this poor man's privacy, I'm going to call him, Fabio with Candy, or FC for short.

Reason for current inner struggle

Reasons why I like FC:
1. He is Italian (Grandmother right off the boat)
2. He also appears to have a fondness of candy
3. He said that he would "have to remember" that Sour Patch kids are the way to my heart
4. He gave me all of his green skittles on Thursday
5. He has a great smile
6. He has a great laugh
7. He has a great sense of humor
8. He smiled at me

Ladies, if this is not good cause for a totally irrational infatuation, I don't know what is! The real question here is: what happens if he actually gives me Sour Patch Kids? As I have never actually been presented with this scenario, it is difficult to say how I would react. But I'm thinking it would be something like this:

What happens if....

There is a good chance that I'm going to see FC either tonight or tomorrow night. Definitely on Monday. And what I want to say to him is this:

"Are you serious, buddy? Just because you have mastered the delicate and complicated art of 'Liz seduction' in less than a week, it does not mean that I'm going to fall for your sophisticated charm and endearing smile...I'm working on me!!!!"...I think...




The Poem from Only You:

The Honeymoon Part 1: How to Have a Drinking Binge in 5 Different Countries While Putting a Bun in the Oven

**Note to reader: Husband has asked for his height to be more accurately represented in stick figure drawings--husband is, in fact, taller than self, and have, unconsciously made myself "larger than life." Thankfully, husband also has an amazing sense of humor.

The Honeymoon

The Honeymoon served as a temporary antidote to the bitter taste in my mouth left by the wedding. In the back of my mind were still lingering memories of all the embarrassing, reveling and uncomfortable situations I had put myself in when preparing for, and actually participating in, the wedding. That being said, our honeymoon was undoubtedly the best time of my life. Our honeymoon was not the relaxing, beach-side trip that my husband had envisioned. As the wedding had largely been tailored to his wants, needs, and ideas, he let me have free reign with the honeymoon, and I took it!

I have had a lifelong obsession with Ernest Hemingway. The Sun Also Rises is my favorite novel of all time, and in retrospect, it is actually quite fitting for me. In all truth, my Hemingway obsession borders on creepy. And by "bordering" on creepy, I mean it actually is creepy. I think about Ernest Hemingway more than any young woman should think about any old, dead writer that was clearly an alcoholic and depressive. I actually asked an Ouija board once if I had known Ernest Hemingway in a past life--and by asked once, I actually mean many times. When we went on vacation to Key West for his birthday one year, my husband very patiently allowed me to try to "talk" to "Ernest Hemingway" on a ghost tracking/voice device that I had downloaded to my iPad during the trip. Can you imagine being on your birthday vacation with your husband/wife and having to follow that person around an island with an iPad asking said iPad if they were a lover of Hemingway in a past life? Yep, I did that.

Being actually quite tolerant of my little "quirks" like that, my husband allowed me to tailor our honeymoon to fit the path of Brett and Jake in the novel, The Sun Also Rises.  Thus, we spent quite a large portion of our trip at the San Fermin festival in Pamplona and at all of Hemingway's favorite haunts in Paris.

However, due to the fact that an overwhelmed drunkard planned the trip, things didn't necessarily always go smoothly.

Paris 

After a long overnight flight from Boston through Reykjavik, we arrived in Paris for the first time. I was hungover as I had drank quite a bit in the airport and on the plane before I passed out. I had also let a few small details fall through the cracks when I started to become overwhelmed with all the details involved with planning a wedding and honeymoon. Rather than take a cab from one airport to another in order to make it on time to our flight to Bologna, we decided to take a train between airports. We did not make it in time, and ended up stranded in a tiny airport outside of Paris. The tickets were non-refundable. This was my husband's first time in Europe ever, and within just hours of landing, things had already become overwhelming. We lost our non-refundable tickets and had to purchase new ones to Pisa. We stayed the night there before taking a train to the Tuscan countryside to meet my old roommate from Venice, Vera, where she was currently living and working.

Pisa/Bologna

There continued to be a series of debacles in Italy. First, when we arrived in Pisa, the hotel we had booked in Paris was closed. We had to ask some students going to school in Pisa where we could affordable stay at the last minute. They kindly helped us. Yet, for good reason, my husband remained a bit weary after the day's events and was frustrated that he couldn't understand what I was saying while I was speaking Italian to the students. I tried my best to translate the entire conversation, but a lot was said, and eventually got to lazy to translate anything but the highlights of the conversation. It was actually quite rude and inconsiderate of me.

The next day, we climbed the leaning tower of Pisa and took the train to Bologna. It was beautiful. We arrived in Bologna and waited for my friend Vera at a restaurant near the train station. Due to lack of WiFi, we were unable to successfully let her know where we were before we had to catch our plane to Barcelona. I drank quite a bit of red wine while we waited and was very drunk and sleepy by the time we got to the airport. Our flight got delayed and I went off on a drunken, embarrassing rant about the inconvenience of it all. My poor husband, I caused quite a bit of a scene.

When we arrived in Barcelona, we rented a super fast car and drove through the Spanish countryside it the middle of the night. We arrived in Pamplona just as the day was breaking, and went promptly to bed at the hotel.

Pamplona

I want to preface this part of the story by saying that there is no way that my words could do justice to the experience we had in Pamplona. It was a once in a lifetime sort of thing, and I am in no way able to replicate such an experience in words. I can say, with certainty, that my husband feels the same. The San Fermin festival was, without question, the best time I've ever had in my entire life. First of all, Pamplona is almost an entire town devoted to the festival and Ernest Hemingway. Thereby, it is the coolest place I've ever been. And yes, we did run with the bulls. 

The morning after we arrived in Pamplona, we woke up and looked out the window to see our rental car being towed by the police for parking in an area and not paying the parking fee. This had us both in a bit of a panic as my husband and I garbled some strange blend of Italian, French, English and Spanish in an effort to communicate with the officers. Through a series of gestures, my husband was able to resolve the issues (albeit after a bit of a panic) with the officers.

Crazed look of excitement at the discovery of Hemingway bar

We then proceeded to the festival, buying festival appropriate garb along the way. We meandered through the maze that was the old part of the city for a while before I felt myself drawn in one particular direction. We walked up the crowded, narrow walk-way before I eventually found a large square where people were eating, drinking, and playing music. Just moments after we entered the square, I found the famous "Hemingway" bar. I was elated. And by elated I mean almost manic and most certainly crazed. We grabbed a seat and sat down to start drinking some sangria.

We sat down, ate a bit, drank a bit, and stuck up a conversation with two big guys from the DC area that were going to run with the bulls the next day. After describing my lifelong Hemingway obsession to these two strangers in my crazed elation. One of the two men told me that he knew the grandson of Ernest Hemingway and he would be happy to introduce me to him the following day. Before I even had enough time to react, Hemingway's grandson and great-grandson entered the bar. He brought me to meet him and needless to say, I made a bit of a scene. Upon my introduction to the family members of Ernest Hemingway, tears welled up in my eyes and I began to cry. I told his grandson how much his grandfather's writing meant to me. He looked at me curiously and said, "It doesn't make you depressed?"

I replied, "No, his writing has saved my life in my darkest hour. When I read his writing, I don't feel quite so alone in the world." He seemed a bit taken aback by my answer, but he accepted it and we chit chat a bit about the festival before I returned to my seat to take it all in. It was one of the most meaningful experiences in my life, and I am very grateful that my husband was there with me at such a big moment in my life.

Me, Hemingway's grandson, and one of the guys from DC.

We ended up staying a while after that talking to the guys from DC about the experience of running with the bulls, and going to a bull fight. After about an hour of questions, we decided to run with the bulls the following morning, and scalped tickets to the bullfight that night.

The bullfight was a very unique experience, but we did not make it very long. As a vegetarian and avid animal lover, I had to turn away when the bullfighters began stabbing the bulls. My husband watched the first bull die, and then we left. On our way back to the hotel, we ran into one of the two guys from DC. He didn't even make it as long as we did. He had left the fight almost immediately after it started, and went to drink while waiting for his friend at the Hemingway bar. We chatted with him for a bit before returning to the hotel early so we could get up the next morning and run with the bulls.

We woke up while it was still dark the day we ran with the bulls. There were still drunken people wandering the streets from the 24-hour San Fermin festival. This time I was sober. I wasn't sober because I was concerned for my safety, I was sober because the festival officials kick the drunken people out of the pen for their own safety. Running with the bulls, unlike most things, was way more important to me than drinking. My husband and I waited in the pen for over an hour before the bulls were released. It was chaotic and exhilarating. At one point, some little French guy asked me, in French, what direction he should be running when the bulls were released. We were astounded that people were running with even less knowledge of what they were about to do than us. We had gone through the course with all the details the day before with the guys from DC. While we were inside the pen, with the spectators safely on the other side of the large wooden fences, the event organizers showed videos of people getting gored by the bulls in years past, and a brief visual description of the rules and warnings. An hour to stand there and think about what dangerous thing you are about to do is a lot. We were both nervous.

Finally, the moment arrived and the bulls were released. We stayed safely in the middle of the pack while the bulls ran past us. Some people had fallen and were walked/run over in the panic. But eventually all the bulls ran by and we were safe. In my moment of victory, I ran alone into the middle of the empty pen. I was shouting, laughing and raising my fists in the air in celebration of my survival of the event. I looked to my right, and a bull was running right beside me, literally two feet away. It was the bull that got away from the pack. The most dangerous and unpredictable bull in the entire event.Luckily, he seemed like he had more pressing concerns than goring me, and he trotted on by with an almost insulting indifference.

The whole event was invigorating and unforgettable. I highly recommend running with the bulls at least once in life. We got to the end of the course and discussed our experience with the two guys from DC. They had had an equally exciting run. We saw Hemingway's grandson again at another bar before we walked back to the hotel.

Before we left, we went to the spot that Hemingway allegedly had his heartfelt and heartbreaking discussion with "Brett" described in The Sun Also Rises. We took pictures and took it all in. And the remainder of the festival we relaxed, listened to live music in tiny little squares and back walkways. It was the happiest, most romantic time I've ever had.

Spot described in The Sun Also Rises

It is hard to believe that I will ever be happier than I was with my husband in Pamplona. The experience was almost magical, and to this day seems like a surreal dream in the midst of our crushing reality.

The truest sentence that I know: I love Garrett

“Oh, Jake,” Brett said, “we could have had such a damned good time together.”
Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly pressing Brett against me.
“Yes,” I said. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”- Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

For Full Blog: mcwooski.blogspot.com

On Hemingway: http://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/hemingways-hidden-metafictions

Being a Weirdo and Other Wedding Related Blunders

Is this a vision of true love or what?

Crap! Nowhere to hide!?!!!??!! :< (extra frowny face)

My husband had his bachelor party in Orlando. We were living in a small apartment there. In addition to being reasonably close to Disney, there are generally a lot of fun things to do in Orlando, so it made sense to have the bachelor party down there. However, our apartment was tiny, without much room for guests. My husband had his brother staying at our apartment for about a week or so during his three day bachelor party event.It wasn't the most graceful moment in my life, so I'm sure that no one is surprised to hear that events unfolded in a somewhat uncomfortable manner that was a bit too self-revealing for my taste. The state of the apartment, with a huge Bloody Mary stain that had been left of the living room floor for at least a month, provided even the most casual observer an unflattering glimpse into my lifestyle and priories. The more intricate details of my debauchery and dysfunction would be revealed over the course of the week--as three people shared an extremely small living space.

I did have a conversation with my husband about my concerns, but being the passive-aggressive, people pleaser that I am, the conversation went something like this:

ME: Soooo, your brother is going to come stay with us for a week...

HUSBAND: Yep, that's OK with you, right?

ME: Of course! It will be so much fun to have some company!!!!

What I wanted to say was something like this:

ME: Um, husband, how are we going to convince everyone that I'm psycho-socially stable if we let them stay in our tiny-ass apartment where my dysfunction is readily apparent by the box of wine in our bedroom, the Bloody Mary stain on the living room floor, and the knife on my bedside table?"

HUSBAND: Good point, babe, maybe you should ask one of your friends if they could go stay with you at your parents condo!

ME: You are so brilliant, hon, and that is why I'm marrying you!

Besides the fact that I was trashed all day every day, I slept for very long periods, didn't have a job, barely ate, endlessly spewed my drunken, ridiculous ideas, and had a knife on my bedside table in case my crazy strangling ex-boyfriend tried to break in. Although he had given no indication that he would do so, and had actually written me a letter of apology at that time, in my drunken stupor I remained convinced that he was coming to Orlando to either steal the dog or murder me.

Husband in no way concerned about Cercei Lannister eating children

My cousin also stayed at our apartment during the bachelor party. I put on a strong performance to hide my dysfunction, but I'm fairly sure he wasn't buying it. He's known me since he was born, so he already knew I was ridiculous. On the plus side, he forgot his tea tree oil Paul Mitchell shampoo and his goose down pillow. I "forgot" to mention that to him, and relished the tingly and refreshing feeling of his hair products. His pillow is still in my position and remains my preferred sleeping utensil. I suppose I owe him a new pillow and some shampoo.

Panic Attack at Disney

The night before I was supposed to entertain the wives of my husband's friends at Disney, I had one too many libations while out with the guys. The next morning I was feeling a bit "under the weather" and a little "nervous." Overwhelmed by the idea of spending a hot, summer day hungover at Disney's Magic Kingdom (where no alcohol is served), I drove to meet the other women. When I arrived, I looked as crazed as I felt. A crazed, frothing, rabid raccoon is really the best description I can come up with for the way I feeling that day. I had one of the other women drive my car there because I had started putting a few back to cure my hangover with a little hair of the dog. When we finally paid the exorbitant fee to enter, I found out there was no alcohol served, and then I quickly realized I had left my Xanax at home. I was crushed. Crushed. So we proceeded to get in a 45-minute to an hour long line for the small world attraction. It was sweltering hot, and I was extremely dehydrated and hungover. I remember looking at the fans on the ceiling and thinking I was in some bizarre version of hell. When we got on the ride, the endless creepy ,singing statues and nauseating perkiness of the "happy"" songs started to rub me the wrong way.

It was hot, I was hungover, it was cheerful, there were happy people and excited children everywhere, and I was not. I did not want to be there at all, I had just paid over $100, and stood in line for an hour, to go on this very creepy (in my opinion) ride.

Frothing rabid raccoon lady (i.e. me)

By the time we got off the ride, I thought I was going to lose my mind. I had already revealed to the two other women that I suffer from severe anxiety and that I was feeling a bit hungover. The two fresh-faced women were cheerful and supportive, but I knew they had no idea what sort of state I was actually in, and this made me feel very isolated, alienated and different. When I compared myself to those two other women, I started to feel bad for my husband. I was a lush with a lot of personal baggage. These were healthy, stable, successful women without drinking problems or years of personal baggage to lug around with them everywhere they went. I missed my husband. I missed him mostly because he was the only one who knew the whole truth about me. I didn't have to hide around him. I didn't feel vulnerable and exposed.

I told them I was going to have a panic attack and I excused myself to run home and get my Xanax. The happy, laughing families and cheerful music were worsening my sense of panic and I couldn't stay a second longer. I was so anxious at that point, that I couldn't even figure out how to get out of there. I called my husband and he calmed me down. But...I was exposed.

There was no time that I felt like more of a fraud then that moment. I can't ever remember ever feeling so out of place and so dislocated from myself, other people, and humanity in general. I went home, got a Xanax, journaled, and relaxed by myself for a few hours. But in an effort to appease my husband, my husband's friends' wives, and to maintain some sort of mask of dignity, I went back to Disney and joined them again for another ride. Later that evening, alone, I called my husband again panicked, and one of his friends drove him over to stay with me that night. I felt horrible. It was the night of his bachelor party and he was supposed to spending the night with his friends at a hotel. I just couldn't hold it together. I didn't know what to do, so I flew back to Massachusetts the next day. I had barely had a moment alone with my husband in over a week, and there were not many opportunities in sight before the wedding. Going home made the most sense. My family could comfort me, and they did. Thanks to my family, I was able to gather enough grit to make it through the events ahead...without making my breakdown obvious to the general population. I had some glitches, and I had revealed more about my state of mind than I was comfortable with, but I managed to get through the wedding. Unfortunately not the marriage.