I feel like such a wondrous Buddha of detachment lately. I have gotten really good at carving out this space for myself. I got home last night, and the Stray was there. He and my husband were arguing, loudly.
"You just need to suck it up and go to work and get your shit together. You're not going to start to feel good about yourself until you start acting right."
"It's just so hard!"
"Yeah, but it's what you've got to do. You're a grown man, and you need to act like it."
It's strange hearing my husband bucking up his friend with the exact language that I've used with him. I stood in the kitchen, chopping up cabbage, and laughed at the two of them, upstairs, fighting. A part of me wanted to go shake both of them. They're a shit show. They're entertaining, at least. The Stray wasn't hammered, which is a rarity, so I didn't have a hissy fit and make him leave. I didn't feel up to a hissy fit, anyway, after all the funeralizing and stuff...if he's there when I get home today, I'll freak out and threaten to call the cops, though.
There's a stack of dishes as tall as my head. I decided last night that one half of the kitchen sink is his, and one half is mine. My half has no dishes in it. His half has the stack up to my head. That stack of dishes used to look like a monster to me. It doesn't now. I don't know what's changed. A few folks at meetings promised me it would change, though...that eventually, I'd come home, and the house would be a wreck, and I'd think, "Wow. You people live like pigs." And that would be it. I'd clean up what was bothering me, and I'd ignore the rest.
Last night, I cleaned up what was bothering me, and I ignored the rest.
I'm cured today, at least. Let that nasty relapse cloud come looming, and I'll step right out in the darkness. But today, I'm happy to be alive, in love, and learning.