I couldn't sleep, so I took one of your sleeping pills.
In the middle of the day?
Yeah. My head hurts, and I think I'm getting a migraine, and I don't feel right.
So you took my sleeping medication? In the middle of the day?
He started nodding off on the way to the meeting. Nothing, and let me emphasize NOTHING, in this world makes me feel more crazy than my nodding junky husband. It reminds me of all the time he spent nodding off on heroin, and it makes me absolutely hysterical. Panicked. Nervous, Anxious. Nauseous. It's a bad scene.
We spent some time this weekend with his family. His mother is an addict in recovery as well. She's been doing quite well, and she's gotten some real clean time for the first time in many, many years. But, it's still early in her recovery, and while we were at their house, she started nodding out. She's taken "two muscle relaxers," whatever that means. She has some chronic pain issues, and it's a struggle for her to negotiate the area between her addiction and her chronic pain. She's doing well...she's got a sponsor and she's working the steps...but I think what we were seeing this weekend was a little relapse. I don't know if that's what she'd call it, but that's what it looked like to me.
It made my husband furious. He kept pointing to her, "Just look at her! She can't even keep her eyes open!"
I thought it was strange how he was reacting. I just looked at her, struggling to keep her eyes open, and thought, "Yep. She can't keep her eyes open." She used to look like that a lot, and this is the first time I've seen her look like that in a long time. To me, that's progress. Not perfection, but progress. Addicts relapse. She's an addict. Tada.
And then, today, he's nodding off. It's as if he had to get a taste of what his mother was experiencing. I don't know why he was taking my sleeping medication in the middle of the day. This is not narcotic medication...it makes you go to sleep. That's it. It's not fun. I don't get it.
My sleeping medication is now locked away in my lock box. It's mine. I need it when I need it. It's not his, and it's certainly not his for 4:00 in the afternoon.
The meeting was a large one, and he wanted to go home. I was sort of pissed that we'd driven all the way there to drive all the way back home. Even though it's close, it's still gas that I don't have to spend...but it's his meeting, not mine, and I was eager to get home after work, anyway.
So part of me is frantic. "Oh my god," my crazy head is saying, "he's using again! He wanted to go to a meeting because he's gotten some heroin!" or "Oh my god, he's abusing my sleeping pills! He wanted to go to a meeting because he'd gotten into my sleeping medication, and he realized that it was the dumbest thing anyone ever did, ever!"
But that's a small part. That part of me, as a matter of fact, is getting left here, on the blog, for you all. The rest of me is content. My pills are locked away now, so he won't be getting into them anymore. My stuff is safe. I'm safe. I've got some work to do, and I'm about to get started on it. I took a long walk with my doggy, talked to a god-like person, place, or thing, cried a little while asking for some guidance and strength and peace, ate a nice dinner, and had a nice bath.
He's lying on the bed, groaning with an ice pack on his head, nursing a headache or heartache or existential crisis or closing his eyes and enjoying a filthy, guilty heroin daze or something. That's awful for him. I'm sorry he's suffering. I'm glad that he wanted to go to a meeting, even if he didn't make it in, and I'm glad that he's going to his home group meeting tomorrow. I'm glad he's got the tools he needs, and I'm glad that he's doing the best he can, even though it's hard for him.