Monday, November 3, 2008

Dear Husband,

I'm having another hard day.

I spoke with your mother today. She told me some stuff it was difficult to hear, but I'm not surprised. I can always tell when you turn into a different person...when the lies start. When you stop making sense. When you're so angry. When you can't finish anything you start. I always know, and I don't want to know, and I believe myself and don't at the same time.

I want the ache in my heart to go away, forever. I want the space next to me in my bed filled with you, but I want that other you. Maybe I want an imaginary you.

I want to understand my own ups and downs in grieving, but I guess it's not a thing that's logical or understandable in that way. I had such a good day yesterday, without falling apart at all...and then today, I've had much more bad time. For several days in a row, I felt like it was getting easier every day, but today is not easier than yesterday. Because of the particular ways I'm mad, I start to imagine that this is how it's going to be: a long, painful decline.

I'm taking good care of myself, though, and doing all the work I know I need to do to get through this stuff...I went to my yoga, and I've talked to my friends and family. I'm reading my books, going to my meetings, and working my steps. I am recognizing a tenacity in healing myself that makes me very proud of who I've become. I wish you could be proud of me, too. I wish, more than anything, to share this growth with you. I want you to be a part of the journey, and you're not.

I wonder what kinds of things you're thinking about. I wonder how deeply committed you are to sabotaging this relationship. I'm so afraid that you're going to do something stupid and irreparable. I'm afraid that you will do something stupid and irreparable, and I'll accept you anyway. I'm afraid that there's no good outcome.

I do want off the roller coaster, but I want you just as much. I'm very angry that it doesn't seem possible for me to have both.

I'm angry at your madness. I'm angry at myself for battering me against your madness, trying to make sense of it. I'm angry at your disease for making you think it's ok to treat me badly. I'm angry that you expect me to exude endless sympathy, endless money, endless love and support and nurturing because you're sick (because you're using). I'm angry that you think abstinence from heroin is the end of the problems you've created. I'm angry that the sudden, sharp personality changes I watched happen in you are all related to drugs, drugs, drugs. I'm so fucking sick of drugs. I'm sick of being sad. I'm sick of being sorry. I'm sick of being mad, lonely, afraid...I'm sick of it all.

I am shocked that there is such a profound part of me that is thinking it might be worth it just to go to you and ask you to come home, regardless of the cost. There's a part of me that thinks I'll put up with anything, always, just to keep you close to me.

I think I'm sicker than you are.

I love you.

Your Wife