I’ve hit the wall, the wall refuses to budge. Meanwhile I duck for cover because I just gave new meaning to the saying “piss off the pope”.
I’ve probably managed to get the full blown ‘hate’ label now. I feel bad, but not in the conventional sense. I feel bad because someplace deep within me, I failed. I didn’t do enough, I did too much, I wasn’t good enough, I’m too good… and on and on.
It failed. He is the addict, but he isn’t the one I blame. Blame is an easy out, you can fold it up neatly and tuck it away. Here mother fucker.
We’ve all crossed lines that shouldn’t even be out there to cross. I crossed them out of fear, it all came barrel assed, full force and damn, what the fuck am I doing – go ahead, keep being stupid and touch the hot stove, kinda like that wake up call.
That and way too much therapy.
I’ve idolized what could be and not what it is. Because I loved him. Because I’m a co-dependent who wants to believe I’m not that kind of co-dependent.
I went there, I pulled out my Ace’s, which really are just jokers worth nothing in the grand scheme of things and gave every last fucking bit back to him. I was already so close to that, I knew when it came it would be –would have to be, black and white.
In all the work I’m doing I knew this would come, where it would have to be more real than not, I’d have to be more done than not done. I kept some hope alive, in my own self, just in case. In case he wanted to be free of spice, his addiction was his and his alone and he wanted for him, he wanted to be clean for him because he was worth that.
To be clear, that didn’t happen. Shocking, I know.
I’m sick of being the ‘reason’ his life is in shambles, or the misery that fuels his justifications. Take your toys and go home.
I got a lawyer today, and a job offer. I joined a co-ed league and my first game is Monday. I haven’t played ball in 20 yrs. My work now is to make a life for me and I begrudgingly accepted it was time. I want to meet new people, I want to be touched and wanted again by someone who doesn’t claim love me but speaks and acts hate and disdain. I’m worth more.
I don’t want to wait anymore. I don’t want to write to the “void”, the void is a shared online journal space. I use it, he doesn’t. There is no surprise in that. I lost what could have been, I lost my husband underneath the spice addict. I’m in his way, wherever he is going, I am always in his way. I hate the “void” had been shared for his Mother to read my broken pieces this has left. I hate the “void” is more likely than not, fodder. Shared by any and everyone who rallies behind the spice addicts notion his ‘wife’ sucks. It’s not sacred. We have nothing sacred.
What if his wife didn’t suck, what if I had been something lost in the bottom he doesn’t seem to have gotten to yet? What if he were what I believed was under the addiction and instead of his cohorts regurgitating the horror his wife has done to *him*, they reminded him he loved his wife before he loved spice more?
Reminded him that he loved me when we were kids, there was a connection there.
I have the “void” until Monday/early next week, that’s my self-imposed cut off, that’s when my lawyer writes to his lawyer and solidifies the cutting off direct communication tie. I have a lawyer, divorce papers and when they are filed and I become the “plaintiff”, PA divorce code allows resuming of your maiden name.
I return to him his name and as he says it, my “entitlement” of the ‘wife’ card. I have some nerve don’t I?
I always signed my initials “MK”, since I was a kid even though it was L. My last name holds that initial for a few more days.
I toyed with the idea since I’m solo this weekend, of relishing in being a wife. Wearing my wedding ring and being out in the world, marked by a ring that says someone is home who loves me, *me*. I’m some mans wife.
I’ve lived being Kleos unwanted wife for many months, I’ve stood last in line to spice and every reason I suck in his new world. The ring is tucked away, where it will stay until I sell that bitch and take a vacation. He wants it back, so he can sell it. I’d throw it in the river before I’d let that part of my marriage run risk to being sold for spice. Fuck yourself.
What I write in the “void” aren’t words to him, I have nothing left to say to him because I don’t know who he is anymore.
The further away I get, the more I see that maybe I never did know him.