The Husband Is Butt Hurt I Blog & Mommy Will Wipe His Tears

I'm Here
Annual 4th family beach camping trip.

Mean while in my reality I’m on day two camping and so far I’ve yet to pull fully from the underlying funk that has permeated just being here & he hasn’t relapsed, killed me, chopped me into tiny pieces & thrown me into the inlet.

Last night a practically low moment where I holed out in the back seat of the jeep to just get some of this out.  Feeling alone in something set in motion 9 months ago that can’t be climbed out of, and to be honest, shouldn’t be.

As with all big changes in life, this is another small step in the process, but sometimes small steps feel really frightening when you’re right there in it and you can’t see how you’re going to get unfucked from the feelings of the moment.

Than you do, you crawl into a sleeping bag and you put on Grey’s, you realize that for a second the suck assness he made life was in the background, than the suck assness fades further and further and stays away longer and longer.

It becomes tomorrow, the chill of sleeping beside the ocean begins to burn off as the sun rises higher in the sky.  Children who ran wild with the other beach kids last night start to wake up.  Tomorrow is now today, Sunday morning.

This is my favorite spot in all of the world, tucked away on an eroding peninsula that I follow on the coattails of my chidrens dependent ID’s.

I’m home, back in MA – where every alcoholic in my life started and finished, this piece of shit ex should be no different in that regard.

The other alcoholics in my life had a much more humble knack for owning the label they became before I ever knew they were something different.

I grew up knowing they had inner battles that couldn’t find away in front of a bottle of booze, I knew it, they knew it.

My 41yo ‘husband’ – addict first or abuser first, lives with his certifiably crazy mother who keeps his life easy and without accountability.  His before was being a professional with a big pay check and his biggest challenge in life being which suit to wear.

Why want to not be that when you can live with a person who embodies the definition of codependency.

Addicts are inherent leaches and can stay in a constructed state of blissfully unaware when they attach themselves to a new stop in their downward spiral.

I get backlash because I ‘trashed’ him in a blog, not that I found a voice to tell a story.  No question of why, because why would call into question what he went from to what he is now.

The price an addict is willing to pay to maintain a state of denial and keep his closest cohorts there is without end.

The novel toddler replacement has gone from the limelight to nonexistent.  Who walked from that first is something my “I told you stupid fucks” side would *love* to know.

Did she get her free 8k Disney princess adventure, suck the jobless addict of what she could get – clearly she’s full of issues if picking up someone in a locked ward is where it’s at.

Or did he get bored because let’s face it, picking anyone up in a locked ward goes both ways. Play with kids at recess and you forget spice made you forget you had a woman in your life you loved, and who loved you.

It’s a process, and I’ve found it far better for my own sanity to honor my feelings from what I lost because someone thought being out of it was a good enough excuse to try and throw their wife out a window.

I’m on vacation, the life I have not affords me this opportunity to relive the same camping trip every year with the beings I birthed.

He’s 41 and mommy’s house is a scene from hoarders (his words, not mine), the two of them dole out psychiatric meds to each other after they find buried script bottles in the squalor.  She feeds his ego and they both allude reality of accountability and morality.

Her poor son and the wicked wife who slanders her innocent victim son – no one has ‘helped’ him in the right way yet, on an open platform.

I don’t give a flying fuck what nut job 1, 2 or 3 think about what or how I choose to tell my story, or the lack of pity I feel because the light cast on the husband is less than flattering.  Don’t like it, don’t be it.

If anyone one any of my children professed to love, honor, & protect, they cared for or cared for them – my child left a person they loved in the after of what substance abuse left, to pick up the broken pieces…

I wouldn’t be holding my adult child in my lap like some gross mother/son love fest.  I’d wanna smack my adult child in the head and ask what the hell they were doing, you don’t *hurt* the people you love, you don’t just get to walk away.

That is the line in the sand, the line where my children see the hole I, in part, let myself get shoved into.

I own my shit, because I don’t want my children to live a life owning what I didn’t want to.  I want them to own their life, their shit – we all have shit after all.

This parenting thing is a mother fucking pain in my ass at times, I will protect them, I will help them learn to help themselves.

I will not protect my children from themselves, I’m not a perfect parent.  I fuck up as often as I don’t but it comes down to raising humans to let them go, not to raise them to come back and waste a hard earned life lessons because living in denial is delightful.

What I find delightful is being around people who don’t try to push me out windows.

What is also delightful is meeting new people, learning to live a reality where you don’t get lost in someones addiction.  Slow but not from fear, because it isn’t about replacing or avoiding the shit that was left.  It’s about living.

-ml

 

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