I try to divorce Michael at least once a month. I blame this on my PMDD (premenstrual dysphoric disorder, or what I like to call “PMS on crack”), though I’ve also been diagnosed with chronic depression and anxiety and, once, a psychopharmacologist told me I had obvious bipolar tendencies. Either way, I’m not the easiest person to live with (as if you didn’t already feel bad enough for my husband, due to my sexual issues). Sometimes, I fling my wedding band across the room, or lock myself into the bathroom, or scream myself raw. And once, I dumped a freshly-baked pan of cookies on top of his freshly-cleaned clothes and stomped up and down on them.
The worst was the time I tried to barricade myself in our bedroom. After sweating and straining to move his nightstand in front of the door, he pushed his way in. When I made a run for the great outdoors, he wrestled me to the floor, and carried me back to the bedroom. I kept fighting him, my hair dripping with my tears, my body weak but my adrenaline pumping. At one point, my tooth got chipped, and my lip bloodied. The ironic part? He was trying to keep me safe. He didn’t want me driving my car while angry, because he was afraid I’d hurt myself.
Original by YourTango
