Why It Was So Hard to Love a Man With Mental Illness
As my husband’s mental state worsened, so did mine.
My husband’s fist came down hard and fast on the box of juice packs sitting on the dining-room table. I’d purchased the juice earlier in the day but had yet to move the box to its proper cupboard in the kitchen.
Under the force of his fist, the cardboard crumpled and purple liquid squirted out the sides. I watched in shock as juice spilled to the beige carpet below.
I rushed for paper towels to sop up the mess. The rug didn’t wait for me. It absorbed the juice as if it were drinking it.
My husband didn’t stick around to help me to clean up his mess either. He stormed out of the room, leaving me alone to deal with it.
I didn’t call him back to help. I was tired of arguing. I didn’t know if he was capable of helping me anyway.
His mental state had been in a slow decline over the past couple of years. After we lost everything in the Great Recession of 2008, he became a conspiracy theorist. He believed 9–11 was an inside job, every mass shooting was a hoax, chemtrails were real, and the Apollo mission never landed on the moon. Aliens lived in secret underground tunnels in New Mexico.
