He asked me if he could borrow (have) $5 today for lunch. I told him no, but that I would pack him a lunch instead, as I'd made a big dinner and there were lots of leftovers. It lead to a monstrous, glorious fit involving suicide threats, tears, screaming. I sat in amazement. He punched the wall. That's what the picture is...my pretty wall, my home that I bought for us.
Part of me is afraid that this fit is a sign of an impending relapse. It sort of felt like that cloud.
Another part of me is confused by his anger. He knows, and all during the screaming fit, he expressed that he knows that he is the reason he's so miserable. He said that he's sorry that he's done this to our lives. That he loves me and that he's embarrassed and ashamed and angry that he's done this to himself, to me, to us. I understand the rage. I understand the hurt. I have shown him in as many ways as I can that I understand, that I love him, that I can wait until he's better, stronger, that I respect and appreciate the ways he's working on himself. I don't understand, though, what a temper fit is going to help, for him or for me.
And it was just that...a great big hissy fit. It's almost as if, having passed the 90 day clean mark, he's now suddenly very clear-eyed about the mess he's made, and he is drowning in guilt and fear and pain. I am sorry for him. I want it better for us. I don't want, however, my wall punched. I am as emotionally fragile as he is, and I can't have holes in my walls, screaming fits, and threats of wrist-slitting right now.
I left the house. I felt unsafe and I didn't want to be around him. He called me, telling me that he would break the razor open and kill himself if things didn't stop. I went home. I don't like that feeling of being held hostage...I'm leaving because he's miserable to be around, but it's miserable to be away from him while he's hurting like that. He won't let me comfort him or make it better, and I just want to get out of the line of fire, but he has to suck me back in. I should have been strong and stayed gone. I didn't. I went home.
Today, it's ok. I don't know what to do for him. If he gets enraged like that, and that's what he's got to go through to get better, that's fine. I won't be there for it, though, and I won't have my walls punched. I wish that there were something I could do to help him heal, but there isn't. I wish he had more faith in my love for him, which has weathered bigger storms than this. He's so full of self-doubt that he can't understand what I'm doing there, still.
It was the strangest thing. Him screaming, rampaging...me sitting there, tearful but calm, rational. I just wanted to hold him, close and still, and tell him all the ways I love him, and tell him that I could be patient, that I could wait, that it will all be ok and that I'll still love him when it is. Anything that I could say, though, would hurt him more, make it worse. Even though it's all true, it's more than he can take. It's an awful impasse.