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.

Meeting Date.

As he's been recuperating from his latest relapse, my husband has been planning and planning and planning all the wonderful things he would start doing once he felt better. One of the things, as always, was to start going to meetings.

He's finally been starting to perk up over the last few days, and we made a plan to meet at tonight's meeting. I meet with my stepwork group before my meeting, and he had some errands to run before his meeting. Before we parted ways, I'd already begun to fret about how I was certain he'd blow off the meeting.

And while the quality of my fretting is different from what it used to be in that I stayed in the meeting and I didn't stare at the door waiting to see him show up, it was still on my mind when it got to be 6:00 and he wasn't there. Our topic tonight was dealing with relapse and how our reactions to relapse reflect our growth through the program, and one of the things I brought up, even, was how I could tell I'd grown because I wasn't freaking out about him not being at the meeting like I would have in the past.

It was a great meeting, too. There was a newcomer, and that always adds a great perspective for me...it makes me think about my own first meeting, how sure I was that I wouldn't fit in with anyone, how nobody would like me, how I wouldn't like anybody, and how by the time I walked out of that door the first night, I'd become a full-fledged Nar-Anon convert. I'd never felt more like I'd found the place where I belonged, where there were people who understood what I was going through, what my husband was going through, and who had some actual, applicable information on how I could help myself. It was a beautiful night...and it also makes me think of how much I've grown over the last year and how much has changed in my life. I like newcomers.

It was one of those meetings I hated to see end, especially since I was dreading going home and listening to the lies and excuses about why he didn't show up for the meeting. I lingered for a bit afterwards to prolong the inevitable reunion with my husband...

But then, when I finally left, I saw the most beautiful thing. He was there, talking to someone else from the program, with his slightly-chewed Styrofoam cup of Narcotics Anonymous coffee. That cup looked like a grail full of holy water to me at that moment. It might be silly, but I was so glad he was there tonight, that he did what he said he was going to do, and that he was taking care of himself while I was taking care of myself.

Touching.

Tonight, I remembered to appreciate the man sitting across from me at dinner. He reached across the table to take my hand, and I gave it to him without one iota of doubt, fear, or question. It made me think of the early days of our relationship, when every touch was stolen.

For years and years, his presence would consume a room. Not touching him could occupy all of my mental resources. Our relationship would be active and then not, on and off, but always, always, the tension between us was dense and palpable. If we were located within the same geographic region, his hands would find their way to my body, his breath to my neck. It might be brief, stolen, painful, but it was always true, always certain to happen, and always backed with a deep, honest hunger. I was terrified and thrilled by him. I could barely meet his gaze for fear of getting lost in it.

Tonight, I can look this man straight in his eyes, and I can tell him that I love him. I can let him kiss my neck and let his wonderful hands roam with their native familiarity all over my body.

"Nobody can tell me that I can't let you touch me!" I announced to him. He laughed. "And I can touch you whenever I want!"

That's a gift. It's something that once seemed too distant, too difficult, too impossible to ever realize, and it's here now. If we can be husband and wife after years of hiding, we can do anything together.

All Quiet.

It's all quiet on the home front for the last few days. It makes me nervous. I got home from work, and the house was clean...like really clean. Like cleaner than I left it.

My wonderfully pleasant husband kissed me and asked how my day went. The obstinate, needy, ridiculous man I came home to every day last week has transmogrified into a caring, helpful partner. He didn't ask for money or my stuff.

We talked and laughed and had dinner together. Things seem sort of normal. We watched a movie and laughed a lot. I talked on the phone with Long Vowels, and he only had a mild temper tantrum about it. He's eating his midnight snack now and letting me blog without whining.

I have to remember this when I find him unbearable.

Alone and Together.

We spent the weekend both being quite busy doing important things for ourselves and then pleasantly reuniting in the evenings for marital bliss. He spent the days helping his father with some work in an effort to pay back some money he'd borrowed, and I cleaned the house, cooked for the week, went to my step meeting and connected with friends.

It feels good, healthy, balanced...this growing separately and together. I think we've needed some time apart to be able to enjoy each other again. Because he's not been working and we've been broke, we've kind of been forced into spending way too much time together. It was good to find a little more balance this weekend.

We're on to steps 2 and 3 with the step study group, which means I'm spending all this time thinking of god things. I'd cultivated such a deep religious skepticism for so long...from about the eighth grade until I entered grad school, I thought of myself as an atheist.

When I went to grad school, though, something started thawing inside of me. I don't know if it was September 11th, if it was spending my time writing, if it was the distance from everyone I loved forcing me to face myself for the first time in many years, but a little bit of room opened up inside of me for spirituality.

I don't know what to call that little god-spark, or what to do with it, but I do know that it's essential to growing...opening myself up to the healing possibility of a higher power.

Or really, if I'm honest, I do know what to do with it. I know all the steps to take to make this part of my life more essential...I've just got to take them.

Strangely, while we were eating dinner last night, he wanted to talk about god stuff, too. He wanted to talk about how he was feeling disconnected from his god, and how he wanted very badly to feel connected again. He asked me what I thought about myself, my relationship with god. It was odd to me that he was beating around inside my mind in this way, as I'd not really spoken to him about all the god exploring I'd been doing lately. He said that he hoped that this is something we can do together, separately and together...like our meetings across the hall from one another.

The Star To Every Wandering Bark.

I feel like I should be reading something about addicts acting right suddenly...like this is some kind of devastating phase that indicates that the addict is about to relapse, hugely, like just opening his veins with a penknife to shove the heroin in by the fistful. Who is this wonderful man, and what has he done with my crazy ass husband? We've had a solid week of real sanity, real productivity...

Wait, RD told me how to say it right, "We seem to have had a solid week of real sanity, real productivity."

But I am pointless and mushy and smitten and horny and healthy and happy, which means I haven't got a lot to say to you folks. Happy makes me quiet. Happy also makes me crazy. I'm not so comfortable in happy.

We were in the car yesterday listening to something awful on NPR, and this guy recited Shakespeare's Sonnet 116. That line, "the star to every wandering bark," made me feel something, some recognition I'd never felt before. I've had that sonnet memorized since the 12th grade, and sometimes, when I'm impatient or jogging or scared or tired or trying to clear my mind, I'll recite poetry that I've memorized...so I've turned this poem all around in my head, again and again, for years. But that "star to every wandering bark" grabbed me in a new way, and made me think of my own too-recently tumultuous life...and the years preceding...and all the time present and time past, and how in all the time eternally tumbling to now, one thing has always been true, always ahead of me, always important. The ebbs and flows have always pushed me, meaningfully, towards the place where I am, and that's really beautiful.

Life Is Sweet. (And that's scary.)

Sometimes, I'm so happy that I can't even speak.

(Ten minutes later, I'm a nervous wreck.)

I couldn't sleep last night. I was fretting about work stuff and home stuff and family stuff and just stuff in general, and I was tossing and turning and fretting and grumbling and cursing and getting in and out of bed. He got up and sat with me, held me. He was wonderful. He's been being wonderful. We've been wonderful together. We woke up together and had all these plans for the day that are brilliant and exactly what I would want if I were planning. And it's not me being bossy...it's him, planning, changing, trying...and yet I feel sick.

And I'm struggling to enjoy it. All this wonderful husband stuff is scaring me. I'm skeptical and scared and wary and all in his business in a way I haven't been for a long time. Letting my guard down is terrifying.

We've got a meeting tonight. It's good. I bet I'll feel better after the meeting.

I just want so much to enjoy this good time. I don't want to be skeptical or scared. It's hard to take each day as it comes. I'd gotten better at taking each day as a new day and dealing with all the things that emerged when things were going so badly...I am having a hard time savoring the sweetness.

The broken kitten.

Kitty is broken again. It's very sad. He's drugged like Daddy in the dark days. I think he will be ok. Kitty sometimes forgets that he's broken, and he starts trying to do acrobatic things like kitties do, and then he ends up all curled and tense and moaning in the corner, and we have to go to the kitty hospital.

My man was very helpful with kitty. I've spent a lot of time running back and forth with such errands alone, and it was so wonderful to have help. It kept me from getting all crazy about how kitty is broken and how one day kitty will die and unleashing that whole horrible projecting beast.

We spent the evening after returning home from the kitty emergency room playing with Mod Podge. It's not so fun to play with him, as he is much better than me at arts and crafts, but that's ok. Maybe I will challenge him to a sonnet write-off. I suspect he doesn't know that we're in a competition, and that he's presently winning.

And I wrote some. And I checked on kitty, and we talked a lot. It's been a beautiful day. And now I'm tired.

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.

Oh yeah...

I found this quote while doing research for this article I'm working on...it spoke to me, and reminded me of what I was doing. I keep forgetting. Maybe I'm getting old. Or maybe I'm tired. Or maybe I'm exactly where I need to be.

What if everyone decided right and wrong for themselves, without any regard for conventional morality? What if everyone did whatever they wanted to, with the courage to face any consequences? What if everyone feared loveless, lifeless monotony more than they fear taking risks, more than they fear being hungry or cold or in danger? What if everyone set down their "responsibilities" and "common sense," and dared to pursue their wildest dreams, to set the stakes high and live each day as if it were the last? Think what a place the world would be!

-from Crime Thinc

Ahhh.

I often wish that the world could be just us, alone, with no jobs, no bills, no worries. We'd do well in the Garden of Eden. We'd need a bunch of pencils and paper and a couple of dogs and cats, and maybe some fruit or blue cheese. It would be nice to be able to order a pizza now and then.

An Al-Anon Reminder from MSB that helped me very much yesterday:

Unless I have deliberately decided that my relationship with my spouse has no further value in my life, I would do well to consider the long-range benefits of quiet acceptance in times of stress.

Quiet acceptance...

Quiet acceptance for a while felt like defeat, but I'm learning that it's different. It's not accepting something that is unacceptable. It's accepting the place where we are, comfortable or uncomfortable, with love and hope.

And it works...quiet acceptance got me a lot more than I had hoped for last night. I got the answers I needed and the understanding that the answers I needed were going to come from myself and not from my husband. I got to lie in the arms of the man I love. I felt better, quickly.

Today, instead of planning a llama farm away from my man, I'm going to think about Eden, with him.

In The Car With Paris Hilton.

Look at her there, all alone. She's calling me on the phone, and leaving the following message:

"Hey JW. I saw you made the site private. I was, like, so upset. I was thinking that we could go to the club this weekend without panties on. I've got this really hot pair of big glasses you could wear."

So I forgot something important. This month is when my column will be coming out in the San Diego Reader. They emailed me this morning to let me know that I'd need to go public before the release date of the paper with my first column, so I'll be back live next Wednesday, if not sooner.