Play Ball


Beautiful weather this past week, my estranged addict is presumably still holed up in a locked ward at the VA.  This week I began to fill pity for him, as a separate person.

I don’t want his addiction to be my issue anymore.  Ultimately being successful at want and end result are two very different things.  Wanting it is easy, wanting requires no effort, all you have to do is want.

I want ice cream too.  See, easy.  Aligning that to be your reality is much more time consuming.

Want all you want, it still haunts you.  If finds a way in through weak spots and it flaunts them, laughs at the raw under protected parts.  It finds you, almost testing if the want is really what you want.

I really do.

When you admit to yourself for the umpteenth time you don’t want to live in the shadow of his addiction.  Bittersweet.

I pushed the person I now pity to the cobwebbed corners of my existence and the entire week has been pretty damn good because of that.

He does still cross my mind, more often than I want but when that happens the soul crushing empty helpless feeling has been gone a good while.  I’m still scared to death of this man, more than I’ve ever feared another human.  That happens when someone so altered loses his shit, when all the bottled up the self-hatred he’s masked with addiction comes out locked and loaded at you.

It is such a juxtaposition, he’s anything but that when he’s clean. He’s more ok with that than I am.  What his addiction has taken matter less to him than having to give that up, own that shit and work those steps.

AA is for people with a problem, he doesn’t have a problem, he had a wife that was the problem.

People have scars in all sorts of unexpected places, scars that remind you they are still there.  Most wounds heal, leaving nothing behind but a scar to remind us.  But some of them, don’t. Some wounds, we carry with us everywhere, the first cut is long gone, the pain still lingers when you don’t see it coming, it sticks around to haunt you.

Saturday morning, waking up and for a flash of a moment he was in my bed and all of this wasn’t real.  It was a delicious feeling, it was peaceful and just as quick as it was there, it was gone and the scar of that cut was oozing, again.

Fucking again.

I can’t remember if I’ve woken up caught between the lull of reality and the tail end of sleep during all of this.  I savored that moment, I knew it wasn’t real and I know it probably never was.

I don’t want another moment like that, not because I didn’t once love the man but because I still do.  The love I feel isn’t what life is made of, it’s one sided love of a man who I once knew and he isn’t that person anymore.   Flashes of a reality are not a place to live in, not when they bring you right back to crying alone in the shower before bed because as delicious as that moment was, it isn’t love if it lands you crying for what he broke and fearing sleep, fearing waking up in a delicious moment that is bullshit.

I don’t want that, I want my life and someday I want live where I wake up and the arms around me are not the ones I fear.

The storm has passed, the shredded pieces have been picked up and handed back to their rightful owners.  The wounds are healing, the sun is shining and life is waiting – I don’t want to go back there.

I want cookouts in the rain on Saturdays, I want to go play softball on Mondays, I want to have coffee with a man who isn’t going to show his love and affection by picking a substance over his wife and blaming her for the carnage he left in the aftermath.

No one should live haunted.

Besides, it’s Monday and Monday is the day I play ball and I happened to love that.  It’s mine, all mine, just mine.


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