The Ancient Tribal Junkies Of The Southeastern United States.

Several thousand years ago, a syringe-worshiping peoples inhabited this particular region. They had a rather simple civilization...most likely they robbed neighboring tribespeople and traded stolen goods for the small amount of food they desired and other necessities.

It just so happens that my husband and I have purchased a piece of real estate located precisely over the sacred syringe burial ground of these people, and our house appears to be infested with these ancient syringe artifacts. In fact, a syringe appeared in our bedroom just this morning. It appeared to have fallen out of a pocket of his pants; however, it seems that the logical explanation for how he syringe got on our floor was that, due to the particular molecular structure of this tribe's sacred syringes, it was absorbed from the earth through the floorboards of our home and emerged, fully formed, on our bedroom carpet.

My husband has no idea where this syringe might have come from, so it seems that the only logical explanation is that it is very, very old. Ancient. It was so old, in fact, that he had to demonstrate the needle's lack of a sharp edge, the crustiness of the brownish substance caking the sides, the plunger's lack of pliability. Sure, he used to dabble a bit with heroin and syringes and all that, but it's been, like, almost a MONTH since he last used, and the needle couldn't possibly have anything to do with him using. It couldn't possibly be his. Could I, possibly, have planted it there to trap him? (Yes, he suggested this.) Perhaps it belongs to someone else. (No one except for me and him has been in this house in over a month.) Maybe it's from when he relapsed (Note: relapsED. It's in the past. Don't put it in the present, or you might get a tantrum.) Maybe it's one he set aside, you know, for sentimental reasons. Maybe he was going to make a scrapbook or something.

Needle In A Haystack.

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.