New Hero.

"That's my favorite character!" he says, indicating a dark haired, hollow-eyed man on our television. He's been watching Heroes lately.

We used to watch television series together, Netflixing the whole season and watching them in binges. I've been working more, though, and he's been unemployed...so he's watching without me. He was trying to entice me into joining him, but I had more work to do.

"So they've all got super powers, right? Well, this guy, he does a bunch of heroin, and then he starts painting. His paintings predict the future!"

So, NBC, I'm putting you on notice. Cut it out with the heroin heroics crap. Heroin is wack, and it makes people act wack. Heroin makes artists stop painting and sit on the couch watching television. Maybe that's what you're promoting: Try heroin! It'll make you a superhero artistic genius! is you message, but what you know you'll accomplish is getting addicts all strung out on stupid network television.

And one more thing...let me catch you having syringes and other such triggering bullshit...I didn't stick around long enough to notice if this heroin dickhead has gear laying all over the place, but if he does, I'm going to be really pissed. I love finding new people to blame for my husband's addiction, NBC, so you better prepare yourself for a big bellyfull of the silent treatment! You better get ready to ignore me while I go lock myself in the bathroom and call my sponsor and tell on you! I might even go to yoga and think about eliminating you from my mind while I hang upside down in ragdoll pose! You better watch out, NBC, when you mess around with a codependent in recovery! We can be pretty scary!

I am so sleepy that I think I'm delirious. Goodnight, folks. Boycott NBC!

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.

Happy Post.

nataliedee.com

So, the Mexican heroin dealers are paid. It involved me staring out the window, watching, freaking out, thinking that someone was going to cut his throat, thinking he was buying drugs and lying, sobbing, yelling, blah blah blah.

But then, he came to me, and he said that he's sorry that we're still dealing with all this, and that it's over, now, or at least it's as over as he can make it be for now.

That was the end of the junky shit. Let's get ready for that meeting.

And so we got in the car and went to the meeting. It was kind of a rough meeting, as a lot of people who I care about very much are having a rough time, and I'd been having a rough time...but it was good to get it all out and see everyone and hug folks and laugh a little. The meeting was over, and I figured he'd be hiding by the car, pouting...but when I got outside, he was standing there, talking to folks. He asked if I wanted to go get some food with a few other people.

That was a good meeting. So you go to the one on Tuesday and Thursday? You want to go to the one next Tuesday?

I can't explain how happy this little development has made me. He was in a meeting, by himself, and he participated. He liked it. He saw how it would help him. He felt like he was in the right place.

We went out with a few folks after and had pizza.

On the way home, he said he doesn't know what's changed. He'd been to that same meeting before, but he said it was different before. He'd said that it made him think about doing drugs, but it's been long enough since he's been doing drugs now that he can get past the talk of drugs. The first meeting he'd been to, also, there'd been a lot of newcomers, and a lot of folks in real pain, crying and hurting. At that point, he couldn't do it. Now he can.

Isn't that wonderful?

We went home and watched my very last episode of my very favorite tv show, and we talked and made out like we'd just met. We stayed up all night, sleeping a little, fucking a little, talking a little, laughing a little. It's like I haven't seen my husband in weeks, and now, he's here.

I think some of the shadiness and evasiveness that's been driving me crazy for a while has been his attempts to hide the fact that he was still paying off a huge relapse debt. All the times that he's had money and not told me make sense now...and this huge change in him has something to do with the hope he found in that meeting last night and with that debt being gone.

So I know, all this could fall apart tomorrow. But today is full of sweetness and hope.

OH, and I almost forgot, he's going to work on Monday.