Where Would The Addict Hide A Body At A Campsite?

I’m woefully unprepared for our annual camping trip, at times I’m pulled in uncomfortable directions emotionally… depending on what day it is. seagull-1209875__480

We camp in MA, same place, same time of year, same site, a handful of acres on top of a peninsula where the North River and Atlantic Ocean meet. Mostly untouched and off limits to civilians.  It is a perfect place and one place in this world that was where I always found myself settled and peaceful.

Every year, the same kids run amok being carefree and at times obnoxious little shits.  Hiding or getting yelled at by ‘Dale’, -the manager for lack of a better word for doing something they ought not…like they’ve been told last year, the year before…and before that…

The kids hardly sleep and mornings always fascinate and surprise me at who is and isn’t sleeping at our site. There have been times my children are somewhere and beach kids took their place sleeping in their tent. Look, I have new kids, another tax deduction!  Can I name them too?

They come and go for the week or two we are there, a quick stop to usually ask for quarters to play pool or money for ice cream.  I tell them not to jump off the bridge, make sure they’ve got life jackets on when they take off on someone’s boat – and for the love of god stay away from the inlet.

This trip is a constant and always a consistent same.

This year I am not looking forward to our annual camping trip.  I’m just not.  Dreading the whole fucking idea of it is lingering just under the surface.  I get to work through another jumble of conflicting emotions because my loser husband is a heartless drug addict who isn’t going to get clean and will be a few miles down the road from me, for 10 days.

Yay me. I picked a winner.

Like everything else that life has been since October, here is another thing altered by the curse of Kleo.  He is wrapping up vacation with the unstable toddler, I don’t exist and dumb and dumber are feeding into each other’s fucked delusions.

I’m the one in the wrong here, I held him accountable for being under the influence of god knows what that day and sent his pathetic ass to jail.  I made it clear to him *many* times, the dynamic and life he offered as an addicted aren’t something I can or am willing to do.

I didn’t offer a get out of jail card, or a pass on what he did.  I demanded sobriety and he took that as his god given right to be the perpetual victim, passing off the illusion of ‘help’ before he would throw the next co-dependent  person under the bus to maintain his addiction.

Obligations and sobriety or an unstable distraction that will maintain the fallacy his addiction isn’t a problem, that it was ok to make me the scapegoat.

Any good addict will pick the later.  Why go to an NA meeting when you traipse around Disney with your princess autograph book (psst… they aren’t *really* princesses, they are in costumes).

Meanwhile, my living room is amassing the pre-camp pile of stuff to pack.  This year it’s one car going, not two.  My excitement of camping isn’t there and it has nothing to do with not wanting to go.  I do. I just wish it wasn’t there.

I wish every fucking thing in my life wasn’t an emotional hurdle to overcome and grow from.  Kleo isn’t my only hurdle, he’s one facet of work to be had in a long legacy handed to me from my childhood.

I will miss his companionship camping, but that ‘missing’ comes and goes… It’s linked to missing someone who doesn’t exist anymore.  I don’t miss what this is, not at all.  I’m more than happy to do the work, at times crippling work, to get past this dark chapter of life.

I’m afraid to be camp there this year, I shouldn’t have to be but I am.

If he is not using, I’m not afraid.  With him, everything is an unknown, I can’t know if he is or isn’t, I only know someone a few days out of treatment took someone who is using him and that he is using to escape reality, dumping thousands of dollars to have a week of feeling important and reinforcing he’s not the problem.

This trip will be different, my feelings are not in the norm of what they’ve been.  I’m more ok with that than not.  I’m not dominated by fear of Kleo and his toddler in tote, I have MP’s at the gate, they will know he’s not allowed in and he will not be on the list.

There are no guarantees that any situation or place will be safe, it’s more probable than not he will use again, and nothing he’s done thus far is indicative of an addict embracing the work of clean living. Being afraid of that is always there, hiding in the shadows of everyday life.

This year my excitement isn’t what it was.  Life isn’t what it was.  Life is learning to life through this, and making sure this isn’t what defines me.

I have a life, in spite of everything that has been thrown at me this year.

I have moments where I whine that I am doing the work I need to for me, and for my kids.  Our annual trip is big, his sober and good presences will be missed.  I do have to navigate and place feelings where they go and keep going when I don’t always want to.

We are making our new normal.  I have two choices, I can be lost in the fear of not knowing if Kleo is using and going to show up.

Or I can respect the fear, honor the fear and live my life.

I want to live my life. 


Domestic Abuser & Diversionary Tactics


 Yanking yourself from a cycle of domestic abuse is mindfuckery at its best, it really is.

You second guess yourself, you fall back into patterns that have the illusion of good and safe.  You can put yourself there or end up there not knowing how the fuck you got there…again…and…again…

There is not part of me that second guesses that the events of 10/19 were anything but worthy of pressing charges and getting him the hell out.  He did try to push me out a window after all, there is that.

I was 100% right to make that call, I do not regret that one bit and I will not waiver on that – ever.

My second guessing, my journey of extracting is in the nuances of the crack head addict whos soul sucking mindfucks still linger in every space, every corner.  I’m winning this though.  Each step forward is empowering.

Is Kleo a highly manipulative narcissist or sociopath employing well played tactics like any seasoned manipulator?  Or has he been sucked down to the depths of addiction so deep that he has become a ghost of anything he was?

His shittastic treatment of me sure as fuck checks a lot of those Kleo is a sociopath red flag boxes.

Ponder that?

Who he is today isn’t the person I went to elementary school with, played baseball or saw movies with.  Getting to the point where I full on embrace that or figuratively and possibly literally die trying to figure that out – not easy.

It only takes an objective glance at the past few weeks – look at his moves and my reactions and you get a classic diversionary tactic of domestic abuse. I bought the bait, not all of it, I did go for some of it.  Yes, yes I did.

Cycle. Of. Domestic. Abuse.  Well played.  I see it, take it back and shove up your ass and the unstable toddler replacement.

Does it hurt he’s vacationing with Disney Princesses with someone he picked up in treatment.  Yes.

Does he care?  No.

Could it be classic triangulation?  Probable:

“Bringing in the opinion, perspective or suggested threat of another person into the dynamic of an interaction is known as “triangulation.” Often used to validate the toxic person’s abuse while invalidating the victim’s reactions to abuse, triangulation can also work to manufacture love triangles that leave you feeling unhinged and insecure.

Malignant narcissists love to triangulate their significant other with strangers, co-workers, ex-partners, friends and even family members in order to evoke jealousy and uncertainty in you. They also use the opinions of others to validate their point of view.

This is a diversionary tactic meant to pull your attention away from their abusive behavior and into a false image of them as a desirable, sought after person. It also leaves you questioning yourself.”

Because every married recovering addict picks up someone half their age, they snagged in treatment arguing who gets to go to the isolation room first so they can spend thousands of dollars committing adultery.

That’s what healthy people do!  Who knew? Not me, I missed the memo.

Should I send them goldfish and apple juice to their room? 😉


Does He Remember Why The Goat Was In Danger?

How do you rebuild a life that was literally and figuratively goat-447661__480violently altered by someone else’s choices?  How do you navigate crippling grief that swooped in and hijacked your life when you are the goat?

I don’t have those answers, I’ve been there, done that.  I can attest that you don’t really ever rebuild it and navigating it was a fucking joke.  You get through it if you are one of the lucky ones.  That is all you can do, is you get through it.

You can choose to be the goat in the pen, the goat the horse would kill or you can be the horse.  He knows the story of the goat, he knows who the horse picked.  If he doesn’t remember why, which clearly he doesn’t – it’s because he’s a stupid as the fucking goat.

Makes no sense, I know.  You had to be there to get its significance.  You only need to know I’m not the goat!

Nothing is ever the same, nothing.  That doesn’t feel good, in fact, it’s the most shittastic feeling one could ever imagine.  You want to take that feeling and rip it to fucking shreds, piss on it and run as far away from it as you can.

I’m overcoming it, I lost the love of my life, I cried over the person I love most in the world.  I am not ashamed to say I loved an addict. I wish I never loved him, I regret reconnecting with him, but I’m not ashamed I loved him.

This love did mess me up.  It didn’t take me down, but it did mess me up.

A drug can change someone so much, they can’t even see it.  That is the hardest thing to accept.

He is the one who made a choice that day to drink/use and not reach out for the other direction.  I was the one who had to make the choice what to do with something I had no control over knowing it was not only my life course but the three humans I birthed too.

I had to do what my Mother was never strong enough to do.

I was the one who had a split second to decide to gamble everything on being ok with what he becomes on whatever he was on or not ok with it.

I picked not ok.

I have had many a day where I hated myself for having to press charges.  Many days where I second guess if all this pain was worth it, or wished I had said or done something differently.  Just one thing differently and maybe it wouldn’t be exactly where it is right this second.

But I have never regretted refusing to be his punching bag when he decided to be strung out.  Never once regretted pressing charges and saying you can’t be that here.

I have had my share of days that It took my breath away, knocked me to my knees and hurt so much I would claw myself raw to not have to feel it.  I would have done almost anything to not feel it.  I would take a shower just to cry, or wait until darkness of night came and I could sit out back, curled in a ball, holding a towed that would muffle the sound and catch the tears.  Get just enough out so I could wake up and survive the next day putting on a mask to face the world.  I looked ok, inside I wasn’t.

I wrote him a letter when he was in prison, I told him I wished that losing his wife was enough to factor into this being his rock bottom.  He didn’t have to loose me – he had to want me more than the drugs.  I wrote it, I never believed he would want to give up that life of using – being able to use, for a life where he couldn’t.

I know demanding a drug free husband, who owned his shit enough to go head to head with his addiction was the ultimate gamble.  His addiction changed him.  I don’t want the person it made him.

The only difference between today, or any day where he might not be using in any given moment –  is he hasn’t hit his bottom, he still thinks and believes like an addict and not a recovering addict.

At the end of all this he is still trying to sling the blame on me.  If I had “done the right thing” and dropped the charges, we could have lived happily ever after.  I am the one who damaged it beyond repair and I am the one who drove him “to the arms of another woman”.  (I can’t help but laugh at that one, if the arms of another woman is the immature 22yo, who loves Disney that you picked up in a locked ward is your new standard…If that’s the new notion of what a woman is. lol)

I am still the scapegoat.  As long as there is a scapegoat, as long as there is anyone or anything to point blame to.  He doesn’t have to face himself.  He hasn’t lost enough yet because he is still the victim.

When you love an addict you are always chasing the ‘what if’s’, in many ways chasing the ‘what if’s’ is your own drug.  It’s where you get to hide out and avoid what is right now, what is right in front of your face.  Because what is right in front of your face is not what it has to be.  You know that, that’s the crux.  You know it doesn’t have to be this way.

Yet it is.  It is exactly this way, right now.

His charges are being dropped in PA, he will walk away unscathed with the illusion of vindication.

He will think he won, that he was right, that it wasn’t that bad. He won’t see that his drugs and his drug use took his marriage because those drugs made him a puppet, they had all the control over him – they still do.


Everything here is done.  He picked his drugs over his wife, it is just that simple.  He picked them before 10/19 and he has picked them every day since.  He didn’t have to lose his wife but he did have to pick which one he wanted more.  His wife or his drug.

If using something makes you almost kill them… and you are somehow ok with that, you are still dancing with denial.

He picked his drug.  I knew that he would.  He has picked them for the last 232 days.  I have waited for 232 days for him to pick us.

He gets out of “treatment” this week, my safety net of him being babysat is going away. How long before he starts using something again.. the odds that he will far out weigh the odds that he won’t.

It’s time now.  I gave 232 days waiting this case out.  I will always be looking over my shoulder because any day could be the day he is using again and decides to get me for what I did to him.  He picked his drugs at the end of it all and I made that choice messy for him.

There is so much loss surrounding this, you don’t rebuild it.  You can’t.  I can spend my life trying to know just enough to stay one step ahead of him, but I shouldn’t have to.  No one should have to live like that.

So I’m not going to not know these things, because knowing them keeps me invested in a lost cause and keeps me thinking I don’t have to look over my shoulder because I am one step ahead.  It keeps me thinking one day he will see what his addiction took, continues to take and what he will always want to take from him.

I don’t want to know anymore, it hurts too much to see what doesn’t have to be, but is.

Knowing doesn’t change any of this.  Being able to watch the inevitable next downward spiral keeps me in the very life I said I didn’t want any part of on 10/19.


We’ve arrived.  I know all I need to know.

Kleo picked his drugs.  It’s over now.

I know all I need to know.



I Feel Like I’m Slipping

I ‘graduate’ from trauma therapy on Thursday, my last day.  She told me I won’t get a cap and gown – I’m ok with that.

I feel like I haven’t been able to grasp the momentum I had pre TBI.  Having your face broken and truly unable to function without help really highlights how alone you are and how many people are there for you.

It highlights how far I’ve come that I let people help me. postop  I’m loved by a solid group of folks.  The kind who take you to have reconstructive facial surgery at 6AM, even after you were unfairly mean to them because deep inside they are safe & you know they got your back. Payback is a bitch… who does that, take a post op pic of me, covered in iodine.  Apparently I was sleeping on the table and professing my love of donuts…. in my defense, I was high as kite on the ‘good’ drugs.

Apparently I like extremes and dichotomies.  Lots of support, terribly alone.  No wonder I need therapy.

I think there is something deeper going on right now, I don’t know what it is but something big was poked when I found out my husband is shacking up with an unstable trollop.

She isn’t the problem, badass as she may think she is because mommy got her a cell phone and she can call me to tell me I’m a cunt, she’s going to fuck my husband and she will win.

I laughed at her, so she was going to ‘tell’ on me – “ hello, 911, um… my boyfriends wife needs a timeout, it’s snack time for me and…um… I have no self-worth and..um… I said a bad word to someone I should be afraid of”.

Have we talked about prison orange..?  Oh to be 22 and stupid, of course I wasn’t stupid at 22.  I was pregnant, owned a home, owned a car and didn’t need to take someone’s discarded husband who couldn’t pull his head out of his ass and made it his life ambition to hurt everyone he ever claimed to love.

Yes, yes, Jackie, you won!  Sigh… children.

Either she is dumb as a box of rocks – probable or my felon husband did a great disservice to her by manipulating her to such a degree she doesn’t know how unwise it is play with the big kids.

I guess that circles right back to why Mr. Karahalis is what he is, why he’s an addict and I’m in bed with my demons, watching Greys on Netflix and eating ice cream.

By all accounts, my life should have looked more like his.  I know his childhood because I’m part of it.  Middle class, two parents, just south of Boston yuppie town. He had every good opportunity handed to him. I had none of that.

He drinks and drugs, numbs what he can’t handle, which seems to be about every facet of being a good human these days.  Of course it’s my fault… he uses drugs because I am his trigger.

It’s all rather comical, he’s too cocky banking on the credentials of the pre drug life he systematically blew up only to land himself with a rather extensive criminal record, labels of felon – he will never be able to make those work for him.

He is *still* butt hurt I gave his drugs to the police after he left his 12yo daughter in a movie theater to use them.  That drug charge is my fault, he gave them to me “in confidence”…

Someone should really get him a big book.  He believes this…

Do you know what helps avoid taking responsibility for consequences of addiction? Wait for it….

Having your ego stroked by tagging a 22 yo, and more ego stroking by thinking he’s positioned himself, worth so much that the annoying 22yo will put me in my place with a phone call that shows trashy unstable psychiatric patients are the new gold standard in getting a piece of ass.


What part of not fighting for my husband is being missed?

No pumpkin, it isn’t the threatening phone call. You can’t win here, it’s isn’t mathematically possible.   Clearly you’ve been misinformed.


*If* dear Jackie you were anything, at all to who Kleo was before he became this.  If he really cared about you and you weren’t being used as bait to rile me up to hurt me in the only way left that he can.  To deflect.

He wouldn’t be using you to throw in my face, because he knows if anyone should be afraid, it would you in this scenario.  He knows my demons, he knows what I am capable of and the fact you don’t know that…

Is exactly why this isn’t a fight, or something to be won.

It’s poorly played manipulation.  Do we need another blog post on kindergarten drug addicts and the unstable?

It isn’t a fight, it sure as fuck isn’t something to be ‘won’.  And no, you’re not going to “win this, hun”.

I already won.  The toddler replacement lost well before she became something he would use to hurt me and avoid the work of recovery.  I don’t think he’s that stupid, I know he is anything but stupid actually.

If the toddler replacement wasn’t a disposable tactic of an addict these 3 things would be true.

  1. She wouldn’t be in my line of fire, trust me, if this was the Kleo of before…
  2. Dumb & dumber wouldn’t be planning a Disney princess vacation ONE week after being discharged from treatment, violating the $250k bail conditions while being MARRIED.
  3. He wouldn’t be with someone this stupid and morally void who would ever be ok with *any* of this, lmfao.

I can be ok with the title bestowed on me by the replacement.  Being a “cunt” can snuggle up with my demons even.

This isn’t a loss, or something won.  It’s profound sadness because I don’t need to numb out my demons with drugs, and find someone so broken and low to use as I avoid the real work.

It’s pity for them both.

It’s knowing all these things can be true, and they are but they are not strong enough to dismantle the basic, raw and evolutionary emotions.

It still hurts and I can’t undo knowing he will share a bed and hold someone else.  She can’t hold a candle to me.  Not in his eyes, or anyone elses – I have no doubt of that (him before we got a hard-on for spice).

I’m ok knowing there is jealousy there, even if it’s more inconsequential than not.

The hurt is watching what is systemically & consistently failing in who he ever was.  It’s having come far enough out of this… that I’m *not* having to keep the demons at bay as I’m being baited to react.

I’m not having to have a come to jesus meeting with my dark side… The reason I haven’t put the unstable toddler in her place or played the calling in of people more than willing to do my dirty work in ways that people from the street would deal with this kind of stuff.  One phone call could put her back in her paygrade.

I’m not fighting for my husband.  Who he is, what he has turned into.

This is a man who tried to kill his wife.  I’m not losing what I don’t want to win.

Addicts are predictable.  Painfully predictable.





Happy Birthday to my Wife


That is me, when I was married and thought I married a man who would honor vows, who gave me his name.

It’s my birthday.  What did I do?

I can tell you he never said happy birthday to me.

I sat in front of the court house for I don’t know how long, my $22.50 and my birth certificate in my hand.

I only had to walk in.

I had an inner battle of epic proportions – I faltered, I panicked.  I called him and texted him.

Do you have any idea how big what I am about to do is?  Tell me I am wrong, tell me to stop.  Tell me dear god please, tell me, you will fix yourself and in turn fix us.

Nothing – let me plant my flag, I expected nothing. (probably too busy planning a vacation with the toddler psych pt)

Tell me it’s ok, tell me you know why I have to do this.


I don’t know how long I sat outside the courthouse today, I know when I walked in to change my name it wasn’t fueled with confidence, spite, anger or the ever comforting passive aggressive side kick.

It was motions, like I was set on autopilot and I just had to do it.  I was unprepared for this.  I only knew I couldn’t leave until I did it.

He didn’t stop me and he didn’t give his blessing.  In reality, that was probably more of the domestic abuse cycle.  Which I want you all to know, it brutal to pull out off.  It is anything but simple.

I got a stack of papers that legally made me no longer Moira Karahalis, I am legally who I was when I entered the world 41 years ago today.  I guess there is some empowerment in that.  I’m sure I’ll get there.

I don’t recall the drive home, I know I had my name back and I cried quietly for a long time.

It didn’t feel good or bad.  I was numb and I knew I was shutting down, I could feel the walls come up – this is why I could single handedly keep a therapist in business.

I am making him dead to me, because he is what he has become and the person he is today isn’t good.  It isn’t someone I want in my life.

But the good of before all of this, before the drugs became the love, before the unstable replacement slipped in for him to avoid the work one would need if recovery was where the mother fucking shit was at.

The ambiguity.  The before that makes you question what was real and what wasn’t and the loss of everything that was.

I sent him all the pictures of our life, because maybe I am shallow or heartless.  Maybe I am a weak and petty.  They need to go because I can’t see them, my therapist know of the few last things I have to rid myself of.  Those last strong holds, the illusions.  The ones that keep me connected and counter my own logic.

I’m getting there.  I’m fighting it, but I’m getting there.  Right now I’m setting it to let those go.  Some false sense of security I need to feel to do it.

Every tie need to be severed, burned – decimated.  When I let go of those last strong holds there will be no reminders ever.

When my mother died, it was almost a gift.  I knew I was free.

I have hated him.  I have stood in the basement ‘packing’ his shit will rage and hurt so deep that I challenged my own morals.  Where the *only* thing that spared him and the worthless replacement was social norms.

I simply don’t look all that good in orange.  And seething hate will never trump the fact I can’t go to jail because if there is one thing I know I am rock solid on, it’s being one fucking kick ass mom and  I will never comprise that.

Anarchy would change that perspective though… just saying.

I woke up with a name I was married to.

Since I’m all about days holding meaning.  I think that when my HUSBAND takes the lovely unstable child on a trip.

I think that will be the day that I sell my wedding ring.  I don’t wear it, I haven’t.  It means nothing but one more step to being dead to me that I haven’t yet been able to achieve.

It’s worth more than my car, before my husband became a homeless drug addict.  When he was a professional in DC making 6 figures (clue unstable 22yo, he’s a felon, he will never again see a $200k a year paycheck.  McDonalds won’t hire him… just saying, my 14yo made more money a year… oh wait, he *does* work at McDonalds).

Enjoy the free ride Disney trip!  He has no job, has no money sans the 60k he’s banking on courtesy of bankruptcy fraud-  that will be the day I sell my -more carats than you’ll ever see, near perfect Tolwosky diamond and Leo band. Pre drug addict days of course.

I’d love to pocket that money and take my kids on a trip, instead it will go into the ‘move to where crazy fucking Kleo can’t find me to kill me fund”.

I’ll make more selling it than I would working in a year.  Yay Mickey!!

I will go to sleep with the name I was born with, exactly 41 years ago today.





Happy Birthday, Cunt – Love Jackie

That is what Jackie Staffier kindly informed me I was, last night when she thought shebaby-1107333__480 could be a hard ass and give me a phone call.  Apparently a follow up to make sure I received the message that she plans to “fuck’ my husband Kleo, and she will “win, hun”.

My husband picked a winner as a girlfriend!!

I answered the phone – I hate the phone, I never answer the phone but I simply couldn’t resist the entertainment of stupid.

But don’t fret, she made sure to put me in my place with her toddler level antics, she was “calling the cops” on me!!

Go play with your dolls little one, no one is fighting you for a cheating addict.  You got the prize.  He’s a winner let me tell ya.  If you think there is some great win here, by ‘taking’ another woman’s drug addicted, felon of a husband that she kicked to the curb.

You get another cookie for being the cool kid.  Your mom would be proud.

Maybe that’s the best choice one can get when the dating pool is psychiatric patients with criminal records.

I wouldn’t know, I have a tad bit more self-worth than that.  This is a little bit more obvious to those in the grown up world.  It’s why I pressed charges and held firm for almost 9 months.

Doing what is right isn’t always what is easy.

Easy would have been turning a blind eye to fear I felt when my strung out husband Kleo smashed my body against a window multiple times as he was screaming at me that I was going out the “fucking window”

Or when my surroundings became dull, fuzzy, soft, black, gone and an almost out of body feeling as he had his arm around my neck and I couldn’t breathe until he lost his footing and the blood rushed back to my head.

When I escaped out of a window begging 911 to get here before he found me and police showed up with guns out.

Press charges?  No is what I wanted to say, no would have been easier.  No would have left me with something I could maybe fix.

Yes was right.  Yes was hard.

The ability to block annoying phone calls is a perk.

Dumb and dumber are planning their princess vacation to Disney, it’s like pedophilia lite.  Using funds from fraud, to break that $250k bail condition.

Some things are too easy.

Some things are worth letting the spiteful side come out, to write a blog post read by the trolls – remind myself I’m dealing with addicts and psych ward patients and some things are just too easy.

I need a vacation, maybe I’ll start a go fund me.  I’m an adult and even my 12yo isn’t into Disney.  We’d take a cruise.




Over It

sympathy-1942353__480I know grief isn’t linear, I know ambiguous loss cuts a deep and stays deep and has been my partner in crime for near 9 months now.  I won’t get closure on what I lost, not now, not ever.  Getting to the point of accepting that is progress.

This is one of those days were I exist in both worlds – the world outside of my head isn’t comfortable and the one in my head isn’t easily understood by the outside world.

I’m fucking tired too.

I’m not angry or happy.  I’m just void.  I’ve been doing this long enough to know who pissed me off that set it in motion.  I want to stomp around like a little kid and scream – HAVE I NOT HAD ENOUGH MOTHER FUCKING LOSS?  Seriously.  I’m not going to lose this one either, there is no threat.

I just don’t want the fight to show it.

And what does that in and of itself feel like in my head, which if I vocalized it the world would wonder what the fuck is wrong with me?  Nothing, btw.  Feeling something doesn’t make it real.  Wanting something in a fleeting moment doesn’t make you weak.  It also doesn’t mean you *really* want it.

It’s a feeling.  If Kleo got mauled by a schnauzer, left for dead…like the long, painful bad kind of left for dead.  Dead.  No one would think twice if I told them that in this moment, I’d give almost anything for it just to be any day before 10/19.

Even a shitty day before 10/19, because one different choice anywhere on the continuum could shift what he didn’t give a fuck about destroying.  One different choice.

That I just want to cry for nothing and everything.  That I want to be lying in his arms, on his lanky geeky chest like every night before 10/19. That right now, in this moment I need my person and he was it.

I don’t have a person anymore.  I have lots of people, but I don’t have my person.  There will never be a phone call where the heavens open up, he finds salvation in recovery and gets hit with crushing loss violently taken, present and future.

Very few get that.  A feeling doesn’t change any of this.  These feelings don’t make me want to close my eyes and pretend he isn’t a soulless, cheating, drug addict.

A feeling doesn’t mean I want who is today.  I don’t.  I hate who he is today, I’d probably give the schnauzer an extra treat if prolong the mauling.

A feeling doesn’t make me care either.  I still don’t.  There is nothing about who he has chosen to become that has any part of me.

Ambiguous loss.  He looks like him, sounds like him, smells like him.  Who the fuck he is now, a puppet of addiction.

I told him I wished he’d just die, give me the gift of demise.  He thinks I’m a heartless bitch, while there is truth to that…

Death is concrete and definable, mourning is a social norm.

Hating and loving.  Missing and distain.  Pity and indifference.  Happy and sad.  Lonely and empowered.  Hope and defeat.  Empty and whole… all at once.

I love him.

He is the only thing in my life I regret – the only thing.  I wish I never answered his facebook message, I wish I never married him and above all, I wish I never loved him.

I hate him.