Shattered, literally and figuratively. Brainstorming, too!

I am not happy today.

Okay, so it’s not that bad.

Let me back up a bit. I had a midwife appointment yesterday (everything is fine), then picked up C from school. We get home and find shattered glass across about 1/3 of the floor in the room we entered. A quick look around and I see a chipped brick on the floor amongst the glass, and a broken window.

Super logic skills come into play, and I deduce that someone threw the brick into our window. (Yes, women can do logic. But only some of the time.) Said broken window is not close to any doors, so I proceed into the house, holding C and my cell phone ready by my ear, ready to call. Together, we scout out the house. Nothing is missing, no one is hiding behind the shower curtains (yes, I looked), and no one is under any bed. It looks okay.

I call our lovely, wonderful landlady (funny to call you that, LH!). I then call the police (not the emergency number) because someone obviously threw a brick threw our window. Accident or no, it’s better to have a report. I call A, just to let him know. His first question is whether his cats are fine. I assure him that they are, that I’m looking right at them both (true, I was). I assumed this act of God was probably some bored under-18 folks; the act didn’t seem terribly malicious nor purposeful. I get C situated with dinner and let her watch Snow White. I let her eat two or three Popsicles and I proceed to make chicken soup for A, who’s fighting off what I think to be bronchitis.

The police officer shows up eventually. Landlady and A are over by then. I am stuck inside with C, which seemed a bit stupid to me, because I was the one who was home first and the dispatch person had told me on the phone. I have very little idea about what happened with the police officer; I could only discern that his attitude left a lot to be desired.

Yes, I stayed calm this whole time. Freaking out would do no good, and it’s damn good I can keep a semi-level head in these situations. Just ask LH, (aka landlady)—A freaking lost it, as he’s more recently been prone to do since our pregnancy. He stresses himself out, and in the process:

1. Makes stupid and harmful in the long-run decisions.
2. Alienates people.
3. Dominates conversations, which is, irony of ironies, a pet peeve of his.
4. Pisses people off by doing all of the above.

It was determined that the person who moved into the house behind us accidentally managed to hurl a broken brick through the screen and window of violated room. This causes A to freak out everyone (I think) by saying macho-crapola like, “I’m going over there and demanding they pay.”

Right. Because confrontation is a great way to make neighbors, and Robert Frost’s line of “Good fences make good neighbors” is to be taken at face value.
To get to the point: I cannot deal with this much longer. I have got to talk to A about his anxiety. His father takes medication for anxiety, and A might as well be a twin (personality-wise) of his father. Anxiety is something not unfamiliar to me; my Descartes class my junior year in college (two students, one professor, 3 hours in his office) caused me such debilitating anxiety that I did take medication for it on and off for the next two years. I do know what anxiety is like, personally. And I also know, from my long experience of either suffering a mental illness or having loved ones who will openly talk about their own struggle, what the symptoms of anxiety are.

And A definitely has GAD, Generalized Anxiety Disorder. It’s beginning to interfere with just about every arena of his life.

I have to do the humane thing, too. The act I would want someone to take were they worried about me: I need to address this with him. I need to address this in a way in which he’ll be open (or as open as possible, he’s rather slow when it comes to understanding any mental issue), and in which he knows I’m not attacking him but am instead concerned.

The effect his undiagnosed anxiety is having on me (this is just brainstorming):

1. I feel hurt because he’s so consumed in work-related anxiety he never asks about my day.
2. On the rare occasion he does ask about my day, he interrupts me or just doesn’t listen and asks me to repeat what I’ve said. Sometimes two or three times. What’s the distraction? His mind, his anxiety.
3. I internalize this—and that’s my issue, in part. But it makes me feel like a failure.
4. Resentment. Yesterday I had to stay totally calm and it was only the wonderful LH who recognized I didn’t panic, I acted calm. His anxiety, for whatever reason, makes him a non-compliment-er. And while I don’t expect or deserve (necessarily) to be showered in compliments, it would be nice to get them every so often. I don’t, not since the pregnancy. And of course, that just fucks with my head.
5. He has a shorter temper, which is a terrible thing to have around a lovely 3.5 year old who doesn’t understand what’s happening and needs to be reassured that she’s safe after the rude, uninterested police officer comes over. Her routine was disrupted, and I have to stay calm for her.

. . . But if I talk to him, will he listen? What will I say? I’m already resenting that this is coming up now. Can I please enjoy a pregnancy without mental illness manifesting in my partner, or does my burgeoning belly cause this, just a B’s parents blamed me?

Can I be appreciated for the work I do around the house, while tired, for the childcare I provide? Yes, A, you work. But I do too. And we work almost the same hours per week, but you make 2x (about) what I make.

Oh, hell, since I’m complaining, let me just throw out there that the only presents he’s ever gotten me are the engagement ring and a record. Which is nice. But it’s the thought that counts, and on my birthday, on mother’s day—there was no thought.

And THAT is what hurts the most.

I’m so terribly sorry for this post. I really just needed to get this out. I’m brainstorming a million things and am prone to shut down if I talk verbally about this…so letting it out here…is a start.