“It’s Just a Panic Attack”

I’m trying to remember when this occurred. I think it was as my partner was miraculously healed from his organ failure (see previous post), but not long after. At this point, I was aware of 4 of his family members being involved. One was about to leave but I didn’t know when. I thought he was still there.

I was getting pretty wound up. First, partner is dying, then he’s not. Keeping the house clean – BIL#1 was clueless, from how to sweep the floor to how to tear off a bag from the roll. He didn’t know how to call for an emergency. This became an issue.

I was having trouble breathing. Sweeping, pulling up heavy, full, bin bags, throwing out the detritus that collects if you don’t throw it away. Bending over is always a problem. I had to do it, over and over, and along with a dusty house, and the emotional stress, triggered a good sized asthma attack. I got panicky. I called my partner and asked for someone to come stay with me. Just in case it went south.

I thought two people were with him but it turned out, it was just BIL#1. BIL#1 arrives in the house about 10-15 minutes later. He didn’t know how to call emergency. I explained how it worked. He said okay and went to get a snack.

Now, I’d been sitting very still for at least 15-20 minutes. I was breathing ‘normally’. But if I’d tried to get up, it would have instantly been where it was when I called.

BIL#1 didn’t ask me if I needed or wanted anything. Water? Tea? Medication? Food? Nope to all. He did get his snack though. He comes back, says ‘It’s just a panic attack. I’m going back to your partner’, in a dismissive tone and leaves.

I was in shock. Pretty sure my mouth hung open. ‘Just a panic attack’ floored me. I know people who have panic attacks and it sure and hell isn’t something imaginary. It was insulting to the people who suffer from this, and hella insulting to me, as it’s something imaginary, just out for attention.

And second, he left me. He. Left. Me. Even now, weeks later, I’m shocked. If I had tried to get up, say to go to the toilet, I could have passed out, it was that bad. Just thinking of this day is tensing me up. Dismissive, ignorant and insulting, all in one easy sentence.

It took me 1 1/2 hours before I was able to get up and get a cup of tea.

I learned a lot about my BIL in that moment.

Catch up

I keep thinking, Oh, I’ll remember that! I’ll post in a couple of days.

Of course, I don’t remember.

I was in the hospital in august. Got out the 10th. I was triggered by the filthy house. Couldn’t breathe. They kept sending me home, and I’d be back in a couple of hours. The hospital system is so overwhelmed they do everything to keep from admitting people. When I was admitted, and then released days later, I was feeling pretty good.

The partner had to clean the house. Like, really clean it. Within a couple of days, he was sick. I was expecting this. He is the only person allowed to be sick in this household. If I’m sick, he’s sick in a couple of days, and it’s worse.

He went to bed. Whined continuously. Took little baby steps to get to the bathroom. Really milked it. I helped him, made sure he had food and water (something he doesn’t do for me) made sure he took his meds, etc. But honestly, I thought he was faking. Then he developed a fever. He wasn’t faking.

I kept trying to get him to call for an ambulance. He kept refusing. Until he couldn’t move, at all. Couldn’t get out of bed for the toilet and you can guess where that went. He didn’t tell me, but I found out when taking his temperature, he’d spiked up to 104f/40c. If I’d known, I would have called for an ambulance if he liked it or not. Finally, he admitted defeat and called for an ambulance. His fever was no longer too high, it was only 102f/38.8c. The ambulance service told him it wasn’t life-threatening and refused to pick him up.

So we called a secondary service – for non-life-threatening medical issues. They took him to the hospital for …what was the term? Public service or some such. Word got out quick and his family started showing up to take care of him. Which was good, he literally couldn’t raise his hand to drink and the nursing staff was so short staffed, they couldn’t care for him.

In short order, the oldest brother showed up. After a couple of days, he comes home from the hospital and says: he’s had a stroke and multiple organ failure. He has hours to days to live.

This was a lie.

It was gaslighting.

A couple of days later when I enquired about his organ failure, he says, quote. Orgain failure? He’s never had organ failure. I asked about his stroke, and my BIL waves his hand, It might have been a stroke, but MRI is indeterminate.

He gas lit me. For funzies. See, I can’t leave the house. I equate leaving the house with death. So I weigh each thing – is it worth dying for? Well, when I thought my partner was on his death bed, I said yes, it’s worth going out for. BIL says, but I thought you couldn’t leave the house? (but his tone was AHHA! I knew you could, you’re just faking it. Wanting attention.)

Ever since then, he has literally ignored me. He does not respond when I make a comment. He looks either through me or not at me at all. I’m not invisible. I do not exist.

There are many things I can bring up about my BIL, and I will. I don’t know all the ends and outs of what abusive behavior is, but I figure one or two things he’s doing would qualify.

I will be going into that in the next post. Hopefully soon. I have no one to talk to, so this is it. No one to talk to here, either, but better than just sobbing all day. I’m tired of crying.

I Screwed Up Again

Damn it all. I think I know what I did wrong. See, I’ve always caved in when told something is too hard to do. After 20 years living here, I am STILL not on the lease. I signed the lease at the start, but his mother wasn’t there. I had to go out of the country for a couple of months. When I got back, they had signed a new lease – him and his mother. (My clothes were packed in boxes, too lol.) And ever since then, when I’ve asked to be put on, it’s been ‘too hard’, to get all of us together at the same time. I said, okay. And the next time, and the next time, I asked, same thing, too hard. Last time I asked, his mother no longer lives with us, but it’s still ‘too hard’. Caved, it’s just not worth the stress of pushing for it.

I had the perfect opportunity to ask for ‘my’ money, that he holds in a family account. So I did. Gave a perfectly valid reason for it. He’s told me, just ask for it, I’ll give it to you. I asked. The next day, he comes in and says, really, it’s too hard. Have to travel, questions asked, bank transfer might cause problems. All truthful and valid reasons. But I held firm. It’s my money. I want it, in my hand. We had a long-winded ‘discussion’ about it. I ended up saying I’d think about it, cause he just wasn’t budging. I’ve got to think of a valid way of sticking to my guns.

The next day, he comes in and says; there’s no good way of asking this, but are you planning on leaving me? And I know why he came to that conclusion. Because I didn’t cave. I always cave.

I said; No. Just that. He acted like he believed it. I don’t know if he actually did.

I had also had a conversation with a psychiatrist who offered me a way out. I had partners phone, and I spoke quietly, but he still may have heard a word or two. I told her I wanted a way out. He might have heard, I don’t think so, but maybe.

I want that money. I need that money. I can’t start all over again in a country not my own, with zero family or friends or funds for support. If I don’t get that money, I don’t go.

I had this whole fantasy of venting on him. His sociopathic tendency. His attempted murder attempts. His constant lying. It felt good – but I also know it would be the stupidist thing I could possibly do.

No money, no go.

I Think He’s A Sociopath.

I’ve made a mistake.

Partner comes in, slumps down on the bed, hangs his head and claps his hands, and says sadly; I am a bad man.

I wanted to say; you aren’t a bad man. You are an evil man.

However, self preservation kicked in and I didn’t say that. I said nothing. And that was my mistake. I did, at least, look at him as if expecting him to say more on it. He peeked up at me, to see how I was reacting – and I realize now, to see if I was buying it.

I should have said: You are not a bad man. Then shut the hell up. That’s how he lies, or one of the ways, by not saying the whole truth.

So a couple of days later, we had that little comedy that I posted a couple of days ago, with his doctor friend. Next time, I’ll say what’s needed for self preservation. You aren’t a bad man, dear. Of course not. He’ll buy it, I think, because it’s what he wants or expects to hear.

I wondered – would it help if I told him I thought he was a sociopath? I did a bit of research on it (I am not a psychiatrist, but I wanted some kind of feed back on the question). Landed on a page with questions answered by sociopaths, and lets just say it was eye opening.

I came away with several thoughts on it, but here are a couple of them. 1) Deaf and blind people don’t consider themselves ‘broken’. They’re just different. Sociopath’s don’t think of themselves as broken, either. They use their ‘skills’ just like anyone else does. Those skills utilize their lack of emotions or guilt and a driving desire to achieve [insert anything]. 2) Every last one of them said if someone told them they were a sociopath (A. They know that, doh) they would consider said person of no use to them, and ‘fuck them up’. Every last one of them said that. Some went a bit further and said … well, paraphrase, they would ghost them or ghost them. (fade away or kill them). Now, even with the grandosius mindset of them all thinking they would ‘fuck you up’, it still boiled down to making your life a living hell.

So, people, if you think telling a sociopath that you are on to them is a good idea, DON’T. It’s not.

Hence my new goals of self preservation.

I spoke with a real doctor about my (maybe) coronavirus symptoms and she confirmed, Yes, I had coronavirus. Gave me some suggestions, reassured me that my fever lasting a month, where not normal, was a known symptom for some people. That’s all I needed to hear, really. Okay. I had it. I survived, didn’t need to go to hospital. Mental releaf. My partner went out of his way to fuck me up and for a few days it worked, until I was able to talk to a medical professional. When I told him what she said, his face was blank. Like that whole comedy a couple of days ago never happened. I got mad.

Then I got sad.

I got really sad. Started crying. I’m not a cryer. I’ve cried 3 times in the last 20 years. I feel broken if I cry. It takes a LOT to get me to cry. I cried on and off for 2 days. I don’t feel better. I feel fragile.

Afraid. Or Gaslighting?

This post might become a little jumbled. The last 24 hrs has been a bit of a ride. As my emotions and thoughts are all over the place this post might reflect that.

I was watching a youtube vid by a guy evaluating the Tiger King show. I’ve not watched Tiger King but I’m interested in body language, and he does body language. One of the things he says is; watch him. He says something, then turns to her as if asking ‘was that right? did I say it right?’. She is in control, he needs reassurance that he’s still in her good books. He’s afraid of her. (might be paraphrasing, but that’s the gist.) My jaw dropped. My partner does that all the time. Acting like he’s afraid of me. Sometimes when we’re alone but also in front of other people. “I have to walk around you like I’m on eggshells”, my partner says. “You just go off over nothing”. Am I doing that? I’ve been angry a few times, who doesn’t get angry? But as far as I know, I’ve never been angry over nothing. An example of my getting angry: He says something outrageous, let’s call it ‘a woman’s place is in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant’… not necessarily that, but that caliber of ‘outrageous’. I respond as you might expect. He says; ‘We’ll talk about it when you’re not hormonal’. (Which I read as: when you agree with me, you’re not hormonal). But now, I’m wondering, AM I abusive? DO I threaten him? I will, absolutely, defend myself. It’s a verbal thing, on both… hum. I was going to say, its a verbal thing on both our sides, but that’s not true anymore. He has started to get physical in his murder attempts. Am I becoming abusive?

Or is it a magnificent case of gaslighting? Convince me, and anyone else, I am the abusive one, he’s just a poor, innocent man dealing with a woman who goes off on nothing. And I guess, you have to define ‘nothing’. To him, saying something outrageous is nothing. He doesn’t mean it, he’s frequently just changed sides during an argument/debate. It’s not the subject, it’s about getting reactions.

Gaslighting is making you doubt your own reality. Am I abusive?

He says he’s afraid of me, and now I am absolutely afraid of him. Another thing that happened in this last 24 hours, but I’ll make a different post on it, as I think it might get long.

Feeling Sick and A Little Scared

I’ve been having coronavirus 19 symptoms since March 14th. It’s become my new normal. Daily fever up to 100.6. Off and on: runny nose, aches, breathlessness, exhaustion. The aches are the worst. Muscle, bone and joint pain.

My partner doesn’t believe me, disregards my complaints (I’ve actually stopped telling him about them.) He’s a retired doctor and all his friends are doctors. He talks to them two or three times a week. He’s not told one of them I’m sick. He hasn’t told his family I’m sick. Because in his mind, I’m not. I’m faking, looking for attention, wanting him to take care of me.

He comes in and tells me one of his ICU doctor friends wrote a general note for ‘the group’ (old medical school mates that have a chat forum), giving advice on how to deal with the virus. Bed rest, isolation, someone makes sure they’re frequently turned and still breathing. I’m assuming this includes being given meals although it’s not mentioned. He gave me a vague impression he expected me to do this.

Now this actually sounds kind of nice. It would be amazing to be able to lay down, sleep, not have to worry about making meals. Except, from previous experience, I know he’d ‘forget’ to feed me. (been there, done that.) Even after making a point of asking me what I wanted to eat. Leave the room, get distracted. So, even though I’d love to just lay down, I don’t want to die of neglect. So isn’t going to happen.

The NHS was supposed to write to everyone who they deem vulnerable to the virus. With COPD and diabetes, I should have gotten a letter. But I’ve not. Either my partner has just forgotten to give it to me or they never wrote. OR my GP clinic, who really doesn’t like me as I’m not a good patent, has blocked it, somehow. It would be a massive dick move but I can see them ‘forgetting’ I’m vulnerable because, well, of our history. I have tried calling them, they are not answering the phone.

I haven’t called 111 because up until recently, I didn’t qualify by their rules to call them. I’ve only recently seen an update to call if you’ve had symptoms over 7 days. I’m thinking 25 days qualifies for that. And with that, I run against my other fear. If they want me in the hospital, I’m up against XX amount of people with the virus. Just hold me underwater and let me drown it would be a quicker, more humane death.

I’m actually becoming a little scared. I seem to be surviving the virus but it’s just taking so long to recover! And the fact everyone seems to be either ignoring me or looking through me. I am not sick. I do not exist. I am not worth the paper of a letter to let me know, ‘we are aware of your existence’.

I feel close to giving up.

Murder by pandemic proxy. Maybe.

This is a Gordian knot of a problem. I believe I’ve had corvid 19, my partner dismissed it as nothing. One of my symptoms was muscle, bone and joint pain. Yesterday he comes in and says he fell and hurt his hip. There’s been plenty of times where he’s said he thinks he’s broken a bone and I suggest he go get it checked. He’s refused as ‘there’s nothing they can do’. So, okay. This time I pretty much ignored it. The next time I see him, he’s creeping along. Super slowly. It was so played up I thought it was fake. Still do, mostly. I hurt, he says.

Then he lays on my bed (we sleep in separate rooms. we both snore. He’s deaf. I’m not.), puts his head on my pillow, and coughs. A couple of days ago, he’s breathing hard. Right behind me. I can feel my hair moving. I can feel moisture building on my neck. I ask him not to breath on me. He says; that’s just how I’m breathing. I didn’t ask him to stop breathing. I asked him to stop breathing on me. He didn’t.

He’s never said he feels like he has a fever. He takes zero precautions, that I know of. He’s invited two people in the house after lock down/isolation.

A while ago, I’m at the fridge, digging out a snack. He comes up behind me, puts his arm around my waist, pulls me up against him, and talks into my face. I asked him to back up, mentioning social distancing. He did, but slowly, laughing into my face.*

Now, I don’t know if he’s sick – he’s displaying the symptoms I had. Cough, breathless, aches. I also had fever and runny nose, which he’s not mentioned.

I never got tested (I’m not famous, a politician, sports figure or actor. Even though I have COPD I don’t rate getting a test). So we don’t know for sure if I got it. And the jury is still out on if you can catch it again. But damn if its not like he’s trying to give it to me.

Oh, and btw, I’m still sick. I went 6 days being ill. Two days without fever, then it started all over again. From what I see, you have to go 3 days without fever before you’re considered recovered. I still get low grade fevers, fatigue, runny nose. Is it the same bout or… a second wave?

*I no longer feel safe or comforted by hugs. Especially hugs that pin me against something (like an open fridge) I feel… captured? Confined? Trapped. A few weeks ago, I got a hug by a woman. I didn’t feel trapped. But it was a one armed hug, on the side. I had an escape route. So, maybe there will be hope that someday, I will enjoy hugs again.

Now I’m scared.

They got my hopes up, damn it. Now I’m actually scared. I had managed to get into a comfort zone, ignoring things or just getting on with it. Now I have a dangling hope of escape and it’s scaring the hell out of me.

I’ve been having some tests done on my memory. Not sure if I’ve mentioned my short term memory loss. I can’t hang on to a thought longer than a few seconds. Or as the old expression goes, in one ear and out the other.

About four years ago, I’d been tested for dementia. It was past due for a re-test. My memory is even worse. But they’ve been talking a lot about other things. Lots of side glances and knowing nods. Asking if I want to talk to people and being very willing to make sure it’s ‘on the sly’, or at least, so it’s stuck in with their normal scheduling. Talking about getting me my own income support, about women’s shelters, about emotional help. I didn’t even tell them about the murder attempts. Or maybe I did, using other phrases or word clues that they recognized, that I didn’t know I was giving.

They wanted to know, if I tested positive for dementia, what I wanted to be done. Would my partner care for me? Lots of other pointed questions.

A few years ago, I was free. But the government switched their position and so it was, it was the street or back in with my partner. I chose my partner. But if I ever leave again, there will be no going back. And the government has screwed me once. They can do it again. And I’ll have no backup, no net, no hope. I’ll be totally screwed.

The last (and only) time I tried calling a helpline, I hung up before they answered. My hands shook for hours after.

They’re going to have to do some almighty talking to make me think it can be a permanent freedom. If there’s a remote chance it can go sour I won’t even start it. I can’t take that kind of fear.

I’m too tired for this shit.

The other day, I asked my partner where the large ace bandages were. I’d done something to my knee while sleeping, suspect I’d laid on it in such a way the joint slid sideways slightly. It hurt like hades and was difficult to walk on. Now, I didn’t tell him why I wanted the bandage or what I think I’d done. I just asked him where the bandages were.

Two days later, he had a ‘broken rib’.

He can’t tolerate it when it isn’t him that is the sickest. Broken bones are the unprovable go-to for being suddenly, without reason, sick. His bones have been brittle in the past, but he’s been on the ‘normal’ scale for some years. Yet he can break bones by – breathing. Sitting. Laying down. When he has a broken rib, he finds it difficult to walk. Tells me constantly he’s an old man, now. He grunts with each step. Moans picking up a cup. Takes baby steps. The problem with all this – he only does it when he thinks I can see or hear him. He takes tiny steps until he can’t see me. Then he walks normally. It’s so incredibly childish. I tell him to go to the hospital. He says there’s nothing they can do for him. I think there’s only so much faking you can do and you can’t fake an x-ray.

This is only one example. It happens every single time.

And I’ve recently had a couple of things happen that have kind of freaked me out. He knows about one of them but not the other.

I was cooking some chicken legs. Put them in the oven, set the temp and the timer, gave them 30 minutes. The timer goes off, I check on them, and decide they need another 15 minutes. I could not, for the life of me, set the timer. I’d push the little clock icon and it kept telling me 17 hours – I couldn’t get it to change! (it was 5pm.) After messing with it for a few minutes I finally went to ask him for help. About 2 inches to the right of the clock icon is a dial, that you turn, to set the timer. Remember, I’d just set it 30 minutes previous! The second he turned it, I remembered, yeah, that’s how you do it. But when I was trying to do it…my vision kind of ended on the clock icon. I didn’t even see the dial just to the right. It wasn’t there. I didn’t think there was something there. It was just …blank. This hasn’t happened again since then, but that scared the crap out of me.

Then a few days later. I feel an abrasion on my finger. Look at it and see this scab like thing. My nose had been running so I thought it was a bit of dried snot I’d not noticed. Tried to wash it off. It didn’t wash off. I look closer. There’s a divot in my finger – a gouge about the size and shape of a long-grain rice, with this tiny, hard scab. It’s deep (rice size), but it’s not red. It’s not sore. No blistering. Just a gouge with a tiny scab. I have no memory at all of hurting myself. I have no idea how long I’d had it (must have been some time, it was pretty much healed by the time I saw it. Or noticed it, rather.) And that scared the fuck out of me. I didn’t tell him about it. I didn’t want to see what he’d do to himself to top that.

Come to think of it, I think he did top it. Maybe a week later we were expecting an amazon delivery and his medication. The door buzzes, he goes to answer it. He thanks the amazon guy, sets the box next to the door and goes into the kitchen. I ask what the delivery is. He bitches that the medical people only delivered one box. I’m looking at the amazon box. I tell him its an amazon box. He says his dry goods delivery got shorted, he’s only got one box. He has gotten very forgetful lately. But that kind of confusion, I don’t know. I do know it happened after the oven incident.

I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. The problem with dealing with a known lier is you can’t tell when they’re telling the truth. And I’m sounding paranoid. One of the tells for getting gaslighted is you start thinking you’re crazy.

Or, as one of my ‘friends’ once said, maybe you are crazy.

I did have an appointment to have an MRI, before an as yet unset appointment with the memory people. I had a massive asthma attack and had to cancel the MRI. I asked him to call the memory people to see if I could still be seen without it. The front desk woman wanted to ‘reschedule’ the (as yet unset) appointment for six months. Partner said that the decision was above her pay grade and to have the doctor call. The doctor has not called. He has not followed up on it. They already ‘lost’ me once, missing two years of follow-ups. I guess I’m going to get lost again. I could call, myself, of course. But for two things. I’ve developed some weird-ass phone phobia. And I have a real hard time with accents, I have to watch people’s lips.

One of the reasons I put these two incidences on this post was to help me remember them when I ever get to see the memory clinic again. It may not matter.

I’m tired. Not necessarily physically tired, but emotionally tired. I don’t feel like I have any endurance left. I can’t just keep on fighting it.

I’m also having some language problems and the social problems that come from it. But that is for another post.

I’m a woman of means!

I was once advised there were two subjects that would have the most negative impact on your marriage. Sex and money. And boy, ain’t that the truth.

Up until now, I felt fairly confident I couldn’t lay the charge of financial abuse at his feet. Sure, there were a couple of times where he was on shaky grounds. Like when he sold the family car to a friend of his. He didn’t volunteer how much he sold it for – and I didn’t ask. I didn’t ask because I knew very well he basically gave it away. I never saw a dime of it – he didn’t even just give me a couple of bucks. It went into a drawer and was handed out over the weeks, you guessed it, to his friends.

Or the time he was given an envelope of cash, which he kept in my desk drawer. I didn’t count how much was in it, I really didn’t care. But a few months down the line, I happen to see the envelope and wonder how much it was. I opened it to find 120 USD in there. When we got it, it was a good 1 inch thick. He refused to say what he’d done with it, except when I said, What did you do with it? he said: I can’t do anything with dollars! Which is, you notice, not an answer. He gave it to ‘friends’, I’m sure. For me not to notice him taking it, he had to have come sneaking in while I slept, and take out a few bills, here and there. He really can’t be trusted with large sums of money. He gives it away to ‘friends’. And I’m sure his ‘friends’ would dry up if he suddenly didn’t have cash to give away.

So, now we are caught up.

His brother recently gave him some money. Ah, let us tell it like it happened. He comes in, and says, while I was visiting brother, he told me he’s giving away some money to all his brothers and their wives. He gave me Eleventy-Thousand dollars!* in this breathless, over the top voice, that tells me he’s lying. This voice is one I recognize when he’s trying to either get a rise out of me or when he doesn’t want me to look too closely at it, but at whatever he says next. He says: He gave me Eleventy-Thousand dollars and I’m giving you half! You’re going to get Sixity-Hundred dollars! You are a woman of means! You’re rich! You can do anything you want with it, it’s yours! The money arrived last week, you’re rich!

At this point, it’d been almost 6 weeks since he got back from his family trip. I said: so it took you a month before you got around to telling me, and another week since you’ve actually had the cash?

He looks at me blankly. I don’t think this was part of his pre-planned conversation. He continues: now that you’re rich, you can help pay for any appliances that need to be replaced. ahh. There it is. The take back. Every single thing he has given me, he has taken something back. There is no free gift. New paint on the bedroom walls? Get rid of the hundreds of book. New carpet? Give away the dvds. Trip to Egypt? Stop smoking. New monitor? Oo-aw, so pretty, I think I’ll keep it.

Then the next day; you’re a woman of means, now! You can pay for your own charity. Me: you’ve always paid for both of us. Are you saying you refuse to pay mine now? Him: you’re a woman of means now! …nickel, dime, nickel, dime. And he’s clawed back a good portion of the money.

Due to some circumstances beyond our control, he has the money in an account of his other brother. Technically, it’s not ours. But we have access to it. Or rather, he has access to it, I do not. But all I need to do is ask him for any of it that I want, and he’ll get it to me. In my world, that’s called a gatekeeper.

Now I was already suspicious over the way he presented this wonderful opportunity to be a woman of means. And the take-backs. I’m suspecting something is off. So I asked him to show me the money in the account. He pulls it up, but does not open the full monthly account. The total shows not Eleventy-Thousand bucks – it shows Twentity-Two Thousand… and change. It showed, in other words, double the amount he told me.

My heart died just a little bit.

And I’m not sure why, but I didn’t press him to open it fully. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Why the hell I did that, I don’t know. I’m a coward? I couldn’t face that he would do that to me.

Now I sit here and wonder what I should do. I can;

Take the money, literally, have him pull the amount given to me, in cash, and stuff my pillow with it. It can be bolt money – used if I need to run.
Leave the money in the account and use as wished, because hello, even the fraction he’s willing to give me is more than I’ll ever see in my life.
Refuse the money, because my sense of moral outrage wants to one-upmanship him.

I could also ask him to again open the account. After all, he’s told me I can have access to the money any time. So that account holds ‘my’ money. Then, open the account fully and make sure there was only Twentity-Two Thousand in there, and that there hadn’t been One-Hundredity-Thousand at first, before it being moved along.

He’s starting to sound like a drug lord. But no, he’s not smart enough to be a drug lord. I will take his reason his brother was giving away his money before he died, so it doesn’t get tied up in taxes and lawyers. His brother would have to give away money to everyone, so no one contested they didn’t get what they should have.

The thing is, this whole thing has really stressed me out. What do I do? I’m such a damn coward. My heart is having a rough time of it. And by that I mean, it’s beating arhythmicity. I’m hyperventilating, breathing on the top of my lungs. I’m dizzy. My hands shake. I’m actually afraid I won’t make it through the night. I could die in my sleep.

And he gets all the money to himself, gets rid of me, and he’s innocent as hell. Fuck that. If I go, I want to take him with me.

No, I’m not going to kill him. I’d have to clean up the blood. No. I … seriously. The only thing I’ve ever, ever wanted, is for his family to know what a fucking dick he is. They all think he’s this kind, generous, caring, sweet guy. don’t you just love him to bits? But he’s not.

And his ganking me out of a lot of money (and making sure I have to go through him to get at it) means I can add financial abuse to his list.

*Eleventy-Thousand dollars exaggerated for comedic effect.

EDIT: all kidding aside. I realize I need to make something clear. The amount of money gifted to my partner is peanuts. I am poor – I’ve been poor all my life. Any amount of money that pays at least my monthly rent is a lot of money. Most people would consider it their coffee money for the month.