That was good idea, wasn’t it?

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Drugs are bad, isn’t that a given?  The obvious is over stated, isn’t it?  Stuck in the aftermath with blood on my hands.  I’m angry.  Shreds of everyone touched by this, as I pick up the pieces.  My blood, his, my children…

What do I want?  I was asked that, this is so far past what I want.  My voice has vanished, it’s just gone.  Nothing I want in any direction matters at all. My role in this is now from the outside looking in. 

It’s been a week since that pivotal moment.  One week since I needed to wake the fuck up or be dragged so far down that I would burn what little of me I had left. 

The marks have faded, my body doesn’t hurt anymore.  Some part of me wished it did still hurt, you can feel that, see it.  It acts as dark reminder.  It’s a morbidly delightful way to avoid the emotional work, which will hurt more than the marks on my body. 

I still love him.  It doesn’t matter if I do or don’t.

 He loves his drinking, his using.  Not a world I want a part of.

He will always be someone no one else can be, we share a childhood.  We have the same stories, we get the little things that come with the same elementary school to high school years.  Sometimes we would get lost in our conversations, the cost of popcorn, the kick ball, the games played at gym at the side field.  Our 5th grade teacher who would bust his guitar out every Friday and sing Old Time Rock & Roll.  Our baseball coach Mark, Dairy Queen after a win or what it felt like to go Fenway and sit in the bleachers. 

There was contentment with him that yearning of wanting to go home never came back. 

I can’t fucking fix this.  I’ve resolved myself to accepting he may never want to fix himself.  It doesn’t matter for me anymore. 

I was in the paper, what he became last week under the influence, what he did to me because he choose a substance over help. His drinking is what hurt me and what saved me.  He said I was leaving, he flung my body at the window again and again telling me I was going through it.  Colorful adjectives compliments of intoxication. 

I wasn’t afraid.  I was in self-preservation mode.  Fight or flight.  I wasn’t afraid of what he would do, I knew he would do it.  To flee was survival instinct at its best. 

I know what fear is.  I know what that feels like.  I’ve always landed in ‘fight’, anyone who knows me, knows I don’t flee.  My default is fight-always.  I can be an over confident cocky handful. My instincts knew ‘fight’ would end poorly, he’s a foot taller and 100bs heavier.  Strung out.  Pivotal. 

They took him out in cuffs, after they broken down my door. 

I am now a card carrying victim, PFA and all.  He sits in jail with a $250,000 bail. 

I hear jail sucks.  He has nothing.  I am ok with that. 

-mk

 

 

 

Then there were 4

 light-671915_1920The things that mattered to him were all packed and put in his car.  I threw a notebook at him, “if he cared”, I knew he wouldn’t pick up that notebook, it had nothing to do with him caring or not.  He had spent his day drinking and when that took hold, the only care was what addiction would allow. 

Human relationships not factor in anymore. 

He drove away, there were not any goodbyes.  He spent the last two days spinning anything he could to justify.  He doesn’t have a substance issue, I just have an irrational fear of alcohol. 

Sure thing buddy. 

This is what I should have done last year.  I didn’t, so in some ways this is far more devastating.  He was here, clean and we all started to settle into being a family.  My husband was here these past few months when I was dealing with the crisis around my daughter, he was my rock.   

When I wanted the world to disappear, I would lie in his arms on his chest.  We would watch a show and he would peek down when he thought I had fallen asleep.  I would give anything to have that back and none of this be happening. 

He left, the smell of him was not existent, and all I could smell was these past few days was booze.  He stopped showering and doing anything.  He held space, dishes piled up and he hid in what was our room. 

He said vile and hurtful things.  I knew there was nothing I could do or say to reach him.  His mind was made up.  He got a chunk of money and he could finally up and leave and do whatever he and his bottle wanted.

I’m heartbroken, I love him.

I’m relieved, I hate who he is when on something.

I know that this is an albatross of a trigger for abandonment trauma I have.  I feel the panic start to build, I can’t go there because the person who smelled of booze isn’t my husband.  That panic isn’t the person who left- the person I told I don’t want here. 

I will not travel this road with him again, I want him out of my life.  I don’t care if he spins it in his head that I am some monster, I could care less. 

I don’t care or want to know what this implosion will look like.  He had being clean, he had a family and love, a chance to grow and be happy. 

I make him miserable, he so kindly told me.  No wonder, I’m standing in the way of drinking or using.  The disappearing act of Labor Day, when he so desperately needed to go to his cancer stricken mom… conveniently timed when I stumbled across his undeleted calls to superstrongincense.com. 

It wasn’t the not spice-spice… It was his bath salts order that was being shipped to his mothers house. 

Well isn’t that the best of choices, not spice-spice that landed him in Spring Grove State on a hospital warrant for 4+ months. He assaulted a guy while using and manipulated the state of Maryland to get an NCR plea -which not having the full picture at the time, seemed legit.

He left his daughter at a movie theater to get high on his “legal” brain rot.  She watched her dad get taken away in an ambulance. 

He hasn’t seen her since July 2015.  The sweetest, sensitive, sheltered just enough that at 12 she was more a child than a teen and it rocked her. The last time, she didn’t see her dad for over a year. 

This time she pulled all her hair from her eyes brows and lashes, and almost all the hair on her head, leaving her more bald than not. 

Bath salts seems like a splendid idea. Why didn’t I think of that option!

He sounds like a vile human being when you start touching on the negative.  I think that, in part, is why human nature has us hold the good. 

If I told the world this isn’t who he always was, that what I’ve lived through with him these past few years isn’t who is really is, that in some codependent way I want the world to know only his beautiful side…

He isn’t this, none of this is who he is but it is what he has become. 

Yesterday, all I could smell was booze.  I told him to get out and his stuff was at the front door.  I was angry I had to make sure my kids were not home, I can’t and won’t have it in our home.  I wanted him desperately to get out as fast as he could and I desperately wanted him to stay. 

On some levels, that smell and ice in his words made it easier to bear.  I threw his stuff out, I hit him with a shoe box that spilled open… his prized challenge coins lay on the ground.  Mental clanging on the concrete, coins given to the man he was before this… The CIA, FBI, High Value Target….scattered.  What he is now, he’d never receive such honors that once were bestowed upon him.  Sad.

His dumb ass was too busy video tapping me on his phone, fodder to feed the tail he will inadvertently sell to his family, who in turn will regurgitate back to him -that I am the monster addiction had him make me out to be. 

The devastation, the smell, the vitriol that came from him like diarrhea of the mouth.  There is no tape of that, those pieces can’t hold a spot because it would make him accountable to himself. 

There was no video as his Prius drove off and I was shattered.  No video as I sat in a ball on the kitchen floor crying to the empty house and profound loss.  No video as I looked around the emptiness of our room, praying fate would leave me finding a forgotten shirt that had his smell. 

He doesn’t know I didn’t mean for the shoe box to hit him.  He told me I was vindictive, he will always believe I threw that box at him.  I threw his stuff out because if I didn’t, I would have stood there crying for a person who wanted nothing more than to go – I was in his way. 

I said once I couldn’t delude myself that this was what had taken hold, was real.  I would make him leave. 

You can lie just enough to yourself when you find undeleted numbers, pretend the glossed over eyes isn’t what you dread it to be.

He flaunted it, with a drink in hand. 

He couldn’t not drink.  That was what he wanted more. 

Life got dropped on me, I have a dead car that I can’t afford to fix.  I need a co-signer to get a car loan – I’m still paying on a car I totaled at a red light.

He said he would.  Now that’s a power trip and it’s a no.  Fair enough.  No, we don’t need to talk.

I have kids that have appointments all week.  Work I can’t get to all week.

My son has homecoming tonight.  I live in rural PA, I have no way to get to the flower shop to pick up his corsage. 

No one is here to tie his tie, my son was worried about having his tie, tied.  My husband told him not to worry, he would help him.

I have no way to drive him to pick up his date, take them to dinner and the place they are having pictures.

No way to pick him up after the homecoming dance.

My husband didn’t give a shit.  He did nothing but drink and escape while the rest of us scrambled.  He had his cup, his drinking of the day.  He wanted that, he didn’t give a shit about anything else. 

I promised my son I will make tonight happen, and I will do just that. 

 

The Next Crisis is?

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It feels like an entire life time of shit has piled on in the past few weeks.  If there was something that could go wrong, it went text book, mock you while its pissing on you – wrong. 

Wrong enough that you want to sit in a corner and just cry and give up – but you can’t.

Since July it’s been one dramatic event after the other.  You can’t make this shit up, that type of dramatic shit.  One after the other after the other. 

My little one disclosed a sexual assault that she had been holding in for years, she disclosed to the camp director.  A phone call from camp started a flood of crisis that doesn’t seem to want to settle down yet.  I don’t think there has been a span of 5 solid days since that phone call came in that has had any sense of not bracing for the Next. Fucking. ‘thing’. 

That disclosure should be enough, thanks world but the rest of the shit – let’s reschedule that. 

Saturday morning and I finally had my beloved lifeline – a screen and a keyboard, my familiar ability to escape to vastness of the internet.  This little gem has come home, just back from an adventure to replace the battery that up and quit.  Almost a month ago.

My car thought that sounded fun too, it sits down the road with the collecting’s of fall settling on it.  It’s dead.  I don’t have the $4500 to fix it, I don’t think I’d pay it if even if I did.  That is my second car that has meet the end of its life with me, in 9 months I’ve managed to fuck up care ownership X’s 2.  The idea of paying more than the car is worth to fix, doesn’t sound all that exciting. 

It did what I asked, it was only meant to fill the space before I would buy a new one.  The notion it would be passed off to the teen, affording her the right of passage to terrorize the locals untethered to parental nagging.  Not this time. Who thought it a good idea to give a teenager a license?

I bought that car outright, I’m still faithfully paying on car one, the car I somehow managed to total from a complete stop.  Thank you SUV with tow hitch.  Life lesson – always get gap insurance. 

I could be car shopping today, *could* being the operative word here.  Of course *could* was part of the last two cars.  I owned both of those, I bought both of those.  There was a fight around car one, over hearing my husband talking to his serial bachelor “professional” friend saying he wasn’t going to finance a car with me and take on “my debt”. 

That whole married thing, clearly financing a car with your wife is crazy town.  Instead I spent my Saturday catching up on work I missed because of the obligatory weekly crisis. 

Now it’s Monday, still don’t have a car.  Still have a pile of shit I have to take care of.