But either way, we had a good, long, honest talk. At least I was honest, and he was receptive.
I recognize that I'm feeling really vulnerable and scared for all kinds of reasons, and the last time I've felt that way was the last relapse. He offered me various evidences and explanations for why the things that were making me afraid weren't true. I rejected them all. I don't want to see receipts or piss in a jar or anything. I wanted to say my piece, explain my upset, hear his response, and go back to living.
And that's what I'm doing. I'm ok. My stuff is safe. I came home to a clear-headed, clear-eyed husband. His voice doesn't sound like it's at a bottom of a well. He washed the dishes and we talked, a lot. He's sitting next to me drawing. It's a happy moment...I'm a sucker for this drawing/writing scenario.
I'm not saying that I think he's not using. I'm not saying that I think he's using. I'm saying that right now, I don't care either way. Right now is good.
I love all of you for your comments and good wishes. I'm sending them back to you.