I'm having a bit of trouble sorting through which shit bucket belongs to me tonight. My husband has an uncanny ability to slosh his shit at me, get it all in my eyes and in my hair and make me reek of it so much that I start to help him carry it a little.
So I've been saying for months and months (this is not an exaggeration...I was doing some housekeeping around the blog, and I saw that I was OH SO DONE with letting him use my car in like March) that I was TOTALLY, FOR REALLY REAL done with letting him use my car. There are various reasons why I needed to be done: first, he sold his car for $100, which was stupid and for drug money. Second, he used the car I used to have to run around and get drugs, and when he owed his drug dealer nearly $400, he pulled "They know what your car looks like and they're violent" out of his little addicty magician cap...this was in the pre-Nar-Anon days, so it worked to make me do what he wanted, and I paid off the drug dealers. Third, every time I let him take the car, I fret about the car, the gas that he burns out of it at an alarming rate, his lack of ability to pay to fix anything he might break, his lack of respect for things that are mine, his remarkable knack for being late on the days when it's worst to be late and needing to pick me up from work early on days when it's awful to leave early...
So finally, I've stopped, really stopped, letting him take the car. I told him that if he needs a ride somewhere, I'll leave work and take him where he needs to go. Instead of listening to me and believing that I'd run him around to do all the stuff he needs to do to get his license, he has invited the Stray to spend another night with us so that they can ride around together on his fucking scooter to take care of things.
Part of me wants to say, "Great. I'm out of it. He'll take care of it. It's his business." But mostly, I want this dude out of my house. I want some quiet and sanity and to be able to walk around naked. I want to be able to go upstairs and play with my kitties without bumping into someone who thinks he lives up there.
So see, by making his stuff not my shit bucket, I get to live in a shit bucket. When we tried to talk about how I wanted the Stray to go away, he said, "Well, I have to be able to get a ride around tomorrow, and he'll give me a ride. I don't know how else I'd do it." As if I've been the kind of unreasonable bitch who wouldn't help him GET A FUCKING JOB.
The thing I want most in the world is for him to have his fucking job. I want him to go to work, really and truly, and for the job to be real, and him to really want it and do it right. I want him to go to work, every day, and come home at a normal time. If he can get that right, I think our marriage will be back on track.
He has this way of doing everything all crazy-ass...like when he was working, he'd just work 18 hour days 6 days a week, and then we'd never see each other, and he'd be miserable, high, and exhausted when he wasn't at work. Now, he won't work. I don't understand why he can't just find a job that he likes and work there 40 hours a week like normal people, come home, spend time with his wife and family, play with his dogs, eat dinner, watch the fucking news, and go to bed. I just want to live like people do. It can't be that hard. We have a wealth of intelligence, physical health and attractiveness, and talent between the two of us, but we can't even manage to get out of bed every day and act right. It's like each day takes a whole new figuring out how to live, and we get it wrong 75% of the time.