- Life - Love - Loss -

To him, it hadn't been fear but the ultimate betrayal, and within a day he'd gone from being over the top in love to despising me. I'd tirelessly stood by his side and supported him through two court cases, ongoing ex-wife drama, some sort of mental breakdown and a break-up, and now here he was turning on me, the moment his needs weren't met.

After we finished our conversation, there was a lightness between us, as if we were two old friends catching up after years apart. I'd struggled to understand my father most of my life, but now there was nothing I wanted more, as he returned to stories of his past.

I could feel my desperation bubbling to the surface again, hoping to be ushered back into his life and our family, now that he was terminally ill. He'd always hold onto his religious faith no matter what, I knew that, but now I wondered if he'd start putting faith in our relationship as well, with only months to live.

The first time I realized I was more like my father, was when my sister pulled out a personality quiz from her purse, and started asking the questions after the three of us had finished our dinner at a local restaurant. Each question, my dad and I answered the same, whereas my sister answered the exact opposite.

He was handsome, affectionate, gregarious, irreverent and unpredictable, and for the first few months of us meeting, all we did was sit in dusty pubs and talk.

It's hard to get your head wrapped around a mother who abandons her children, but what of a mother who abandons her children by way of suicide? There's always hope that the mother will one day return if she jumps in the car and drives off, but if she takes her life, it immediately severs any hope for something more, something better.

I'd been scared most of my life. Growing up in a doomsday religion hadn't helped, with me constantly bracing for the end of the world.

My approach to dating was much the same as my approach had been within the church. Be nice no matter what, give everyone a chance, care what they think, stay and make it work, and attempt to fix them when needed.

He'd told me how he'd fixed himself with therapy, Jesus and weight loss surgery, having been an emotional abuser himself at one time

I never really thought about a career growing up, because I was told the end of the world was coming.

From a young age, I'd been obsessed with romantic love, having grown up on classic fairy tales where the prince always rescued the princess. In life however, I hadn't witnessed many fairy tales, which included my owns parent's relationship

The next few years took endurance, a lot of it, as I attempted to cut the chains of my past. I was showing up a decade late to the party, trying to figure out things in my 30's, that normally were worked out in one's 20's

The longer I was away from the church, the more resolute I was in my decision, determined to build a fulfilling life on the outside. As for my sister, she was struggling much more than me, trapped between worlds, with her confused as to her identity and purpose

This is the rollercoaster you're constantly on when living with someone who's bipolar. You relish in their presence when its safe, you learn to stay away when its not, and you learn to try to make them happy at all costs, in hopes it takes longer for the darkness to return next time.

My sister hated dresses, fought with the boys, and chose toy cars over dolls. She wore her hair short and chose clothing that exuded little femininity.

Everyone around me, including my family, had seemed to develop a close relationship with God. When they prayed, they felt love and a deep connection. When I prayed, I felt nothing.

I had absolutely no idea what to do with myself, with the church having provided a regimented schedule that left little time for anything else. As excited as I'd been about living on my own, the reality of it felt very different.

I pictured the sun shining in the window, as I curled up on the couch with a book, sitting on my patio with a glass of wine as the sun slowly set, and going to bed at night and not having to worry about being touched by a man I didn't love. There was nothing I wanted more.

It was in that moment that I looked around our beautiful heritage house, and realized that no matter how pretty we made it, it would never be a home. In fact, no house would ever be a home as long as we were together.

I'd been the type that felt guilty for taking a nap during the day, and here I was sleeping for hours on end. My invisible symptoms had left my husband skeptical, as I faced his ongoing scrutiny.

The one thing no one ever tells you is how personal grief is. Coming from a black-and-white world, I found myself searching for the right way to do it as Mom's funeral approached. I was afraid of being judged—not only for her suicide, but for my unemotional state.

She was beautiful, funny, deep, complex and compassionate. And when Mom was well, my life was bursting with colour, and when she wasn't, I found myself tiptoeing around a dark house, waiting for her to reemerge again.

I grew up in a religion where you weren't allowed to leave, and you weren't allowed to do anything wrong. You also weren't allowed to lead your own life, as the church did that for you.

The truth was, I despised anger. Not that I didn't get mad myself at times, but I wasn't the type to blow-up. Instead, I was the wounded girl who cried when no one was looking, and it had stemmed from growing up in an unpredictable and somewhat volatile environment.

Aside from my sister telling me that I didn't have to get married, after I had a complete meltdown the night before the wedding, no one had suggested that maybe I should wait until I had a two in front of my age