The Crazy Cocktail 🍸 BPD, Bipolar & Me!When Love Feels Like It’s Slipping Through Your Fingers
Today’s cocktail: 🍹 Suffering Bastard.
Okay, so let’s talk about it.
Sometimes life feels like one long dramatic monologue from a movie nobody paid to see except somehow you’re the star, the director, the villain, the comic relief, and the person sweeping up popcorn after the credits roll. And me? I’m somewhere in the middle of that spinning wheel, trying to be a wife, a mom, a hustler, a believer, and a mentally ill Black woman in America just trying not to fall apart before lunchtime.
Lately… things at home have been heavy.
Like “damn, is that a brick in my chest or am I just feeling feelings again?” heavy. I can feel it my wife pulling back, stepping away in these tiny barely noticeable shifts that add up like loose change in the couch cushions. Except instead of spare quarters, it’s slipping deeper into the cracks. And the worst part? Half the time, I don’t even blame her. Living with me is like living with the Weather Channel.
One day sunny, next day hurricane, next day a tornado warning with 30 seconds notice. I’m a whole natural disaster wrapped in a tight burrito and unresolved trauma.
But lately…
I swear she looks at me like she’s trying to figure out who I even am anymore. Like she’s wondering if the woman she married is still in here somewhere, or if I’ve drifted too far into the fog.
And it hurts.
Deep.
Right in the place where little-kid-me still sits hoping somebody chooses her and doesn’t walk away.
But here’s the thing I haven’t said out loud:
I don’t think my wife trusts in me anymore.
And God, that stings in a way that feels spiritual.
It’s like that scene in Acrimony you know the one where Taraji is standing there like,
“I loved you when you had NOTHING.”
And the man is standing there looking like disappointment, potential, and delusion all mixed together.
I hate admitting it, but that’s exactly how I feel:
Like I’m becoming the husband in Acrimony.
Not the cheating part hell no. Not the trifling part either.
But the “babe, I swear this is all gonna work out… just not today” part.
I can feel her patience thinning.
I can feel the faith draining.
I can feel her looking at me like:
“Can you just get it together? Please?”
And the truth?
I AM trying.
I’m trying with everything in me the sane parts, the broken parts, the medicated parts, and the parts that are still healing from childhood wounds nobody apologized for.
But mental illness doesn’t care.
It doesn’t clock out.
It doesn’t wait for good timing.
It definitely doesn’t check the bank account before it decides to spin my life like a roulette wheel.
Still… I can’t shake this quiet fear:
What do you do when the person you love most stops believing you can win?
Stops believing you’ll get better?
Stops believing you can build something real and stable and beautiful?
Stops seeing the dreamer in you and starts seeing the fuck-up?
Let me be clear she hasn’t said those words.
Not once.
But energy talks. Body language talks. Silence talks.
And lately everything feels like it’s whispering:
“I don’t trust you to lead us anymore.”
And maybe she’s tired.
Maybe she’s scared too.
Maybe she’s been holding it all together so long that she’s running out of glue.
But I’m scared too.
Scared of losing her.
Scared of losing myself.
Scared of failing again and watching the disappointment in her eyes swallow the love that used to live there.
Still in all this mess, in all this emotional debris something in me refuses to die.
It’s small.
A spark.
Quiet.
But it’s real.
Maybe God is shaking everything that isn’t solid.
Maybe love grows in earthquakes.
Maybe the universe is stripping away the illusion so we can build something stronger, something real.
Maybe all this breaking is actually… shaping.
And even if my wife can’t see the future I see right now…
Even if she’s tired of hearing about my next idea…
Even if she’s secretly wondering if being with me is too damn hard…
I’m still going to show up.
I’m still going to build.
I’m still going to heal.
I’m still going to believe for both of us until she remembers how to believe in us too. And in ME again…
Because at the end of the day, love is many things, but easy ain’t one of them. At least for me it never has been I can only speak for myself.
And neither is choosing to stay.
Neither is choosing hope when fear feels louder.
But I’m choosing it anyway.
Every day.
Every minute.
Every breath.
The Crazy Cocktail is back and so it continues…
Cocktail please?
Gia Beasley,
The Love Dare 40-Day Love Journey: