That was good idea, wasn’t it?


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. 





Excuse me while I Google




I like my label, it’s my security blanket and a constant.  If nothing else it’s a blue print that if I look at long enough, I can understand the symbols in the box enough to know the end product is supposed to a building and not a paint by number that someone forgot to give me paint to.

A google search lets me know how being an ACOA is my fast track to a list of predisposed issues that I, along with my label sharing counterparts get handed as a consolation prize for making it to adulthood.

Yay me and the baggage my Mother assured I would carry until I don’t.  Expect don’t doesn’t just come, don’t only goes away when you die.  The best any of us can hope for is to learn to pack our bag with enough efficiency that we only need a carry on and not a luggage cart.

To say it is a lifelong work in progress is an understatement so trite that it becomes easy enough to let the label (known to us or not) smack the rest of the world so hard that’s all they see.  All we let them see.


We are different, you see that front because we have devised our life in such a way that you see only what we want you to see.  The security blanked becomes a feeder, forever sustaining.

If only I knew who I was past being the byproduct of an alcoholic.

Thank god I have google.