Worlds Crashing

I just looked up a statistic, because I was curious about the approximate percentage of addicts in the United States. The numbers say it’s 1 in 10. I don’t get it. How do I know so many 1s? My good friend called me last night, bawling and beside herself. She just discovered that her husband has a major gambling problem. My heart hurts for her. As I talk to her on the phone, I feel my stomach clench and unclench. I’ve been where she’s at. I know what it feels like when your entire world comes crashing down. I know that this is the beginning of a long journey for her. I also know that she will be okay. That doesn’t make it better and that doesn’t make it easier though.

I want to continue writing to try and express how I feel about all this, about that day when it all comes crashing down. My thoughts are a little all over the place in my brain right now, so I’m going freestyle here.

In your own little space
every jar set in place just so
to a pattern
on a line
creating a haven
a space thats mine

Working hard
always arranging
placing the jars
just so
to a pattern
on a line

The space is mine
safe and controlled
each jar
perfectly set
to a pattern
on a line

One tilts
it leans just so
careening
crashing into other
breaking the pattern
no more line

The space is there
no longer mine
broken jars
tiny fragments
with no pattern
obliterating all lines

The dust
piles on the floor
remnants of jars
sting my fingertips
numb my soul
heart a flat line

Thursday, October 1

Strangely, it’s October already. I’m not sure why I’m saying “already”. This past year has moved at a snail’s pace. Yet, somehow, it feels like one big blur as well. November will make it one year since that godawful day when the shit really hit the fan. Looking back though, I’m not even sure that day was so bad. It was the first day in a long time where I really opened my eyes and faced reality. It wasn’t fun by any stretch of the imagination, but it had to happen.

It feels like three lifetimes ago, but I can remember it like it was yesterday…
It is well past midnight and I have been tossing and turning in bed for quite a while. My mind is unsettled. There have been many questionable things happening these past few weeks and I am worried. My brain is telling me to stop being so paranoid, but my gut is telling me that something is wrong.

I feel bad for doubting my husband and his recovery. He tells me he is going to his meetings and that he is in a good place. But the signs are there. He’s being weird about his phone, his meetings are taking longer than they should, he tried selling his beloved hockey pucks. That is not the behavior of a sober individual. When I bring up my doubts, he has the best answers and always manages to perfectly explain things. But as I lay in bed mulling things over, things don’t seem so perfect at all.

I have not been a policeman for a long time. I have stopped myself from searching his belongings for drugs or checking his phone. Tonight, my gut is screaming that things aren’t okay and I don’t know that I’m ready to listen to it. I kick off my covers and walk into the guest room where my husband tends to throw his clothes after he comes out of the shower. Let me just check his jeans really quickly, I think. In the back pocket, I find the drug paraphernalia. My heart doesn’t even drop; I think I already knew it would be there.

In that moment, I know that our family is just never going to be the same. I know that this time, it’s different. This is not the first relapse or the first slew of lies, but it feels different this time. I wake up my husband to show him what I found, to see what response he has, not that it matters anymore. His lame excuse isn’t even worth repeating. As I sit in bed, clutching onto my blanket and crying, I look at my husband and he has turned over and gone back to sleep. I hold onto my phone, checking to see if my sister has gotten my texts. I have never felt more alone or more broken. That man in the bed, I don’t know him anymore.

Reflecting upon it now, as painful as that was, I needed to feel broken. To quote George Bernard Shaw, “It is a curious sensation: the sort of pain that goes mercifully beyond our powers of feeling. When your heart is broken, your boats are burned: nothing matters any more. It is the end of happiness and the beginning of peace.”

Thursday, September 10

It’s still raining outside. I know that I’ve already quoted the Eli Young Band, but I can’t help but hum their lyrics whenever it rains.

Give me skies of black and blue
The way you make me feel
And give me skies of green and red
Cold winds that make it real.
Storms are brewing deep within
Of hurt and loss and pride
It’s good to see the world in pain
When I take a walk outside.
When it rains, I don’t mind being lonely
I cry right along with the sky
When it rains, I don’t pretend to be happy
I don’t even have to try.

As I read the lyrics now, I realize that they may seem a little depressing, but I don’t think of them that way. I think it’s okay to feel sad sometimes and it can be comforting to have the weather match your mood. Emotions are a good thing, so long as there is always a combination of the ups and downs. And since the sun generally does come out after the rain, I can very shortly quote some sunshine tunes.

Tomorrow is Friday, finally. This week has felt like the longest week ever. Okay, that’s not true. The longest week ever was probably the first time that my husband went to rehab when Charlie was about 10 weeks old. So I’ll revise my previous statement and just say that it’s been a long week. The combination of it being Charlie’s first week of preschool and my first week of going into the city for work every day has just been very exhausting. I hope that once it becomes more of a routine, that it will get slightly easier.

Does routine make things easier? I can hope. Also, less precipitation would be a nice bonus. Speaking of nice bonuses, I just got my ex-husband’s latest drug test results earlier today and he is clean. I don’t know why, or maybe I do actually, but I always mentally prepare myself to hear the opposite, so when I find out he is clean, it actually comes as a pleasant surprise. I don’t mean to sound cynical, but based upon past experiences, my expectations aren’t that high. For Charlie’s sake, I dream of the best possible outcome, but I don’t expect it.

Who knows what next week will bring, but right now, we’re taking life one day at a time and one week at a time. This week, Charlie’s father is clean. I will be grateful for that. I will not hold onto resentment from the past, because it will not change anything. Not only will it not change anything, it prevents me from accepting and moving forward. So I am letting go, allowing the rain to wash away all of it. It’s a process and won’t happen in one day with one rainstorm, but I am en route.

Tuesday, September 1

I don’t know how, but it’s already September. Maybe I’ve never outgrown the school aspect of my life, because I still consider September and the start of school the beginning of the new year. This past year has been one crazy insane blur. It’s been the longest year of my life. At times, it felt like time was just standing still. Too often, it felt like the world actually ended and there would be no tomorrow.

It’s also been the strongest year of my life, thus far. I became a single parent when the thought of going it alone paralyzed me. I stood up for myself and learned that it’s okay to put myself first. It’s been the saddest year of my life because I am mourning the loss of a man I thought I once knew, a man I once considered my best friend in the world. It’s also been the most empowering year of my life. I have proven to myself that I am capable of anything if I try hard enough. I have made it to September and am still standing.

Not only am I standing, but I am progressing. I am moving forward together with Charlie. Sitting with him at orientation today in his preschool class, I realize that we are moving on, that we are building a new life here. Charlie is adapting better than I ever could have wished for. He is happy, he is loved, and he is making new friends, which is probably the most adorable thing ever.

Tomorrow will be Charlie’s first real day at daycare/preschool. It’s September, it’s the start of a new school year, and it feels like things are slowly progressing the way they should. In this lifelong journey of recovery, I am proud of the steps we’ve made thus far.