The Love of My Life (Rob)

I realized last night, that up until now, my blog hasn't really been reflecting what's going on in my life. Seems like the only thing is my book club! hehe That's just easy and interesting to write about, I guess!

Anyways, the major thing happening in my life right now is that I'm getting married this August 18th, to the love of my life, Rob (who has a blog too! Take a look: http://librarytechnician.wordpress.com/)

Rob & I met about 4 years ago (God, I can't believe it's been that long!). Although we were just "casually" dating at first, I think we both knew pretty quickly that we were in love, and then spent about 5-6 months denying it to ourselves, each other, and our friends. I was going through a very difficult time in my life then psychologically, dealing with my past and mental illness. I started university (after transferring to UBC finally), and shortly after, had to drop out. I spent an entire week pretty much insane, hardly eating or sleeping. I would distract myself all day, in a very manic, obsessive kind of way, to the point where I couldn't even carry out a conversation with someone. At night, as soon as I went to bed and had nothing to distract me, I'd fall apart. I'd spend hours in bed, hugging my knees, rocking back & forth, sobbing away. Telling myself that I'd feel better tomorrow, and if I didn't, then I'd do something about it. I'd struggled with depression before, so I knew that I needed help. But I couldn't stand to admit it. Sometime during this week, I broke up with Rob. I knew, at that point, that I was in love with him, and since we were supposed to be "casual", I thought it was best to end it before I got more emotionally attached. Plus, dealing with what I was dealing with made it pretty much impossible to carry on a "casual" relationship with someone.

At the end of that week, I finally admitted that I needed help. I decided to check myself into the psychiatric ward. This was definetely one of the hardest decisions of my life. The main thing that I was dealing with was that I was molested by my Grandfather (not my real Grandpa, but a friend of my parents, who happened to be older - my Mom thought of him as a Father) when I was a little girl. For years. And it left me very confused. Hurt. Lost. Angry. I couldn't trust anyone. I couldn't love anyone without then assuming that he would abandon me (cause that's what my Grandpa did). It hurt too much to actually let myself fully deal with it. I thought that I wouldn't be able to let myself fall apart enough to deal with it, and continue being a stable human being. I didn't trust that I had the strength to put myself together again.

While it was, I think, a good decision to check into the hospital, it turned out to be one of the worst experiences of my life. I was barely capable of talking about my problems, yet I was forced over and over that night to tell emergency ward nurses and doctors, who were clearly over-worked, impatient, and didn't exactly make me feel comfortable, what was going on. I had to wait hours and hours. When I was finally checked in, I then had to wait more hours to see the emergency ward doctor. He then referred me to the Psychiatrist (uh, duh, thanks...could have told you I needed the Psychiatrist!), whom I then had to wait another 4-5 hours to see. During that time, not a single person came to check on me. It was the scariest thing I'd ever done. It takes a great amount of bravery to admit that you need mental help, especially to such an extent. To then be treated the way I was treated is simply horrendous, and goes to show how bad off our medical system is.

When the Psychiatrist finally came to see me, she did the standard depression interview, which I recognized right away. Now I should mention here that my greatest coping mechanism is to be logical. When I go into trauma-mode, few people can actually tell. Because I analyze everything as though it is going on OUTSIDE my head, instead of inside. So that's what I did with her. I recognized her trying to fit me into medical diagnosis holes, and promptly walked around them. She asked me if I was suicidal, and I was honest. I said no. I told her that I had been before, and that I was far more depressed now than I was then, but that I knew, from experience, that 1. I didn't really want to die - all I wanted was to live, without the pain, hurt, fear, etc.; and 2. I was too chicken shit to actually kill myself.

Because I was not deemed a "danger to myself," she promptly wrote me a prescription for an anti-depressant and some sleeping pills, "to get my sleep cycle back on track," and then told me to go home.

At this point, I sort of lost it on her. I told her that I was there to get help, before I hurt myself, and if she was only willing to help me AFTER I hurt myself, etc...The she said, "Maybe you should just stay for tonight in the E.R." So I did.

The next morning, a different Psychiatrist came to see me. She explained to me that if I really wanted to be admitted, she would do so, but that, for me, she did not recommend it. She said that the psych. ward was full mostly of people who were severely schizophrenic (sp?) and heroin addicts coming off the drug. She said it was not a happy place to be, that it was completely under-funded, and that there was little to no counselling there. After sharing my whole story with her, she felt that what I needed was a lot of one-on-one therapy. She was right. If the Psychiatrist the night before had of actually LISTENED to me, and explained to me WHY she didn't want to admit me, I would have been fine with it. Some people just should not be in the mental health profession!

My best friend, Kat, who I am sadly not friends with anymore (that's another story), came with me that night. She stayed at the hospital with me until I fell asleep, in the wee hours of the morning. I will never forget her for that. She was so wonderful, and such a good friend. I will certainly always love Kat, even though I had to make the decision to not be her friend anymore (years later).

A couple of days later, it was going to be my first night alone, and I was afraid to be alone. So I called up Rob (why I didn't choose, say my best friend Mel, or Kat, I don't know!) and asked him if I could come over. I knew that he was right at the end of his semester (in the Lib Tech program), and that he had an assignment due the next day, but I didn't need to talk, I just needed to not be alone. So I went over to his place, and read Gone With the Wind while he did homework. The plan was for me to stay over, so when I was ready for bed, I asked Rob if I should sleep on the couch (remember we aren't dating anymore here). He smiled sheepishly and replied, "no, we can share a bed. I'm sure we can handle ourselves." So I went to bed in his bed.

A few hours later, Rob joined me. My back was facing him (on purpose, cause "I don't love him, I don't..." Who was I kidding?), and when he got into bed he put his arm around me and started cuddling me. It felt so good. So comforting. I loved him so much. I rolled over and we started kissing. The whole time, I was feeling so conflicted. I knew I loved him. I couldn't deny it anymore. But I also knew that he didn't want a serious relationship. So while I was really enjoying making out with him, and I really wanted to be doing so, I also knew that I shouldn't be. Basically, in my mind, I was alternating yes, no, yes, no...

All of a sudden Rob stopped kissing me, brushed my hair back behind my ear, and said, "I really missed you Jen." Then I told him that I loved him for the first time, even though I knew he didn't love me (or so I thought). But then he told me that he loved me too. And we've been living together, more or less, since!

I love him so much. I never thought I could be this happy. Everyday, I wonder how I got so lucky. But then I remember all the shit I went through, and all the bad relationships I ended, and realize that I'm not lucky at all. I could have settled with someone else a long time ago (many of them actually). But I didn't. Because I knew that I wanted a love so complete that all it did was make me free to be me (if that makes any sense). I wanted to be with someone who, when I was with him, I felt more myself than I ever did with anyone else. Someone who allowed me to be my fullest happy. And I am glad to say that I finally found him. I am lucky that I found him still, but not, because I worked hard to do so!

I guess that's all I have to say.