All Lawyered Up for Divorce the Addict Day

letgoI’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.

-mk

If the Addict in a Psych Ward Says You’re Crazy, it MUST be True!

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I’ve been playing new card game with the youngest of my spawn, she keeps winning.

Unlike the game of my life with Kleo, where he keeps winning and everyone keeps loosing. He’s losing himself in his own mess.
I successfully pissed him off again, he came out swinging as predictable. Addicts are always predictable.

I was grateful he told me I have a mental illness, I’ve found in life that the people who can’t go a week without a destructive and unhealthy escape from reality are the best judgers of another person’s sanity.

By doubting his words and making that doubt a public confession, I am now declared mentally ill by my estranged husband. Whew. I see how it is all. My. Fault.
Doubting the motives of an addict seems to inflicts as much pain on them as not having their drug of choice.

Yes, he is making moves to attend rehab at a VA in PA instead of MA. But… (there’s always a but), that move isn’t out of some intrinsic desire of ‘I’ve ruined my marriage, my life, *I* have to take action and own my own shit.

That would novel.

It’s a legal move to lift a bench warrant, a 28 day stay to buy time to play the part. Because he’s smart.

Right after that 28 days, he will go back to mommy who makes it all too easy for him to go right back to doing what it is he really wants to do.

And right back to the ‘oh my god I’m losing my easier access to using what/when/where and how I want’.

Maybe he is for real…this time. My lack of overt enthusiasm is my apparent mental illness.
Or maybe it’s I just live in reality. Would rehab be on the table if the price of not rehab was there? I think not.

I’ll excuse myself now so I can return to my padded room.

-mk

Mug Shots, Money & What I Owe Him

It’s tragic, sad really, always ends up right back here. I talk to the void and he will

kleo mug shot
http://lancasteronline.com/news/local/police-marietta-man-tried-to-push-his-wife-out-a/article_67e1e0c6-9a28-11e6-ad9c-c7f7b968d962.html

probably call mommy, bff or the bro.

They can all gather up their skewed and distorted senses of self-righteousness, pat themselves on the back as he tells them another story of his noble efforts and my clear as days toxicity, blame, fault shifting.

See, I’m not good for him. I would eat my own leg if any off if any of  them bothered to look at him as part of the problem.

That’s my legal spouse Kleo, that was his face in the newspaper when he tried to push me out a second story window.  As you can see, he is clearly the victim here, just ask him or his very healthy family – they will set you straight and tell you what he told them.  You can all believe it, feel sorry for poor Kleo and visualize that mug shot being me.  He just needs “help”.
He’s sad and pathetic. Stuck in this place that he is somehow the victim and I owe him. If only I was a better wife, mother, human,…insert here:


Because his things are not the very most important things in my world, I’m simply nothing but the problem.

Apparently his family is an avid reader of my blog. Honored, I do hope they are find fodder for his defense or the reasons they need to keep the sick, sick. Go on with your bang up job of enabling!

What kind of family does one come from that their own tries to push his wife out a window and not one them questions why they suck to such a level they don’t worry about their peps wife (who in theory, he would have loved)… the kind that is just as fucked up as he is.

Because you wouldn’t give a rats glittered covered ass about the wife if she hadn’t already been well established at the scapegoat well before that fateful day.

I’m glad mommy is there to filter and protect her little 41yo addict from the wife. Did I say wife, I forgot, usage of that title is me being “entitled”.

This is another rendition of my token addict spouse on paper attempting to use and manipulate me. Hopeful I’ll crawl back and beg to be in the dark shadows of his omnipresent light.

Not today. He isn’t anywhere close to owning and wanting to be sober. He’s still camped out in the placate the problem enough to get by. Some people, addicts, who risk the loss of a spouse, family and home.. that’s their bottom. The heavens open and they see the broken trail of hurt and want to not be that.

That’s not my husband. But if you ask him, our marriage didn’t count anyway. I owe him, money, lots and lots of money. He doesn’t have a problem, I was the cause of his woes.

Why on earth would an alcoholic/addict need money for!!!!????

He feels “hope” for the first time in a long time! Hope I say. His 3rd or 4th crazy ward stay, a couple police run ins, rouge 22yo, mommy turning a blind eye to his drugs and everyone believing his story. That’s hope right there.

I was wrong, I “hoped” he didn’t push me out the window and I end up dead. I “hoped” he stopped putting pressure on my neck so I could breathe again.  I “hoped” he didn’t throw me down the stairs.  I “hoped” he didn’t find me before the police arrived.

I hope he goes to jail for a long time, he won’t because he’s smart and plays it well. He has no moral compass to not lie and spin.

I’ve hoped the entirety of this time that who he has become in all of this wasn’t who he really is, the more time passes, the more I let that hope go.  That hope was driven by loving someone who loves his fix more.  If all of it was a product of mere addiction, or concurrent disorders.  Supports, programs exist and there are those who beat the odds.

In all of it, I had to hold that side of hope.  It’s got a much better ending than wanting the good guy turned loser in jail.


I know this is my contribution to the problem, my level of enmeshment that can cause more harm than good.  Harm to me and harm to him.  I delude myself sometimes to think I can walk that fine line and not sway too far to being differently, but no less as unhealthy to the big picture.

It’s hard.

It’s scary as hell and terribly lonely.

If I could go back in time, I’d erase the chapter of his hell from my life. I can’t be him -drug it away while crying for feigned help to distract those who care. He is my scarlet letter.

For now I’ve blocked his phone numbers, created myself a false sense of lull, sent his emails to a separate folder and prepare myself that in order to take the hard steps forward, I’ll have to tell the therapists.  I don’t want to, I’d like to pretend I didn’t talk to Kleo and just tell them I had a boring weekend.

I’ve done enough damage in this, my own unresolved issues fueled part of this whole life with him that didn’t help it.  I know I didn’t cause it, I can’t control it… I don’t deserve the way he treats me.  Addict or not, no one deserves to be treated hiding behind excuses for ones own issues.

When my body was being slammed to the wall and my vision started to go when he had his arm around my neck, that was my bottom.  I’m a child of an alcoholic and I’ll carry that for eternity.  A healthy person may not have found themselves at the hand of a altered person they thought they could ‘help’.  Not one that left bruises and broken blood vessels in your eyes at least.

Sounds bad, don’t worry, Kleo made sure he’s spun that so much that I *think* he actually believes I did that to myself.  If he told me I “pretended”, and that I “put marks on my body” and his mommy told me I “set him up”.  I’m sure he believes that concocted version and in turn, so do his cohorts.

I could have left my children without their mother that day.  Because I thought I could “help” someone who doesn’t want to help themselves more than anything else.

Our family has family based therapy, I have a trauma therapy and individual therapy. The family based are anything but ‘traditional’ and they hand picked someone who can “put up with my bullshit”.

I’m not easy.

I’ll carry my ass to therapy, tail between my legs and admit I talked to Kleo when I knew he could’t be on something and I grabbed it like a life line wanting it to be the very moment he wanted to clean his ass and life up.

I knew it was bullshit, I knew.

-mk