Drugs are bad, isn’t that a given? The obvious is over stated, isn’t it? Stuck in the aftermath with blood on my hands. I’m angry. Shreds of everyone touched by this, as I pick up the pieces. My blood, his, my children…
What do I want? I was asked that, this is so far past what I want. My voice has vanished, it’s just gone. Nothing I want in any direction matters at all. My role in this is now from the outside looking in.
It’s been a week since that pivotal moment. One week since I needed to wake the fuck up or be dragged so far down that I would burn what little of me I had left.
The marks have faded, my body doesn’t hurt anymore. Some part of me wished it did still hurt, you can feel that, see it. It acts as dark reminder. It’s a morbidly delightful way to avoid the emotional work, which will hurt more than the marks on my body.
I still love him. It doesn’t matter if I do or don’t.
He loves his drinking, his using. Not a world I want a part of.
He will always be someone no one else can be, we share a childhood. We have the same stories, we get the little things that come with the same elementary school to high school years. Sometimes we would get lost in our conversations, the cost of popcorn, the kick ball, the games played at gym at the side field. Our 5th grade teacher who would bust his guitar out every Friday and sing Old Time Rock & Roll. Our baseball coach Mark, Dairy Queen after a win or what it felt like to go Fenway and sit in the bleachers.
There was contentment with him that yearning of wanting to go home never came back.
I can’t fucking fix this. I’ve resolved myself to accepting he may never want to fix himself. It doesn’t matter for me anymore.
I was in the paper, what he became last week under the influence, what he did to me because he choose a substance over help. His drinking is what hurt me and what saved me. He said I was leaving, he flung my body at the window again and again telling me I was going through it. Colorful adjectives compliments of intoxication.
I wasn’t afraid. I was in self-preservation mode. Fight or flight. I wasn’t afraid of what he would do, I knew he would do it. To flee was survival instinct at its best.
I know what fear is. I know what that feels like. I’ve always landed in ‘fight’, anyone who knows me, knows I don’t flee. My default is fight-always. I can be an over confident cocky handful. My instincts knew ‘fight’ would end poorly, he’s a foot taller and 100bs heavier. Strung out. Pivotal.
They took him out in cuffs, after they broken down my door.
I am now a card carrying victim, PFA and all. He sits in jail with a $250,000 bail.
I hear jail sucks. He has nothing. I am ok with that.