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I have nonlinear flashes of scenes from Dave’s and my life where I realize that something
other than typical marital unrest was going on. I try to organize these into chronological
order and try to put my finger on the exact time Dave started losing his mind.
These flashes are easier to articulate now, knowing what I know. When they were happening
everything was blurry. I doubted myself. I am a climber/adventure chick. I camp out and
hike and road trip alone. I hang out with a crew of boys that are like brothers to me.
I have a lot of male insight into how crazy women are, how wives are irrational and demanding.
I didn’t want to be a typical girl: worried, angry, controlling, needy. I doubted my judgment.
So when Dave was coming home late, short-tempered, and aloof I was careful not to take it personally.
I tried giving him space to do what he needed to do and sort through whatever he needed
to sort through. I had a hunch he was dealing with some childhood memories and realizations.
I let some distance in between us. We were a strong, in-love couple who had worked through
years of relationship evolution. I felt pretty confident we were on the brink of working
through some big marriage stuff. The other thing that made gaging Dave’s
sanity difficult was the fact that he was a complete character. He prided himself on
doing things the wrong way, on being a trouble maker and an instigator. He was a talented
and moody artist, a Gemini. As long as I knew Dave he had a short attention span and would
interrupt. He didn’t put stock in social niceties or protocols. With the brain disease
creeping in, these things intensified ever so slowly. It took years for me and our friends
and family to get it that something was really wrong.
I think the first bunch of flashes that built up into a tangible awareness that something
was not right in Dave’s head was his birdhouse obsession. I don’t remember how or when
it started, but by December 2005 it was full blown. He was keeping notebooks with measurements
and diagrams about building birdhouses. He explained his craft to almost everyone he
talked to, and started offering to build birdhouses for many friends or family members. Sometimes
he wanted to start a birdhouse business, sometimes he wanted to do it just for fun.
As a carpenter, he always had wood around. He had a shop on our back porch and would
go out there to cut and measure scraps of wood. He was leaving pieces of paper with
scribbled measurements around the house and in the car. In at least three years of birdhouse
talk, Dave actually constructed only three birdhouses that I know of.
Dave was always bringing up his birdhouses. I was frustrated by it. I started writing
poetry about it. Lines like, “He’s measuring straight lines and angles because he is broken
and can’t fix himself,” and “Building a warm house for a bird while girl’s out
cold”. I felt the irony of Dave’s obsession. He was investing so much energy and thought
into these little houses while our already-built life was breaking apart.
In December 2005, at Alex’s third birthday party, Dave and I met a bunch of Alex’s
family and friends for the first time. Dave told every one of them about birdhouses. Alex’s
parents and our very good friends, Katie and Dave D., acknowledged Dave was weird and acting
inappropriately. They empathized with my frustration and concern, but none of us knew what to make
of or do about his behavior. Our best guess was that stubborn, strong Dave
was having an emotional melt down as a result of his undealt with childhood traumas. He
was pouring himself into his craft and art as a way of escaping emotional hardship. I
asked Dave to consider seeing a therapist or counselor, but he refused and insisted
everything was fine. This was the beginning of the end of Dave’s life. This was the
start of his brain disintegrating. This was Dave, unflinching and plowing forward, still
creating, building birdhouses in his broken mind.
In September 2008, after we broke up and I bought a house, he came over—unannounced
and unappreciated—with a newly constructed birdhouse, a hole digger, and a 4x4 post.
He proudly left his mark on my new place. By then, I understood Dave was suffering from
mental illness. He was unreasonable and confused, and driving me crazy. To me, the birdhouse
was a painful symbol of his breakdown and our break-up.
Now, I love my birdhouse. I love that despite brain damage and a break-up, despite mental
undoing and heartbreak, Dave was driven to envision and create art and to passionately
present it to me regardless of the disrepair our lives were in.