After these Two Weeks


Monday, a new week yet again.  I survived a ball to the face and reconstructive surgery.

I survived the low that comes when you get hurt and actually need people to care and be there for you.  I survived that need, the one where your spouse swoops in, cares, comforts and becomes an unyielding support.

When you need *him*, and he wouldn’t give a shit if you needed, wanted or asked for him.  He’s probably too busy with some psych ward pick up 22yo.

The need came and went, faster than I had expected it too.  When big happens, all of a sudden you get hit with this wall of need that crumbles faster than it went up because you stopped looking…expecting a long time ago.

I am lucky, I have people who didn’t blink an eye when I needed.  Those are your people, those are the ones you don’t have to wave a big orange flag in front of and say ‘hey, I fucking need you to man the fuck up’.

They did what people who care do, they buffer the ouch.  I like my people.

I had my low, I had the moment of acceptance where you admit to yourself you aren’t looking for your other half and no one, not one single person thinks you would.

I don’t think anyone called him to tell him his wife was in the hospital.  They don’t have the battle of an emotional lingering tie to ‘what if’.  They see him as the piece of shit he has become.  If I want to be honest, they probably see him as the piece of shit he always was but are not ones to burst my bubble, they care and all.

I would surmise I’m the lucky one, my biggest beef is being ratted out that I couldn’t play ball tonight.

Shouldn’t it be my “husband” failed again… my biggest pet peeve has a lovely sense of boring to it.  You can’t play, Doctor said no.

Where was my “husband”?  Was he at the ball field doing his diligence to keep me from playing?

Nah, he’s probably chatting his life away with his psych pick up.  She probably needs ‘saving’ and lord knows his ego needs to be stroked.  Good on her for giving one up for the team.  A homeless and/or live with mommy 41 is a sure bet healthy relationship choice for a train wreck 22yo.

Can we say trophy?  Why yes we can.

Monday comes to an end, I will crawl in bed to Netflix the night away.  I showed up to my game, even though I didn’t play.

Because you show up, always show up.  I had dinner with the spawn and we played basketball for a while.  The dog, kids, conversation with a teen and a nice fall night.

I get up tomorrow and don’t have to piss in a cup to prove anything to anyone.

Kleo said to me I follow through with what I say I’m going to do… Isn’t that the point?

Why would that be a surprise?  Because I love him, because I wish he would pull his head out of his ass doesn’t mean I don’t spend a vast majority of my time in reality.

Stupid fuck.


The Comforting Mask of Anger

Particularly hard days.  anonymous-657195__480

Fuck me, I haven’t had them in a while, at least not this intense or duration.  I’d have tough spots that would peek around the corner and flip me off and promptly run back off and lurk in the shadows of life.

It’s a day where I wish I did full blown hate.  Hate is easy, safe, dark and comforting.  Hate and anger is a well-rehearsed salvation from hidings of inner self.

It’s two sides of the same coin, simple and complex.  Today is a day I wish the word “therapy” wasn’t in the mix, it’s a day I’d love to bask in the protection of hate and anger.  It would feel easier than this, but it wouldn’t be ‘better’.  Nothing else has been easy during this.

This will pass.  It is strong but it isn’t cut you off at the knees strong.  It isn’t curl up in ball and hide away and hope you never wake up kinda strong.

In October when Kleo tried to push me out a window, I spiraled hard and fast.  Every place I looked he was there.  I’d vacillate between mourning my marriage and the good I thought he was, to crushing sadness of knowing one day, he wouldn’t even cross my mind anymore.

I have never felt the weight of loss like I did those first few months.

One of these days, a ‘hard’ moment will be the last.  From months, to weeks, to day strung together until they were just a random day.  Moments.

Sooner rather than later I won’t be pulled back into this sadness.  That’s sad too.

I would bet his soul, that this bad night last night and this morning was residual from having my face shattered.  When people who do care stepped up and I let them help me, I wasn’t alone.

I broke down only once in the hospital, the ‘I need my husband’, because that’s what husbands do when their wife is a trauma patient and admitted to the hospital.  They are there, holding a hand, comforting – just being there when to physical pain can’t be soothed with fentanyl and morphine.

This far in, if he had what happened to me, happen to him and said I need you here.  I’d come, I’d be there.  It wouldn’t change any of the big picture.

You don’t turn your back when someone is hurting.

Anger, hate, it protects the nervous system.  A relief from inner battles subdued by norepinephrine to provide a temporary respite from what hurts to much to face at the moment.

I love my anger, it’s served me well.  It now is part of me and not what defines me.

I was hurt, he didn’t give a shit.  I was angry he made his choices that make him dead to me.

I’m angry I have some really cool shit that’s positively unfolding in my life, that it’s good, it makes me happy and I’m loving it.  I’m angry I can’t tell him that.

I’m angry I’m not wife any more.  I’m angry at spice – no I fucking hate spice.

But I’m happy too, now I got what was in, out.  Traumatic brain injury is not joke, it kicks your ass.  I’m perpetually tired and sick of being tired.  My face hurts, I am so fucking over soft foods!  I’m over feeling bones move in my face.

I’m ready for the reconstructive surgery on Friday.  Of course my husband won’t be taking me…. But I’m loved and cared for by people who don’t hurt me.

That is good.



Trying not to hate


It’s full circle in some ways, letting go to let new pieces in.  It was a year ago during the last weekend in April became coined as “our weekend”.


Trying not to hate.

It’s been a year and the emotional depth of that weekend, of those people, each of their intimate stories shared as though we all were intricately intertwined with each other.  We went from strangers to baring our souls, each person, each couple.  Pain, love, hurts, betrayals.

I thought the whole weekend retreat idea was bullshit, hooky and I was there for the free food and weekend away.  Experimental therapy, roll play, equine therapy, group sessions and interacting with a bunch of people I didn’t know – fuck yourself.

Trying not to hate.

I think people look at me like I have 7 heads when I tried to tell the story of the stupid horse, when I tried to share how it all wound together to a bigger picture.  The world sees me as a wife of an addict, an addict who choose to walk towards his escape than from it.  The person he tried to push out a window with the only thing I had to show was marks on my body.  The surface hurt, the marks that fade and don’t scar.  That’s what they see.

A year ago was the closest I’d felt to my husband and to people I knew for a fleeting pocket of time.  The therapist there, the other couples, they are the only ones in the world who saw and felt the connection we once had, what was once the us.  The us that existed sans addiction and the “us” that was still a viable piece if only he had chosen to own his shit and own that drug makes a person loose who they are.

Or all the otherwise normal life issues pale in comparison when everyone is hostage to living in the sickness of any kind of addiction.  Who you *thought* or *wanted* never existed in the first place.

Trying not to hate.

That’s a tough one today.  I won the days battle fair and square but seething distain remains well fueled by idiocy that continues.  I shouldn’t be that crass when some human is struggling with addiction and I’m sure a wealth of other internal struggles.

When the light shines bright of true character, how can you not?  How can you not hate?

A year ago we were told we were an inspiration, two couples cried at the beauty they saw in us.  I guess they too saw what they ‘thought’ existed in him.

On Monday I took a ball to the face, it shattered the right side with “too many breaks to count”.

They called a trauma, cut my clothes off and kept me there.  Where was my husband?  With the skank 22yo, because he needs someone, anyone, to keep him propped up on his altar of perfection?

I don’t know where he is, maybe he’s hitting the legal not legal brain rot e-juice spice…? I do know he wasn’t there and he should have been. The Kleo of a year ago, that connection we allegedly had, crickets my dear, crickets.

His give a shit less of me isn’t what I’m tenuously trying forgo the deep hate of him from surfacing, nor is the demise of my farce marriage.

It isn’t even being used as a storage facility for his left of life here.

Trying not to hate.

It’s the texting with my daughter, telling her he and I have PTSD and probably isn’t a good idea to live together.

Worthless fucking shit bag.  I had PTSD from being on the violent receiving end of nut job on something.  She had hers.

What’s his excuse?  Aside from it’s all my fault and not his, he’s the victim anyway.  I’m out my fucking mind for not trusting a lying addict.  Duh

It’s he had his chance.  That would have required work on his part.  Why do that when mommy will fix the 41yo fuck up.

Hate because he’s hurt my kids enough, hate because he skirts ownership of his choices my making it about a situation instead of his poorly handled side of this.

I had to re-level the onslaught of the wounds she had from him he callously ripped back open.  I had to watch tears roll down her face and know I can’t make her hurt go away.

He gets to pretend he loves and misses her without any skin in the game.

I had to tell my 12yo he’s too unhealthy, losing us didn’t matter one bit.  That loss wasn’t his bottom.

I hope the bankruptcy court yanks his 60k from lying about the value of his stupid car.

Now that, that would be Karma –  ha!

I played ball tonight, walked right up to the guy who threw the ball that hit my face and said we need to warm up.  The plastic surgeon said I can do anything I want until the reconstruction of the broken face.

I may have been way out in left field, but I still showed up.

I still played