Dear Wife, please pay this invoice I made up in my head.

Yesterday was one of those days… If it could suck, it would suck in world class style.  Added bonus of being married to my husband.  money-shark-1673085_1920.jpgThat’s a fallacy, he looks like my husband, sounds like my husband but that’s not the reality of which I am part of. 

All things said, I did pretty well.  Co-dependent reactions tempered and I remained in the mindset that I don’t need anything to just love him.  I cannot do anything, or not do anything to control his choices.  The self restraint it takes not to be an asshole right back at him… better, but a work in progress.  Double gold star day for being homicide free!  Rock on.  

I am not asking if he is drinking, or using anything.  It isn’t my business.  I will only intervene should it get to a point where safety is a concern, and if that does I will act from a detached manner.  Ok, doesn’t that sound nice and healthy…ish.  It’s probably in poor taste to admit that I would enjoy way too much if his stupid self got to be one with the police station.  I have issues, clearly as I’m still married to him.

I spent my weekend with him falling just short of verbal abuse.  I heard too many times to keep track of my lack of character and my growing list of human failings for not reimbursing him for x,y,z… as he sees it, which is the only thing we must all pay attention to.

You must all know that he is the victim.  Let me be very very clear on that.  My view on marriage dynamics is completely and totally off the mark. 


He split finances just over a year ago, right after he pulled money out again and I transferred that so it wouldn’t get blown and/or stolen.  Stupid life, like bills and food got in the way. 

After a weekend of the endless going-on, like nails on a chalk board.  He is just about out of all that oh so important money.  I find it comically sad the fixation and victimization, which seems very real to him.  The inflated prices of what he feels owed, and any countering of similar comparisons on my end are of course without value, off the mark, or unrealistic. 

Any finical impact resulting from his active using is out there and exists only in some parallel universe where goats talk and reality is optional.  Clearly an issue that makes grown-ups responsible for poor choices is not relevant. 

As if the threat of divorce if I don’t make taxes right because having to face the realities of the relationship the IRS will want with him,  when I dare take the deductions that I birthed, and oh ya, that job I have.  Life is a mother fucker, ain’t it?

My car decided to break down about a mile away from home.  I would have much preferred to take contacts out with a spork than to have to deal with his skewed reality any more than I already had the pleasure of.

I think not.  I walked. 

My accident prone child has herself a new set of crutches!  They go with her sporty new purple ankle.  Seventeen years of parenting, when I say kids shouldn’t wear heels… What do moms know anyway?  Definitely not the best of ideas for an 11 yo, throwing around a baton while coming uncomfortably close to breaking the neighbors window (more than once) and dodging the ricocheting baton off the power line (more than once).  I think the shoe choice was not ideal. 

Instead of playing outside, because crutches just isn’t where it’s at, at least not yet, I’m sure they will double as a baton like experiment when the ability to stand on both legs returns.  Will that happen before she torments her brother with them or after… bets anyone. 

My day ended with a bonus.  Nothing is ever simple, ever. I will be having hand surgery tomorrow, my car sits at the shop and my husband will take me.  I got him a little note book, he can track his mileage driving me  to and fro and maybe I can get really fancy and design him a custom marital invoice form. 

Save him the trouble of having to track it himself.

I’m such a kick ass wife.   


Hand me the remote while I watch poorly played self destruction


The relief was, of course and as expected-short lived.  The elephant remains the unspoken bane of my existence.  While it sits quietly sucking the life out of everyone, with meaty legs propped on the coffee table…even taking the remote and saying fuck that to watching football, Animal Planet all the way!

I suppose I should be elated and bow down the lure of the ‘legal’- used loosely at best- spice not spice that seems to have been more a step to the edge.  Not yet but denying probability isn’t viable anymore.

I really loathe the hassle of actively using and lying.  It really takes the spunk out of the day.

Can he at least not be that dumb *this* time.

Home he came and it remains a dance and if I want to be honest with myself, it remains my chase.  The epiphany didn’t come to him.  The asshole has returned, the only thing missing is the drug use without it smacking me in the face. The destructive variable that holds the control.  Missing is a matter of degree at this point, not a definitive.

There are times I wish bashing someone on the head would make the light bulb go on – myself included.  If only there was some way to make the otherwise intelligent human being – stop the stupid.  How is it possible to be this much of a dick?  Oh… that’s right, I’m dealing with a spouse who has substance abuse issues, and even knowing that the using is a manifestation of *something*.  I still keep keeping, maybe this time, right?  How many more times?  How many more..???  Co-dependent.

I am the target.  He’s my drug and I play my part of the addiction game like a pro.  Logic eludes me.

Leave or stay clean.  Period. Why the fuck can’t it just be that simple?

Now I’m getting invoiced for my wrongs :).  Apparently I have amassed a substantial debt to material matters he feels finically wronged with and therefore, in case you couldn’t figure that out – what he is owed and dare I say entitled to.

I almost feel bad at the pathetic nature of which he seems to utilize selective amnesia for his own emotional and finical destruction he left in his wake of using his legal, not spice, spice.  Should I trade mark that?

I guess feeling owed and wronged somehow absolves the lying, using, and fact every excuse under the sun has become an excuse not to work.  How does one go from 6 figures to being absolutely incapable of any form of making money?  Self-worth so low… but nah, I’m clearly mistaken that he has a substance abuse problem.

Let us now forget that so long as the website says “legal”, nothing else is of any concern, least of all the ones learning to detach the addict from the human buried underneath.

Since the implosion started in 2013, he has completely drained any and all of his nest egg.  Hundreds of thousands just gone.  I had the nerve to dare file taxes where I would not be held with a tax liability for money I had no idea was being taken out and blown.  How easily we forget that that is a mere fact of choices he and he alone made.

Why look at yourself when it keeps the game in play if  I stuck him with a tax bill.  I do apologize for supporting a family of 5 while half of last year you spent drugged up, walking the streets and oh, ya, temporarily restricted from mingling with society.

I know that prepaying tax penalties restricts buying power.  Doesn’t that burn like hemorrhoid that has an allergic reaction to Preparation H?  I bet it does.

The rehab didn’t seem to be anything more than a place to sleep to buy time until the powers that be couldn’t keep the threat of shoving you right back in the hole – the one you probably should have been left in.  Not because I would wish that, but at least you were safe, I guess we all were… there is that.

Enjoy the dangling of divorce over my head because you don’t like the IRS actually calling you on early withdrawals.   I know that I should have been the good enabling co-dependent wife who took on your erratic drug induced spending spree and the fall out mess you left that is getting in your way.

I must have missed the memo on the shut up and do whatever is needed to help the addict use drugs and rot his brain.

Here we are today, another substantial draining of his funds that I am not privy to.  I am the one who filed for divorce last summer when it seemed he would remain intertwined in the drug world.

Whatever reprieve from that seems to be lurking in the shadows, trying to figure out who to put the scope on.  Not me this time.  You will not get the same script to play out, the one you seem to banking on.

You are walking that line where the only thing that is real is the title you have created for yourself and the one you let drugs take away.


Kuddos for appearing to not be using today, or this week.  I did sign the papers and come November I may just walk away from the ruin you’ve made of yourself.  This time I have set it up so the finality of any actions influenced by drugs, falls right on you.

You don’t think you have a problem, you think and in turn act as an addict.  It doesn’t take me stumbling on your drug order to know how it will play out.

I don’t have the battle of addiction driving me to all extremes to avoid having to look at what it, sadly, is.

Threats, which really are veiled attempts to control the uncontrollable, take note that they are not there this time.  I don’t have any, because your life isn’t mine to fix and I sure as hell have no right to play the part of fixing when you don’t want to not escape in the drugs you think you can control.

It really is sad to watch.

The only thing I have heard for 3 days straight is money you think I owe you.  I wonder if there is an online course on how to spot drug seeking behavior?  I bet I would get an A!

Invoice me. Maybe you can use that invoice for a write off??  It really does suck when you’ve drained the last of the last and you don’t have access to any ones bank but your own.

Remember when you kept your money separate and you were doing well in rehab?  Are you aware that every action since you left rehab has been documented?  Do you realize that while you thought keeping what’s yours and yours alone under lock and key that I haven’t forgotten the level of vile you stooped to last time.  I haven’t forgotten your threats. I let those things fade and queue up to die either way life might go.

To fuel healing, healthy, recovery or searing reminders of what will come back.

I’ve watched you play the disabled card, I know you are insanely intelligent.  Intelligence doesn’t trump an addicted low though. You are anything but disabled, you are dangerously competent.

If that low comes back trying to disguise itself like some ill-fitting dress that should have been burned in the 80’s along with big hair.  You and you alone set the stage.

You are elementary level addict and you try and play in a world you don’t belong.

You don’t buy the hyper vigilance that comes with the territory of being a child of an alcoholic, you don’t buy that it doesn’t have to be you and crack pipe knitting on my living room floor while I bake bread before I can say with certainty – I know your using.

You don’t get that I will know, when the time comes that I see it in your eyes – you couldn’t sleep it off and appear clean long enough by the time I get home.

I knew well before.

I remember when drugs made you its puppet and you played games to keep me from the house.

This time I am well prepared. Even though it is the last place I want to be.

You don’t work by your own volitions.  For a year now, you’ve pulled money out and didn’t bother to say a word.  You’ve paid all your own bills, I have paid mine and the house and the kids.  The very same house I own in my own name.  The car you refused to finance with me because you didn’t want to “take on my debt” is paid in full, titled only to me.

There is no joint anything, no bank account shared.

I do have a little money, I do have some measly assets like my 2006 car.  I knew enough to have conversations where you refused to get a mortgage, where you incurred debt with credit cards I didn’t know you got.  I knew enough to pay bills, to keep receipts.

I knew enough to have some of those conversations in written form – I don’t need to prove they happened or didn’t.  I have your words that you wrote me.

When you become desperate for money, and you’ve left this life to use.  The timing of divorce when you ask for marital money, when you play the unemployed disabled card to the court, like you threatened you would last time and ask for alimony…

How will you manipulate the courts at that point?  You are the one who just put a year of living finically separate and ability to pay your own things, with zero contribution to running a home.  You bought groceries… So did I, most of them actually.

Childs play.  All one really needs to do when dealing with an addict, is hand them the rope.  I promise they don’t need anyones help to hang themselves.  Just pull out your popcorn and sit beside the elephant watching Animal Planet.

We are in a waiting game.  I already won.  I won when I decided to let you have this and love you without condition.

I made a very decisive and conscious choice to love.  Period.  Remind myself that when I wish homicide was a real option that wouldn’t land me in jail that there are healthier solutions!

Will you love yourself enough to not be lost to drugs?

I want to crawl into bed, lie on your chest and be with the person that isn’t this.  I want life to be *if* using crawled back in.

Not this, this is not a matter of *when*.  Not well played either.

I love you.  Love you enough to let it be yours.  It is a tremendous and one of the hardest steps when you have the misfortune of loving an addict.

I love myself to not be lost in this again.


Excuse me while I Google




I like my label, it’s my security blanket and a constant.  If nothing else it’s a blue print that if I look at long enough, I can understand the symbols in the box enough to know the end product is supposed to a building and not a paint by number that someone forgot to give me paint to.

A google search lets me know how being an ACOA is my fast track to a list of predisposed issues that I, along with my label sharing counterparts get handed as a consolation prize for making it to adulthood.

Yay me and the baggage my Mother assured I would carry until I don’t.  Expect don’t doesn’t just come, don’t only goes away when you die.  The best any of us can hope for is to learn to pack our bag with enough efficiency that we only need a carry on and not a luggage cart.

To say it is a lifelong work in progress is an understatement so trite that it becomes easy enough to let the label (known to us or not) smack the rest of the world so hard that’s all they see.  All we let them see.


We are different, you see that front because we have devised our life in such a way that you see only what we want you to see.  The security blanked becomes a feeder, forever sustaining.

If only I knew who I was past being the byproduct of an alcoholic.

Thank god I have google.



Tomorrow still came

I remember the smell, it was faint and heavy – inescapable.

I was pregnant with my son and I had a 2yo daughter. jport

We all have a story about today.  There are the adults who knew what the world was like 15 years & 1 day ago.  There are the kids, no different than mine who don’t know anything else past today of 15 years ago.  My daughter, the ones who can’t remember but wasn’t born in the world she would grow up in.

She was the before.  She was after.

I wished I was not pregnant as I sat watching as it unfolded.  I would have rejoiced if I could have made my pregnancy go away like turning off a light switch.  I felt helplessly selfish, helplessly guilty with my rounded belly growing a life of another human that would live post 9/11.

How dare I bring a human into whatever the world would look like.

Protective mama bear is some distorted and illogical though process to protect my young.

The world is different now.  Its difference isn’t as marked and dramatic as it felt it would be in the days that followed.  That difference is there, it’s just woven its way and made our new normal.

That baby I was growing, that toddler I had both ended up with a little sister.  Life went on even after illogical guilt of pregnancy that just happened to be that day that was like any other day should have been.

In some ways they are lucky, they don’t know any different.

I flew a couple days after from Dulles, my little toddler buddy by my side with her big blue eyes and head of curls.  None the wiser to the shared silence and men holding assault rifles, there only to protect us from ‘them’ when any one of us could be them.

Who in the fuck wants to get on a plane when landing on a runway or into a building is now our unknown, and would we get peanuts either way?

That smell went away, the skies became flight paths again and they eventually went back to the background noises they were on the 10th.

Little baby boys still were born and birth years of 02+  that weren’t scarlet letters of selfish parents too stupid not to know better to bring more life to the insufferable world we would live in now.

I took a toddler on a plane right after, almost 15 years later the baby in my belly was ready to take his first flight he could remember.  He didn’t need me for more than anything but a ride to the airport.

He can’t know the difference.  He will always be the after, like we are the after of Pearl Harbor.  It’s a story told that we live in, that we become the creators of what it will be in the after of events so powerful they change the world.

Resiliency of human nature that isn’t an effort, it’s embodiment of new norms. 

With his ticket in his hand and the way teens brush off smothering Mothers who let their baby go on planes we’ve fooled ourselves into complacency – that taking our shoes off means that plane isn’t going to be flown into a building with my child on it.  Right!?

Doesn’t he know that me not being able to go to the gate with him isn’t how it always was?   He managed to find his shoes and fall into the crowd, find his gate and land in Boston.  No peanuts.






He is leaving the state today.  He needs to go to his sick Mother, I call bullshit.  Not that she couldn’t use the company, the help.  She does after all have cancer, it only makes sense that he to rush to her aid.  Right.  Now.

Keep that story contained and controlled.  We are a game of chess, you are the King.  Everything else can be sacrificed, even the Queen.  The deliberate sacrifice of a queen in order to gain a more favorable tactical position.  Isn’t this all about logic anyway.

Like the last two ever so fun rounds of drug using and co-dependency (gold star for my flawless rendition of co-dependency).

Four hundred miles and a cancer diagnosis has enough truth to it that no one there will question why.  No one will see the moves aren’t strategy, they are power.  He still thinks he is in control.  Maybe he is.  King or not, that power is strong but the reach isn’t.

Aside from the fact this is what he does, he takes off and stays for days on end in some dive motel.  I wait.  I worry.  I chase & fool myself thinking this time it will matter.

It hasn’t yet.

Aside from the fact he admitted he ordered his drugs and they are coming.  If he were here, I might or the kids might get in the way of wherever the hell he bought.

Last time I handed his drugs to the police.  He’s still butt hurt from that.

Oh ya, and his Mom has cancer.  Focus.

There is always a reason to go. There is always a reason why.  Always a compelling something and never what it looks like.  Run and hide, escape reality in a bottle or now spice…again.

Shit, did I call it spice?   He gets displeased when I call it that. At least I didn’t have the nerve to say it was an illegal drug he purchased online!

It’s not illegal, it’s not spice.  The website clearly states legal in all 50 states.  Skating by with loopholes, clever packaging and a chemical concoction, an unregulated cocktail of brain rot courtesy of not being spice and not being illegal.   Demographics.

Rest easy.  This is a cut and dry case of my issues again, here I go being an ACOA, projecting my unresolved childhood issues onto him, again.

He doesn’t have a problem though.  His Mother has cancer.

What kind shit bag of a wife would ever question the sudden urgency to walk away from your family, how dare I.

She had cancer a week ago, a month ago, in the spring.  She had lumpectomy in June.  Clear margins post op & a year of radiation.  She is a wonderful woman, a positive prognosis and cancer that was caught before it spread.

Obviously the pressing nature of her cancer is why he must go.  It’s why a week ago when I had enough denial of my own, I was able to maintain the façade of a family.  I was able to overlook what may or not have been there.

I was able to get up and go to work.  Able to share a family of 5 with my husband.  If his Mother needed extra help, plans to fill his absence could be made.

Cancer is scary.  It’s taxing regardless.  The need to go is less about the need in an emergency.  It is at a place where help can be planned.  This isn’t a case where life is being sustained and death is in the ICU waiting room.

Last week, I could leave for work and not be bound to school hours dictating a pocket of time to bring in the big bucks.  I was living the high life, exulted to throwing the 3 humans dependent on me real Cheerios to eat instead of generic bagged cereal.  Go me.

I was still able to come home, some creation of dinner and the ability to bask in ice tea, lemon aide, soda… something cold that he would hand to me when I came home.

We all would sit down to a meal he crafted and sometimes found himself on the receiving end of my evil eye as he pushed my food rules… questioning if that really is a lingering touch of sardines I taste…  He says I like them.  Cue evil eye.  He is one hell of a good cook.

Cue the tears I’m trying keep in.

That was last week.  When my world wasn’t cruelly thrust back to who he turns into when he smokes that shit.

He hasn’t used those mail order ‘legal’ not spice, spice yet, he says.  Who knows, it doesn’t matter now does it.  He made his choice.  What he does or doesn’t do next has to be on him.

Selfishly I wish it was as simple as just helping his Mom, and it was really him being the decent human I know he is.  Selfishly I don’t want to believe the dive motel 10 miles away meant more because he no longer was accountable to his family.  His marriage.  The sacrificial queen.

No one wants the sting of having to accept you really are nothing if you stand in the way of using.

400 miles away to help his Mother with cancer.  Sounds convincing and conceivable.  It has enough weight to it that he will be able to get away with it up there.

Paradoxical thinking.  Never denial.

Enough weight to gloss over that he picked whatever solace he needs in a mail order drug.

You have to be clean, or you have to go.

Your wife kicked you out.  Not her broken heart.  Not the hell of owning I have no control.  I can’t fix this.  I have to love you so much that I have to let you have it back.

That drug is what changed the end game.  Her cancer diagnosis is very real & there is enough miles from here to there to make it work.

I just became a single Mother.  I have to scramble to find childcare before and after work.  I am the one who has to make it all work.  I have to get them to practice, the doctor, to early morning orthodontist appointments.  I have to pretend that playing taxi to 3 kids is my only woes.

I have to fake it until I make it.  I have to know that it will all be ok, even if ok isn’t what I hoped it would look like.  I have to live in not waiting or worrying.  I have to mourn without anything tangible.

I have to stop wondering if you didn’t email because you smoked yourself to death, or are you in jail…again…because of this drug.

I need to own that shit with a fierceness stronger than any addiction any place.  Fuck that whole one day at time shit, this is one second at a time.  I have to be gentle to myself.  I love him.  That has to somehow be enough.  Today is going to suck ass.  Today I haven’t checked my phone to see if he has left.  I have to remind myself that letting him go, whether he smokes whatever is in that package or not, means letting go.

It mean I need to stop sleeping in his shirt just to catch the smell of his skin.

He looked me in the eye and said it was over.  I know that, I know if he didn’t reach out to get that drug, today would be different.  Over or not has no relevance.  It doesn’t matter one bit what previous moves were made.

The Queen is the right hand of the King.  Relative value.

End game dependent immediately after you make your move.

Check or checkmate?

The pawn in the box – the pull of the drug.  The King is threatened.  You can sacrifice your queen…a well-played pawn becomes the most dangerous piece.

The King is in check, you must try to move out of check.

The Queen is just another piece on the board, no importance past the strategic value she holds.

She doesn’t have the power the King has.

The Queen is the most valuable piece.

The King, the most powerful piece on the board is also the most vulnerable. 



Let go.



That sums it up, too often it stings.  Not always.  The horse again, I let it just be what it needed to be and I spoke my truth.  Not veiled truth, not controlling truth.  Just raw, real.

Very scary.  I owed him that, I owed myself that.

He said it’s as though I see him only as an addict.  No, I saw all of him, the addiction and the beauty, the pain, the fear, and the man I know is still there.

I hadn’t given up on him yet.  Do we ever give up truly if we love them?

This makes me see him as an addict.  The elephant in the room, the fact he lied to me, to himself (hello my nemesis. Denial) You ordered drugs offline.  That action resulted in me enforcing that boundary.

We went from our life.  To apart.  An online order made the world very different, very quickly.

I’m thinking after jail, removal from society, rehab.  The fact you don’t see you as an addict…

I said I wouldn’t ever turn my back from you, I will fight bloody with you.  Not for you.

When you package it all tidy and neat, you had to make your choice.  I let you do just that.

Addiction hurts everyone.  The deception, the piece resigned to masking what you’ve lost.  What you needed me to say, what you needed me to hear.

When I didn’t fill your ears with easy words.  You can focus on anything but the fact your choice, your denial.  Your drug problem that isn’t.

I am well acquainted with my demons.  I don’t always welcome them, too often they make it worse.  They are the ones ready to shove me off the precipice of self-destruction if stand on the edge too long, taunting them with the illusion of control.

Dangerous, stupid to ask to see you when you didn’t want to.  I know it’s easier when there isn’t a person, feelings they’ve cornered you to hear.  Even when they know you don’t hear the same thing they are screaming for you to, begging you to.  Not that easy.

Demons give the lessons, the ones when you stand just close enough to the edge you can see what they want.  Consume you.  Burn you. Own you.

That’s how I see all of you, not just addiction.  I’m uncomfortably close, intimately aware of the grasp and destroying it wants to do.  And now accepting what it has done.

Every reason today.  Every reason to go.  Every reason to not be here.

Why you left instead of saying you want to be clean.  It really doesn’t mean a fucking thing.  I could tell myself it’s the drugs being mailed to you.  I could say what you think you wanted me to say.  I could worry, task myself to doing everything right so you don’t get that package.

Like the little kid I was dumping out my Mothers vodka.  That didn’t work either.  She’s dead, dumped out vodka and all.

I could tell myself that they very messages I keep hearing are absolutes.

It doesn’t mean anything.  I’m not part of that story anymore.

I spoke with simplicity.  It hurts like motherfucker.  I looked at him and I gave him the exact thing he asked for.

I didn’t see him as an addict.  I saw a person that I loved.  No conditions.  I asked for nothing in return. No promises.  Nothing.

I gave what we all want.  I gave him the purest form of love I have.  Love.  Independent love.  Unconditional love and I asked for nothing.

I wanted him to have it.  I wanted him to know it doesn’t matter why, it’s okay to go.  You don’t need to be an addict.  You don’t need to not love me.  You don’t need to be anything but the energy you are this very moment. That is enough, you are enough to just be loved.

Go.  Look me in the eyes and tell me you hear me.

You didn’t want me to see you as just an addict.  I didn’t.  I took your answer as the very person you don’t want me to see you as.

You understood that you too, must let me go.  Let me go for selfless reasons, let me go because you don’t love me.  Let me go because you do.

To let you go I needed to know it was ok to hand all the pieces I’ve held so long, back to you.  It wasn’t about you seeing that drug order was the dictator in all this.

You just needed to be fucking loved.  I love you.  I will miss you.  My non-using person, those arms.  All of you who needed to go, and needed to not have to explain why.

It was about knowing the fear, the unknown didn’t make it about what I didn’t want.

I just love you.

We let go.  I hope it was your truth.  Go love my K.  Go love.


What if this is just a really bad dream



I’m too tired.  It really is the last thing I need is a handful of restless hours of sleep.  If it were a really bad dream, would I wake up and my world not be turned inside out?

Hey world, I’m pretending this doesn’t suck.  Hey world, don’t mind while I try and decipher real vs not real.

It blows either way.   The odds are he is never coming back.  Two days ago I asked him to leave because of that drug.  In two days he’s seen the light and decided drugs ain’t where it’s at, he doesn’t want that drug to take away another thing.

I am his wife after all.  Don’t take the addicts actions personally.  Sure, couldn’t be an easier mountain to climb.

What is scary as fuck, he took everything and not in a spiteful, resentful punishing way.

It’s a whole other flavor of this sucks.  It’s another direction your mind goes when dealing with addiction in people you love.  The nagging part of you… ok, the incredibly unhealthy co-dependent side that is an urgency of logic and feelings fighting each to be the deciding factor in what I should do in this moment, and what I want to do.

I want to think he wants to live happier ever after, even if that fucking drug has had its share of destruction.  I want to think he doesn’t want it, doesn’t see that smoking that shit as his only way out.  I want to believe he knows it’s a life long battle, and he wants to do everything in his power.

It doesn’t matter where you fall apart, it matters how you pick yourself up.

A blog.  I got my tether to nothing as I navigate what I have no control of.  Just my choices.  He’s gotta to want it.  I know that, he is the only one who can decide which road.

Use.  Clean.