MAJOR DEPRESSIVE EPISODE.

"MAJOR DEPRESSIVE EPISODE. RECURRENT CONDITION. SEVERE. Substance abuse. Mixed. In remission."

That's my diagnosis. It's interesting to see myself all spelled out like that, and to recognize the reality of how those words describe me. It was interesting to realize the "recurrent condition" part, and also the "severe." And, the "substance abuse" was unsettling...it's been so long since I've been that person--but my life is presently still in turmoil from the choices I made as an actively using person, years and years ago. No matter if I do drugs or not, my life and my choices still revolve around substance abuse.

If I'm not doing the drugs, I'm doing the addicts. Hah.

There's this pack of dogs that live in the cellar of my mind. They lunge and claw at the door, and generally, I can keep them quiet. Sometimes, though, every few years, I can't keep them out anymore.

I am now medicated, and feeling better with the promise of feeling better. My husband met me at the doctor's office, and it seemed to help him to be able to come and rescue me. It's helped us to be able to communicate with each other.

I went to see our marriage counselor by myself today. We talked about what has been going on, and we talked about the patterns that are emerging to try to determine if there are any we can break.

She asked me to think about myself, right now, and my husband, right now. I kept explaining how when I met him and fell in love with him, I was a very sick person in a very bad place...I am different now...and I don't think I would pick him off the street right now. I like to imagine that I would make better decisions about my relationships...and I believe that I would. However, I do love him, and I'm married to him, and he is like he is. Past me loved past him, and present me loves a possible future him...I am getting stuck, though, with present me and present him.

I have some accepting to do. And if I can't accept what I've got, then I've got to make some big moves.

I am glad, though, to have the promise of clarity that will come with some time on medication. My emotions are all jagged now, and I need some relief for myself before I can make any big decisions.

I Need to Remember:

"Defending ourselves by engaging in arguments with actively drinking or otherwise irrational people is as fruitless as donning armor to protect ourselves from a nuclear explosion."

-Courage to Change, June 3

Thinking about Him.

I'm feeling sad for my husband today. He's still in a really bad place, and I'm not sure why or what is going on. I wish I could help him or stop him, and I can't.

My guess is that he's feeling pretty upset with his inability to provide for himself. I also think he feels vulnerable by being so dependent on me. He has convinced himself that I mean him harm. He believes that because he's hurt me so deeply in the past that I must want to hurt him back. It's not true. I don't want to hurt him. I want him to get better. I want him to be happy, and I want to be happy with him. I want him to be happy and comfortable and safe beyond what is probably helpful to him...my instinct is to protect him from every bump and bruise, even the ones he needs to experience to learn to stop repeating the same behaviors again and again.

We have marriage counseling tomorrow, and I'm glad. I want to talk to him about whatever is going on with him, but I am afraid. I am tired of being afraid, and I want to talk to him about being afraid. I think there's time for new boundaries, and I'm glad to have a third party to help us sort through it all.

I want to think about other things. I can't. I can't stop thinking about him.

Spin.

I've left my husband for the first time since he's been out of the hospital to go spend time with family. I'll be back with him tomorrow night. This brief separation has reaffirmed for me how awfully attached I am.

I am struggling with first step stuff. I believe that I am keeping my husband sober. It would seem that all the ample evidence I've collected over the last few years that it is not possible for me to keep my husband clean would be enough for me, but apparently, it's not. Apparently, I am powerless over my husband when he's using, but once he gets clean, I believe that I am the magic glue holding his sobriety together. I'm the clean troll guarding the bridge to his sanity, warding off fiendish mothers and Mexican drug dealers. My love is the anti-heroin, and without it, my husband is certain to fall into disrepair.

It's particularly hard because he doesn't have a phone anymore, so I can't expect to hear from him. If I do talk to him, it will be due to a fluke, and probably due to a scary one, like that his mother dropped by to investigate his methadone take-homes.

He has fed this beast of mine as well. He's told me that he appreciates how much time I've been willing to spend with him while this recovery stuff is new because it keeps him safe.

Sigh. It makes my control-loving heart skip a beat.

I wish my mind-control powers worked long distance. I wonder how many times I have to work through the steps to get state-wide mind control?

He has been doing really, really well, though, and I can take comfort in it. He has a higher power who has taken good care of him in spite of my husband's best efforts to destroy himself, and I trust that if he isn't done researching his first step yet, he's getting closer.

Something really nice happened as I was leaving yesterday...or maybe it didn't properly happen. I felt something nice. I didn't want to leave him. I've forgotten what that feels like, not wanting to leave. A part of it was my fear of losing my delusion of control and being too far away to monitor him properly, but most of it was that he's back. He's really, really back. He's not perfect, but he's the man I fell in love with instead of his evil twin, almost all the time.

He's been talking a lot about how he's going to feed what's good in himself and starve the rest, shrink it away and keep it in a little cage. One day, his addict will be a mousey little thing, and we'll pull it out to laugh while it spins in its pointless wheel. Maybe one day. Today, though, it's a long way from funny for me.

Detachment 102

My husband went to the new clinic today, and they told him that as long as he will participate in 2 of their group therapy sessions each week, they'll continue to dose him regardless of the amount of money he has. The director of the program said that they will let him know with plenty of advance notice if they are going to have to cut him off for any reason, and that they will work with him for as long as they can.

I'm really, really happy for him. It's like a window has opened in his life. I'm glad to find at least one person working in the substance abuse treatment field in our city who is interested in helping someone.

He is struggling, and I am struggling with how he is struggling. I'm in his business in all kinds of unhealthy ways. I'm thinking that I'm going to have to go back to the steps to learn how to deal with my husband when he's on a healthier path.

Apparently, I've graduated from God's course in Detaching from my Addict Husband 101, and God has signed me up for Detaching from my Recovering Husband: 102. Yay. I get to learn new hard things.

I'm feeling a little overwhelmed in every area of my life. I've been helping my husband out too much and succumbing to his every whim. He is weak and sick and needy, and I will stay home from my yoga classes to sit with him and make sure he's ok. I've expressed to him several times that I am not going to be able to fulfill his every need, but I do want to be here for him while he's in this transition.

I am so proud of him. I have never seen him stick to something for this long. He's been to a meeting every day since he got out of the hospital. It's not an eternity, but it's a major step for my husband. He has real struggles with following through on his commitments, and he's doing it this time. And just like when we were first married, I am letting my world shrink around him. I'm letting him be my best friend, my lover, my god, my source of entertainment and validation and humor and everything. My new struggle is how to continue growing and living my own life, even when he's doing well.

If I've learned anything about myself in this process, though, it's that I'm persistent in seeking out my truth. I have some character defects, but I also have some real strengths. I won't stop looking for my own peace, and I'll find my way.

Besotted.

I've tried to get you out of my head but I can't seem to get you out of my flesh. I think about your body day and night. When I try to read it's you I'm reading. When I sit down to eat it's you I'm eating. When he touches me I think about you. I'm a middle-aged happily married woman and all I can see is your face. What have you done to me?

-Jeanette Winterson,Written on the Body

I've quoted this bit of Jeanette Winterson here before, I'm sure. A friend of mine sent it to me at the time when I was between marriages, running amok between and among possible lives. I identified with that single-minded obsession she describes, and I'd forgotten how it felt until lately.

I am thoroughly besotted with my husband. I'm exhausted in this lackadaisical, satiated way. All I want to do is be near him.

He's a mess, but he's a self-aware, present, loving mess, and he's doing the best he can, which is more than I ever expected. I've missed him. We were separated for almost a month before his hospitalization, and before the separation, he'd not been present in this way for a long time. I think it's been since August, really, that I've seen this side of him. That's a lot of months.

I'm going on with my life against my will. I want to stop everything and pay attention to my husband only. I want to stay home in bed with him and rub his back and kiss his face and tell him he's going to be ok.

I want to enjoy him, while he's here, without letting down my guard too much, without worrying about the future. I'm having a hard time letting myself fully wake up to these pleasant, present moments because the past and the future are so scary.

He's been to three meetings in three days. It's a big deal. He's sometimes crazy, but when he says things that are hurtful or when he's hyper-sensitive in that maddening addict way, he calls himself on it. He's trying to take clean up the messes he's made, slowly but surely. It's all good stuff, and it scares me, and it fills me with hope.

Best of all, though, is he is mine. He's a mess and he's my mess. We sleep all wrapped together like vines. I wish there was nothing else to do in the world. I wish that vines would come up out of the ground and grow over us, fold us into the ground.

God's Will for Me and the Power to Carry it Out.

"All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on."

-Havelock Ellis

I'm starting my second round of the ninth step this weekend, but I am struggling with 11th step issues. I am looking and looking and looking for God's will for me, and I'm not sure what it might be.

It seems ungodly of God to want my marriage to end; it seems like God would want a marriage to be restored. Maybe God is mad at my marriage for springing from the seed of infidelity. Maybe God is mad at me for having a second marriage. Maybe that God I don't believe in is the God who's handling my life right now.

Sometimes, I feel like all the evidence in my life is pointing me toward ending everything with my husband, cutting all ties, and moving on. I want to pack up my belongings, sell my house, and move far, far, far away from this city that he haunts. Other times, it feels like every ounce of me is empty without my husband. It feels like I was born to love him, and no other life is optional. It feels like it's me, on my insides, that's haunted by him, and leaving him won't exorcise that connection. Nothing's going to get this demon out of me.

I want to know what it is I'm supposed to be doing, and I guess what I'm supposed to be doing is waiting and seeking God's will for me...waiting for the strength to carry it out.

Bread at the Hardware Store.

"Come here," he said. I came. He pulled me into his lap.

"I'm sorry about the other day, in the morning. I shouldn't talk to you like that. I don't want to talk to you like that."

"It's ok," I said.

"It's not. I know you have to set stuff like that up so you don't get hurt. I understand, it just hurts my feelings when I feel like you don't care."

"I do care, and I don't want to hurt your feelings. I'm sorry when I hurt you."

"I know. I love you."

"I love you, too."

Sometimes, instead of my crazy bastard husband, I get my dream husband. He's present, and he understands how hard it is to live with him. We are able to empathize with each other.

At a meeting a few weeks ago, a woman said that she is learning in her recovery that trying to get support, love, nurturing from her addicted partner is kind of like trying to get bread from the hardware store. She knows that the hardware store won't carry bread, but sometimes, she really wants bread from there. In recovery, she is learning to go to appropriate places to get her bread...like the grocery store of friends in recovery or supportive family members. Or on good days, she can even make her own bread.

I really liked the metaphor, but there's a part of it that doesn't quite work. Sometimes, there IS bread at the hardware store. Most of the time, it's not there, but when it is, it's the best bread ever. It keeps me coming back.

Through.

The only way to get out of whatever it is I’m doing is to get through it. I don’t like it. I want a trap door.

My husband and I were both at home today together, which was alternately lovely and infuriating. I have such thin patience for any behavior that is even slightly addicty. It’s not just with him. It’s with anyone. I don’t have patience with my dog if she’s being willfully obstinate, needy, or petulant.

One of the things I’m noticing that’s different about me in my recovery is that lately, I am really aware of the things I run from. If I’m resisting something, I figure that there must be a reason why I am struggling around it, and it’s probably what I need. I figure that on the other side of my resistance is a door to a bigger, more beautiful life. For instance, there was that yoga pose I used to hate, ardha chadrasana. I hated the shakiness, the vulnerability…the exposure. But now, I have fallen in love with this pose. I’m stronger now, and my balance is better. I fall out of it sometimes, but most of the time, I stick it, and it feels great. It feels like I’m taking up as much space as I possibly can with my body, spreading myself out all over the world as big as I can ever be. I think of myself like a star, or like a sun, and I shine and shine.

But I used to hate it, and I'd run from it. I'm running, now, from my marriage, and I'm not sure if I need to keep persevering, keep sticking, and see what's on the other side...or if the healthy thing is to run and never look back.

Dirty Laundry.

My husband showed up at the house yesterday with a basket full of dirty laundry, both actual and metaphorical. He had a big speech prepared about how he has to live here because he doesn't have anywhere else to go. He said if I wanted him gone, I'd have to call the cops and make them come fulfill his arrest warrant.

After his big, stompy speech, he put his arms around me and tried to comfort me.

I felt kind of like I was going to explode from the pressure. A big part of me, of course, wants him to be here. I've always wanted him to be here. I'd been missing him, and the thought of him being back home was a great relief. Another part of me, though, knows that I'm not ready for him to be back. I know he hasn't worked through whatever he needs to work through or figured out whatever lesson he needs to learn for us to be able to be together and be healthy.

I didn't know what to say. I'm not ready to call the cops on him. I'm not afraid to do it, but I'm saving that door for when I really need it. I knew that calling the cops wasn't an option.

I decided to swath myself in sanity. I called some program friends, and I called my sponsor. I went to a yoga class, and I went to a meditation session. I stayed afterward and sought support from the meditation teacher.

I came home with a set of boundaries that I think I can live with, and with an option to help him be able to get to work if he can't live with the boundaries I need. We are going to revisit the situation in two weeks and see how things are going. We both agreed to commit to working on our marriage in the meantime.

So far, it's ok. He's working today, and he has found another side job to make some money. The deal breaker for me now is going to be what he does with the money he makes from the side job. If he's willing to give some up to help with the bills, then I will accept that he's doing the best he can to contribute, and I'll continue to live with him. If he won't...if something mysterious happens (like it always does) with this money, then he's going to have to find somewhere else to go. Since most of his reasoning for why he has to be here is that he can't get to work from his parents' house, I told him that if I realize I can't live with him, I'll still help him get a ride back and forth to work for a couple of weeks after he leaves.

Today, it seems workable. I am so glad to have him home, but I was also getting so comfortable finding my own way. I can't think clearly in the presence of this man all the time, but it's getting easier. Every time he leaves for a little while, I get a little stronger, and a little clearer. I'm doing the best I can right now, and it's enough for me. We'll see what happens next.

A Visit.

My husband stopped by the house this morning. I am not sure why he was here other than that he was testing my tolerance for him to be here. I am tolerant of him being here. I would like for us to be able to see each other sometimes.

It was wonderful to see him, and it was hard to see him. It was kind of like getting water after a long run. It felt good to hear his voice, to feel his arms around me. It was hard for him to leave. It's hard to remember how we can laugh together and to know that it's not like that when he's here all the time.

There are a lot of interesting things I'm observing in myself. His parents are smoking crack. I am sorry that he is living with people who are smoking crack. That's clearly not a good environment for him. It's sad to me that he's in a bad place and that his parents are in a bad place. It's sad, but I don't feel like it has anything to do with me. They are sick people living in their sickness. They are people who I love, and I wish that they could get well. It is clear that they aren't well, however, and that they will make me sick if I go around them.

I don't know when this happened, this unveiling in my mind.

I know, though, that I had to go through everything I went through to be able to see these things. I had to try to bend and stretch and fold my life all up around the edges of my husband's addiction. I wouldn't have been able to leave him alone if I thought that there was any other way. If I'd asked him to leave one minute before I did, it wouldn't have stuck.

I shouldn't talk about it sticking yet. I might leave in five minutes to go pick him up and bring him home. The physical pull is that strong...I know it's not healthy, but it's what I want.

Today, though, I've gotten a lot of work done, and I'm pleased with my quiet house, my steady work schedule, and my silly dogs. I'm happy to have had a moment with my husband this morning, and I'm also happy to have had a day to myself. I know I need some more time to get clear about what's important to me.

I also know that even if I cave and let him come back home, I'll be better able to deal with his mess for having had a break. I am already having a clearer understanding of how he's struggling with this little bit of distance.

I am learning, too, that this is possible. Living apart is possible. Living apart in a permanent, separate way seems still way too big to consider, but having some wide spaces between us is real, achievable, and healthy.

I am learning that when I'm hurting, it's often out of fear. I'm afraid for my husband's safety and sanity. I am learning that when I'm afraid for him, I can pray that he will find his way.

What Doesn't Belong to Me

I had a small victory last night, and I'm proud of myself for it. I thought I'd share it with you.

My husband called me while I was in my afternoon yoga class, and left a message saying he needed to talk to me about something. I called him back, and we finally caught each other last night when I was on my way home from work. He has been working for a distant relative the last few weeks, and the reward for this work was supposed to be a car. He hasn't had a car in a while, so it was an exciting prospect for him to have his own ride. He was pretty sure that it would help him to get a job.

He's staying with family in a few towns over from here, and he is very upset with me because now he's not got a ride to work. He's afraid he's going to miss the chance to get this car.

"Just because you can't stand to look at my face, now I'm not going to be able to have a car. So two weeks from now when I haven't made any progress at all, you just think about it before you start blaming me," he said.

I could hear the hurt in his voice. He's angry, but mostly, he's hurting and he's afraid. I am sorry for the sad, sick man he's become. My instinct is to stop everything, go get him, bring him home, buy him a car...but I can't. My comfort for his pain doesn't work. It's not meaningful if I fix these problems for him, and it causes more harm than good.

So I asked him if he needed to tell me anything else, and he said no. He got off the phone abruptly. It was hard. That man has my heart, and he's not careful with it...but it was clear to me that I could not help him. It was clear to me that if he loses this car, it's because of the choices that he has made, and it doesn't have anything to do with me. It's clear to me that he's going to have to find his own way before we can find our way together. I hope he does.

Home Again.

My husband is home. I'm happy he's here with me.

I went to visit him a few nights ago, and we were both so astonishingly sane. He said he wanted to come home, and I said I wanted him to come home, but that I wasn't yet clear on what I needed to be comfortable with him living with me yet. He understood, and he said for me to let him know when it became clearer. He told me he'd do whatever it took.

I know there's a difference in being willing to say that he'll do whatever it takes and actually doing whatever it takes, but I was impressed with his lack of anger and his acceptance of what a hard time I'd been having. I think we both got a lot of clarity from our time apart, and I've worked out the boundaries that I can accept for now.

He acknowledged that he'd fallen into a rut that wasn't working for him as much as it wasn't working for me. His willingness to admit his problems is progress.

When I came home from work today, he asked me to come outside with him. He walked me to our trash can, and he showed me a bottle he'd been using as a water bong in the bottom of the can. He said he'd gotten rid of everything, and that he agrees to keep all drugs out of the house.

It was a small gesture. I might wake up in the morning and find a thousand more homemade water bongs tucked away in every corner, but it was nice of him to make a gesture. He empathized with me, and it means a lot to be heard.

And I'm happy with his body next to mine in bed. It's what I want. I'm in love with that man still, and while I found some peace in his absence, I'm not ready to cut him loose.

I Don't Know.

I don’t know what I want. I’m struggling to figure it out.

I want to be happy. I’m not sure if happiness and peace can come together. It kind of seems like happiness might only be available in a bundle with misery.

See more at The Second Road.

"You Have a Thigh..."

"You have a thigh, but you are not your thigh," our yoga teacher explained. She was coaxing us deeper into our Warrior stances. My thigh was talking to me. It was telling me not to push further. I told it to be quiet...that it was going to get stronger if I kept pushing. I have a thigh, but I am not my thigh.

You can see the rest at The Second Road.

24 Hours in the Life of a Junky's Wife

8:40 PM: Get off work. Gather your things, and get in the car. Think, "I don't want to go home. I need to go to bed, but I don't want to go home." Call Nar-Anon friends, and find somewhere to go for dinner.

9:00 PM: Hold Nar-Anon friends hostage and make them watch you eat dinner and listen to you complain about how your husband won't stop smoking weed and playing video games with the 30 year old, unemployed neighbor, who seems to be taking up way too much space and time in your residence.

9:40 PM: Drive home. Cry quietly. Pray: "Please let him be asleep. Please don't make me have to talk to him."

9:50 PM: Call a girlfriend. Park in the road a few blocks from your house, and talk to her on the phone until you see the bedroom lights go off at home.

10:20 PM: Lights out. Go home, assuming you're safe from an encounter with your husband. Change from work clothes, pet the dogs, and get ready for bed.

11:00 PM: Climb in bed with him. Find a friend online to listen to you complain about how much you hate/love the handsome beast you married. Chat for a bit until he becomes too handsome to resist.

11:20 PM: Curl into his body and fall asleep in his arms.

3:30 AM: Wake up, weirdly resenting a lie he told 18 months ago. Roll out of his arms. Talk yourself sane.

4:15 AM: Wriggle back into his armpit. Back to sleep.

6:30 AM: He wakes up like a wildebeast, yelling at the dogs and sighing loudly. Ignore him. Force your eyes to stay closed and force your mind to shut up so you don't have to get up with him. Keep trying. When you can't fall asleep again, roll around in the bed, letting your resentments fester gorgeously. Tell him off in your mind. Tell him the way it's going to be from now on. Tell him, quietly, all about how he's going to get a job or get out, goddamn it!

7:40 AM: He comes in the bedroom and pounces on you. You're still telling him off internally, but you're pleased with the weight of his body on yours externally. You tell him you've been telling him off. He giggles and kisses your neck. Tell him how much you hate him, and wrap your arms around him. Bury your face in his chest and breathe deeply. Make love.

8:15 AM: Get up, get coffee, get dressed.

8:45 AM: Find weed paraphernalia hidden in the laundry room, and demand that it disappear. Swear you'll call the police if you find anything else illegal in your house, ever.

9:00 AM: Leave for work. Cry in the car, quietly. Listen to NPR. Try to settle down.

9:30 AM: Meeting with a client.

10:30 AM: Find yourself confessing your awful, complicated life story to another person.

11:30 AM: Back to work.

1:00 PM: Switch to another job. Work, work, work.

3:00 PM: Go home. Find the annoying neighbor in the house, playing video games. Find husband proudly painting a wall upstairs. Have a brief fight about how it's not the right wall. Tell him you wish he'd finish the projects he's already started before starting a new one. Feel sorry when he looks hurt and tells you he was trying to do something nice.

3:15 PM: Lock yourself in the bathroom for a mid-afternoon meltdown.

3:45 PM: Back to work. Work, work, work.

5:30 PM: Yoga. Breathe and breathe and breathe and breathe.

7:00 PM: Shower. Burn incense. Cry quietly. Get dressed.

8:00 PM: Nar-Anon. Breathe and breathe and breathe and breathe.

Talented Man Overwhelmed by Ernest Williamson III

My Readers Hate Me.

Those of you who have been reading me for a long time know that I made a big decision to stop allowing comments on this site several months ago. It took me a long time to decide to turn them off, as most of the feedback that I got from you guys was helpful, supportive, and helped me recognize that I'm not alone. Every now and then, however, there would be a nasty comment from someone, and it would hurt me. Try as I might to remember that people reading here don't know me, that people reading here only see a fragment of my life that I choose to share in a way that represents a particular perspective...it still got under my skin. Deciding to let go of my need for approval and to turn off the comments here was really healthy for me, and I've found it to be liberating as a writer to be able to post without worrying about whether or not I'd piss off the handful of people who seem to read me because I push their buttons.

I've been blogging at The Second Road for a few months now in addition to writing over here, and there's comments on that blog. Mostly, the comments are supportive, and mostly, they are coming from people who are dealing with similar issues to my own, sharing experience, strength, and hope.

I posted recently about my struggles around my husband's boundary breaking and my frustration with areas where it seems I'm not quite able to put down a clear boundary, and I got a barrage of feedback from all kinds of perspectives. It's been interesting working through my responses to feedback from folks, especially since I'd decided I wasn't doing that anymore on my own site. I'm still stewing a bit about some of it, but mostly, I think I'm able to read what other people think, and move on. People are working through their own issues when they respond negatively to me, and it's becoming clearer that none of the negativity has anything to do with me. Because I'm a codependent in recovery, a lot of the people reading me are also codependents, either in recovery or not...and that means that my readers are struggling with issues of control, addictive behavior, projection, fear, and anxiety. Comments that are fraught with negativity and judgment aren't about me or my life...they're about something that I can't see...something in the lives and minds of the people posting.

I also trust that I have a handle on my own reality, and that there are people who I trust to give me feedback when it's necessary...people who can see all of me and understand my whole story. Sometimes, negative comments can make me question my understanding of myself. I am coming to realize that this self-doubt is one of my character defects. Strangers on the internet don't know more about me than I do, and I can trust my own judgment and the support of my friends in recovery to guide me toward my own answers.

I'm still not willing to let comments happen over here in my own sand box, but I can look at the commentary on The Second Road, and leave it alone.

Maybe one day, I'll let people yell at me over here again. I'm not quite there yet...but maybe one day.

Art: Shut Up by Sal Marino

The 10-Second Saga of the Scarf.

I got home from work today, and there was an odd scarf on the floor. No big deal, right?

Wrong!

Instantly, without missing a beat, a story unfolded in my mind:

He's using again. He pulled out my scarf to tie off his arm. Why does he always have to use my stuff? Are the drugs better when my stuff is involved? He's been spending all that time with his mom. They're using together again. I can't believe it. I need to go through all his pockets. Why isn't he home right now? Where is he? This is just like that time I found a scarf of mine with a pair of scissors and he'd burned the scissors because he thought he wouldn't get caught if he didn't steal the spoons. I can't believe I've been so blind!

And then I looked again. It was just a scarf, on the floor. No blood on the ceiling. No burned spoon. No track marks. No syringe. It was a scarf on the floor among dozens of other objects: dog toys, towels, sheets, yesterday's jeans. Just a scarf.

My husband gave me some money yesterday. He's been doing little labor jobs here and there, and he handed me $40. That's a good thing. He's treating me well, with some slips here and there...but nothing that says he's using. So why is the scarf so menacing?

I'm still working that out.

P.S.

I was sick and tired of MPJ and Mantra having new, cool signatures, so I got one, too.

Scarf by UberHottie

Anxiety

There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

-T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

My husband's crap is bothering me, and I'm mad at myself for it.

There have been a few weeks where I've been doing a really good job of staying out of his stuff. He's been struggling with this detox business, which is still pretty rocky after 4 weeks, and I've been going on with my life. I've gone to yoga, and I've gone to work, and I've come home. I've been kind to him, and I've helped when I could. I've stayed away when it felt too painful to help.

Last night, he said he wanted to go back to the methadone clinic. He said that this morning, he was going to go to the clinic to talk with his former counselor, and he asked to borrow my car to get up there. I told him he couldn't borrow the car.

I've let something in this interchange trigger me, and I'm not sure what it is. I kind of think it's less about him wanting to go back on methadone and more about him asking to use my car, which is a little bizarre to me. It's petty. I told him "No," and it's over. I'm mad, a little, that he'd ask.

I guess a part of it is that I'm sad that none of this will be over until I make it be over, and I'm sad that I am not ready to make it be over. I'm sad that everything is pointing in the direction of getting out of this relationship and going on with my life. I'm sad that this relationship has been an elaborate ritual of acting out the garbage of my mind. I'm sad that what felt like so much love was really so much sickness. I'm sad that I don't know if I'll ever be able to do better. I'm sad that the idea of being alone is so very attractive. I'm sad for the me who I thought I was, for the life that I thought was real.

I was climbing the stairs in the parking garage at work today, and it occurred to me that I'll be glad when all my pets pass away because then I can join a yoga ashram or a hare krishna commune. I had no idea I was waiting for my dogs and cats to die so I could join a cult, but apparently, I am. Who knew?

Photo by Apples I'm Home

Something Stirring.

I've been so blessedly, infinitely, angelically patient with my husband during his detox, but that frustration that has plagued me for months about his unemployment is starting to knock against my heart.

He woke me up this morning because he wanted to use my phone, and he approached me with the most awful, whining voice: "I need your phone." The word "need" in that voice of his...the word "need" in his mouth addressed to me at all...it makes something bright red boil in my guts.

I want to be patient. I want to be good. I want him to be better, and I want to be on the other side of this mess, waiting for him with open arms to be the man I know he wants to be, and who I know he can be. I just am so tired from it all, and I need some help with the bills. At this point, I have one steady job that almost pays the bills, and then I have a few freelance gigs that will help...but it's not stable, and I won't know from one month to the next if I'll be able to make it. I've had a few windfalls lately to help me prepare for the hard times on the horizon, but so much could be resolved if he just had a job...a little job...a little part-time job that made minimum wage.

And I'm so afraid that he'll finally get a job and refuse to contribute any of his earnings to the household expenses, since that's his pattern. I don't have another bout of that in me, I don't think.

I wish that there could be a timer inside of me, some way to organize my emotions and to monitor when they'll be done. I could set a date, but I've done that before and I never stick to it. As soon as my big deadlines arrive, there's some new event on the horizon that keeps me locked in...some new bait that keeps me hopeful that things are changing for the better.

And things DO seem to be changing for the better. They really do. I just don't know if it's going to happen fast enough, and I won't choose hope for him over my own happiness.