There was a needle in a flower bed today in my front yard. Yeah, that kind of needle. It didn't look old.
I brought it inside and asked how in the world something like that could have gotten in the front yard. He says that it must have been old.
I promptly went into the bathroom and had a giant meltdown. I cried, and I cried, and I couldn't breathe, and I couldn't collect myself.
And then, I did.
So there was a needle. I live with a heroin addict. Heroin addicts leave needles around.
Maybe it's brand new and just fell out of his pocket this morning. Maybe it's been buried in our front yard for months and it just got uncovered by the wind. Either way, I'm safe. My stuff is safe. He's going to meetings.
I could scream and cry and blow up at him, beg and beg that he tell me the truth. He will tell me that it's an old needle, no matter what the truth is.
I am ok, no matter what is happening with him. That's growth. I'm pleased with myself.
I don't ever, however, want to see a syringe again. They hurt my eyes. They touch me in that part of my heart that's irreparably broken. They hurt me like all reminders of trauma hurt...they hurt like watching the buildings fall down on September 11. They hurt me like stories of children being molested. I don't want to see them.