Married to Mania

By: Heather Kentuck

Dedicated to my precious daughters Kayla and Lilly. I love you more than you’ll ever know.

This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

I knew my wife was crazy when I met her, but I didn’t think she was actually insane. I think most men think that their wives are crazy but I’ve got documentation to prove mine actually is. Or, rather, that she suffers from mental health issues, the wording suggested by the last therapist we had been to together.

“Nikki needs to feel validated, important, and understood. Calling her crazy does not validate her, it exacerbates her symptoms,” the $150 an hour A-line haircut therapist had said. She was smiling and nodding in a way that said “I have no idea what hell you’re going through but I learned about all of this in school, so I totally get it."

I can’t remember her name but I can distinctly remember thinking, how many more ways can I validate my wife so that she won’t go off the deep end for the millionth time, and wreak total chaos and havoc in our lives? I’ve spent the majority of the last 10 years we’ve been married doing damage control, picking up the pieces and scrambling to put enough cushions in place to catch her before her inevitable fall. Nothing is safe, nothing is sacred, or even off limits when the circus comes to town. Somedays, like today, I want to hate her but I just can’t. You can’t hate a sick person for being sick, but you can sure resent the hell out of them.

I sighed to no one in particular, and went back to my tedious task of cleaning up yet another of Nikki’s messes, this one grossly financial in nature. My sweet bipolar wife, off her meds, high on THC and red wine, had somehow managed to pull off a real estate deal. I hadn’t quite figured out the logistics of her latest mania inspired scheme but apparently she had begun the process of buying some house in Folsom, 150 miles from where we lived. Unbeknownst to me or any other sane person in our lives, Nikki had come up with a $5000 deposit and the wherewithal to meet with the realtor representing the owner, finance the property, and kept it a secret until escrow had almost closed. Almost. Luckily for me I had intercepted a hokey looking newsletter welcoming us to the H.O.A, oddly addressed to me and my crazy wife. Sorry, not my crazy wife, my wife with pressing mental health issues.

As a result I was now on hold waiting to speak to Ava from Housemax while absentmindedly squeezing one of Nikki's stress balls that were scattered around the house. They were supposed to alleviate anxiety by squeezing them. I can tell you from experience it can also alleviate anxiety by throwing up against the wall while screaming fuck at the top of your lungs out of sheer frustration. This stress ball in particular was brown, squishy, and molded into the shape of the turd emoji. I was compiling a list of jokes about holding your shit and calming your shit when a no-nonsense voice on the other end of the phone interrupted my thoughts.

“Mr. Smith, thank you for holding. How can I help you today?”  

“You can help me by telling me how to pull out of escrow on a piece of property my wife, Nikki Smith, has recently purchased from a seller that you represent,” I said, trying not to convey the misdirected anger I felt through the phone while getting straight to the point. I wasn’t trying to come off as an impatient jerk but I needed to get this issue resolved as soon as possible, so I could deal with more pressing issues. Like trying to figure out how to pay rent and convince the DA to drop the charges against her that Nikki had managed to rack up against herself last night. 

“Oh you’re Nikki‘s husband? It’s nice to finally meet you, even if it’s over the phone. Nikki has told me all about you, and that you had been out of the country on business, something to do with security for the royal family? She told me you were originally from London and commuted back-and-forth frequently for work. Well, welcome back and congratulations on your recent property purchase!” 

An uneasy silence grew as I struggled to find the words to explain the truth of my wife’s delusional behavior and fantasies. This part never got easier. Nikki, aside from being incredibly beautiful with thick wavy red curls, button nose, and big blue inquisitive eyes, was also extremely charming and intelligent. What was really crazy about her was that she couldn’t see this at all nor the way the world could become captivated by her sheer presence. Unfortunately, myself included. No matter what she did, I had never been able to break free of her enchantment.

That’s usually why people were so shocked when I had to explain the mania induced delusions Nikki created and wholeheartedly believed in. “She seems so sincere,” they would say, “So genuine; I never would’ve guessed!” etc. etc. Or, “She did seem a little off perhaps, but I just assumed she was a high-energy workaholic.” This was always bitterly amusing to me as Nikki had been unable to hold a job down in years. 

“This is going to be an awkward conversation I’m afraid,” I said as I walked outside to light a cigarette. “My wife is very ill,” I said, sucking smoke-filled air into my lungs as forcefully as I could to soothe my ragged nerves. 

“ I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said rapidly, the moment I paused to exhale. “Is she OK?” 

“Physically yes, mentally no,” I replied. “First off, I haven’t been back to London in 20 years, and the only connection I have to the royal family is the same as any run-of-the-mill Brit. I’m a landscaper and have been for over 15 years.” 

“I don’t understand,” she stammered, her air of confidence and professionalism escaping keeping her “Nikki