TheBanyanTree: The Schizophrenia Diaries, April 4

[paul]

I'm frustrated. Tired. Worn out. Some days I don't know how much longer
I can do this.
 
I'm broke. I'm making money and I'm still broke. I'm behind on
everything, and that includes his bills, his utilities, his needs. His
disability isn't enough, his parents send money, and it still isn't
enough. I know what needs to be done, but I keep putting out fires,
delaying, putting off, telling myself it will be better later, that if I
can just get through the next few days, the next few hours, I'll have
time to deal with it all.
 
I yelled at him yesterday. I do that sometimes. He sat here dejected and
sad, I'd come home after working all day on a Saturday, there are no
days off for me right now, and when I asked what was wrong, he said he
didn't know.
 
He never knows. I told him to stop it.
 
He became upset. Told me to just not worry about him anymore then. As if
it can be turned on and off like a faucet. He should know - he can't
stop himself from feeling responsible for me, another guilt to add on to
the pile. 
 
He couldn't go to the radio station yesterday, the one where he'd
checked into doing volunteer research. He couldn't go last week, broke
down from the strain of it all. I'd said I'd take him this week, but
then work came up, a major project that I need for the money, and he
said he'd be okay, he could manage it himself.
 
Of course he couldn't. By Friday night he was making himself sick with
the worry of it. And I told him, on Friday night, not to go, because I
hated to see how sick he was making himself. That doesn't really
alleviate the problem, because then he feels guilt for not going, feels
like a loser.
 
So he was dealing with that yesterday, and I yelled at him, and when he
put on the cloak of martyrdom, poor me, I'll just go away and everyone
will be happier, I told him to knock it off, to go in the other room,
sit down, and think about where he wanted me to take him for dinner. I
took a break, and then I took him to Barnes and Noble, and then to
dinner, though I certainly shouldn't be indulging in things like books
and food. And he said, while we were driving, that he doesn't know why
he's scared of everything. He wants to be productive, needs to be
productive, but doesn't know where to start.
 
He's scared of everything there is to be scared of, and some things that
aren't. 
 
He told me how he's the worst copier. How making copies turns into a
farce with him. He was serious, of course he was, but I was laughing so
hard because even then he's funny, I can't help it, but it's okay. He
doesn't mind. 
 
I'm making good money. I could live just fine on my own. I could support
myself, and start getting out of debt. I'm tired of being broke, and not
knowing where the money goes.
 
He's sick a lot. Every day. Stomach. Bowels. Intestines. Cramping. Every
day. Every time he eats, no matter what he eats. I want him to get it
checked, but without any insurance he won't do it. He says they'll just
tell him to change his diet.
 
And they would. He eats badly. Hot dogs, pizza, fried foods. I can't
watch him all the time, it's not my job. And he knows, on a cellular
level perhaps, but he knows, that he has to change his diet. Eat what
won't harm him. Now, even things that shouldn't harm him, do. 
 
Every day he's sick. Every day he's tired. Sometimes he's grumpy,
sometimes he's in a pit so deep I don't know how to get him out, though
I usually manage to at least pull him up partway. Sometimes, at night,
if he's out in the dark, he sees and hears things. Sometimes during the
day too. I think the paranoia is getting worse. He's popping
anti-anxiety pills like they're candy. 
 
We go on. I have to stop putting out fires and deal with fire
prevention. I'll start tomorrow, because today it's Sunday and I have to
go to work. 
 
Monique