There is the man I am, and the man you describe.
They are not the same.
I am not a perfect man. I have never claimed to be. I have a temper that, given enough provocation, can break the surface. I have moods. I have edges. I see them. I work on them. I own them.
But there is a difference between a man with faults and a man who is his faults. Between someone who sometimes gets angry, and someone who is anger. Between a partner who is struggling, and a diagnosis dressed up as a husband.
When you describe me, I do not recognize myself. The man you talk about is someone I would also be afraid of. He is bipolar, paranoid, watched by no one and trusted by none. He is a caricature drawn in the worst light, by someone who knows exactly where the bruises are.
I am not him.
And the moments you point to as proof — the anger, the heat, the loss of patience — most of them did not arise from nothing. They were summoned. Pushed for. Pressed against. It does not excuse my reactions. I am still responsible for what I do with what I feel. But I will not accept being judged on the explosion while the long, deliberate work of the fuse goes unmentioned.
I want us to find each other again. Not as the bipolar man and the woman who survives him — but as two people who once chose each other on purpose, and could choose each other again.