He’s been a dick for the past week or so.
What’s new about that? I didn’t know why.
Finally today, after Zoë going to his apartment this weekend (after he showed up on Thursday and paid child support and then promptly left despite her pleading him to play and stay), he looked worse for wear. He wouldn’t talk with me. One and two word sentences indicated last week that the silent treatment was back, but today, unlike the other silent periods I’ve waited for him to get bored with, I made him listen to me say that he was being rude and that I found it uncalled for.
Because, quite frankly, I gave you our daughter for the weekend, despite you not meeting the single condition ahead of time that was required for overnight visits, and you, fuckhead, will show some fucking appreciation.
Or like, offer three words.
I found out on Thursday that he’d quit his job. The job that he’d just gotten, was there for all of five days. Just walked out. His only source of income, and the source of his support payments. Because his boss was a dink.
And I guess having to make a support payment that he couldn’t afford to make made things seem bleaker.
Today, he was down-trodden and red-eyed in a way that only comes with the insomnia of sobriety and depression. And when I challenged him, demanding that he be real with me and speak to me as a fellow human being and someone he’s co-parenting with, otherwise we wouldn’t be co-parenting, he spoke up.
He said things are bad for him. That he’s massively depressed. That Zoë’s the only thing stopping him from killing himself.
I’m just floored, because he’s never been that depressed before. He’s saying that he’s giving up on everything but her, and I told him that she will know that something’s wrong with him and he said I know, but then nothing else came of that line of thinking.
I asked him if he thought it was time for some outside intervention and he said no.
I don’t know what to do with this information because he’s never been here before and he’s never been here before while we’ve had a daughter and he’s never been here before while we’ve had a daughter in his care sometimes. I don’t know if it’s life or the sobriety, if it will go away when he drinks, or if he’ll consider jumping off of a bridge the next time she’s with him and will barely restrain himself from it. Or won’t.
I don’t know his level of commitment to living, for her sake.
And I know that this sounds like the pot calling the kettle black, because all of my highs and lows could be looked at in a similar vein – a concern as to whether my daughter’s safety or psychological health might be at risk – but it’s not for simply one reason: I’ve set up guides that disallow me to cause her any damage or any to myself that she would be privvy to knowing about.
I have a secure support structure in my life, and I use it. I have people that I can call if it’s a particularly bad time and they’ll be here, and I wouldn’t not call, if I needed them. She is surrounded by friends and adoptive family that could take her to their homes and it wouldn’t make her blink because I trust them and so does she. Most importantly, if I was at the point where I was considering suicide and the only thing stopping me was her, I wouldn’t blink before running for help.
He won’t.
Talk. Seek treatment. Counselling. Therapy. Medication.
Nothing.
Which makes him, well, maybe kind of like a burning fuse attached to an Acme-brand stick of dynamite. It’s like, I’m watching Wile E. Coyote hold it, knowing it’s going to blow up, and I can’t stop him from it – I just have to wait for him to hold up a sign saying the MGM-version of Oh, Shit.
Except, The Ex isn’t the only one that will get burned, if the dynamite explodes this time; she will; I will.
And I don’t know what to do about that.
If you give a shit how the raw food diet’s treating me, you can read my update here.
