It’s been awhile. I’ve been busy. Like i said last time, it’s FINALLY warm enough where I life to bike outside. And biking is the one version of exercise that brings me enjoyment, so I try to embrace it as much as possible.
It does kind of depress me that the reality is that I don’t have time to work then exercise then write then cook dinner then go to bed at a decent hour. I have to choose between exercise or writing. And one could make strong and valid arguments for either. Wait, let’s do that I’ve been wanting to make random lists and complain about my parents for a LONG TIME. I’m starting to get the tension headaches I get when I haven’t psychically cleansed myself recently. Just like I’ll start having dreams during which I orgasm if I fail to have sex or masturbate for a few weeks but only then will I have such dreams so they’re rarely worth it. I’ve never told anyone that. It’s just never come up.
-Gives endorphin and dopamine, also lends to a good night’s sleep
-Burns calories/tones body, it needs any assistance it can get
-Because I bike outside, slight tan
-Negatives: Might get hit by a car or kidnapped. UV exposure. Exhaust exposure from a nearby highway (like REALLY nearby). Bike upkeep is a slight expense. I’m going to end up getting a flat and stuff from riding in a stop and go city. I stick to residential side streets but enough people around here drive like asses.
-Journaling soothes psychic distress…it lances some of the poison out, if you will. I’ll feel better when I feel like I’ve talked about it all. Which will take awhile. But there’s no word limit on this shit, so.
-Working on my first Great Novel is what I consider the point of my existence, and is therefore quite fulfilling in itself
-One day I might do/be something great. I might actually get to help other people, profoundly, through the only methods I’m genuinely capable. The worst thing you could do to your enemies is taking their children from them. And there’s only way to truly ‘take’ a person. You teach them, and they come to you of their own accord. Then, it’s fucking real. So maybe everything I write is just one big attempt at revenge. And you know what, I’m fine with that. I am horribly traumatized I was the victim of and witness to a horrendous amount of abuse throughout my entire childhood. You don’t even realize it’s abnormal. Not for a long time. And when you get older you’re like..oh no matter what I achieve or have, it won’t feel like its enough, because I felt critical inadequacy from a young age. So all that’s left is creative expression and genuine thought and the profoundly rare ability to help others who are under the same straits you once were. You can aspire to be who YOU needed growing up. And that is real. But, sometimes you feel so far from that, and you’re tired and worn out from life and in so much debt and you miss your mom so much and you’re broke all the time and EVERYONE you know seems to have more fun than you…just….you know, the usual.
-Negatives of writing: Can be extraordinarily time consuming. Sometimes will amount to garbled gibberish or something worse AND a waste of a bunch of time. Involves spending even more of my life sitting in a desk chair, starring into a computer screen. Because I don’t do that 9 hours a day at work as it is… Also involves getting drunk and high. I haven’t written a word sober in like…..10 years. All the greats had substance abuse problems. It’s like the people the muses inspire, they also torment them. Just a theory I’ve always had.
So hopefully you can see my dilemma here. Like almost every aspect of life, this has both good and bad qualities. But, the fact that I haven’t been on here in so long seems to be wearing on me. It’s odd to think you have to stay mentally fit as well, but that’s like what is happening. And, I mean for my it’s just important to talk about everything.
And you know one thing I’ve never discussed in detail, and in fact have time to discuss right now? What happened on my wedding night. Oh it was a fucking horrible nightmare shitshow, let me tell you.
Nothing terrible happened before or during or directly after the ceremony. My mother in law came up to me when we were taking pictures before the ceremony and angrily informed me my family (parents and brother) were late, and might not get to be in any pictures. They were late, but this was grossly unnecessary. I guess she was stressed. But other than that, everything went very well, though it’s all kind of a blur. It’s very surreal when you actually get to it. At least that’s how it was for me. I guess because I never expected it would actually happen. I don’t have the easiest personality to match with, as life has shown me.
Then, besides being stressed and already worn out before the reception even started, my husband and I were doing okay. I felt like it was kind of unfair, we got no down time. After the ceremony there was like an hour of pictures in the church. Then we were to drive to the hotel/reception site and meet the photographer at a nearby picture taking site. It was the end of September, but it was still a HOT day. My dress was too tight, and with the underwear you have to wear with it…it was like I was in a straight jacket, at least my torso (thank god it was sleeveless). I still kind of cringe to think about it. But I guess I looked better than I ever would have otherwise…so there’s that to consider. The photographer made us take a picture with my husband dipping me, and it hurt so bad I thought I was going to scream. They took this candid shot of us walking away from taking those outdoor pictures, we both look stressed and worried, I’m carrying my now-dirty train piled up in my arms. I’ll post it if I can manage after this account. Who cares.
I would say that I didn’t notice a problem until after dinner, after the reception was in full swing. Honestly, I’m not outgoing at all and my husband was so drunk by the time the meal ended he completely disregarded any need for any social decorum. It got worse as the night went on. He just got drunker and drunker. He had already had many recent bouts of drinking getting COMPLETELY out of hand. Particularly, a night only a few weeks before the wedding, at my friend/coworker’s place, my then-fiance got shithoused on Jameson and made SUCH an embarrassing asshole dipshit fucktard of himself. First, he took his shirt off and went into my friends bathroom and slumped up against the toilet. He then refused to leave their bathroom, broke a glass, and kept telling me to leave. Then when I thought I’d convinced him to stop embarrassing me in front of 3 coworkers and 1 other person, he storms out of the apartment altogether. He threw a liquor bottle at me as he charged down their stairs and out of their building. He’d thrown a liquor bottle at me one other time. Even though, if I were to mention this, even now, he’d become completely injured that I still think that’s what he did. He swears up and down that he wasn’t throwing them at me. But they were. They were at me. He follows and listens to his impulses too much, he’s too good at trying to explain them away with his goodness later. I don’t buy it. He whipped both of the bottles both times in my general direction and got pretty close right after I’d said something he didn’t want to hear. Because that is my fucking specialty. I can destroy a person sober, but drunk? Ah, ahhahahahhahaha. Please stop. So after he whips a liquor bottle at me for a second time in our relationship, he storms out of their apartment building, through the parking lot on his way to the road, I follow him in my car. He refuses to get in and keeps telling me to fuck off, that I’m a bitch, that he is going to walk home. Somehow, I get him in the car after awhile. (all of this is happening in front of my three coworkers). The car ride home was a wake nightmare. He said the meanest most vile shit I can even imagine, and like I said I’m good at that. He was such a fucking piece of shit bastard. I had to spend the whole time concentrating on driving, not responding, because if we’d interacted with the cops at all this night, it would not have gone well for my husband. We get to our apartment building, he takes off out of the car, I don’t even try to chase him. I spend the next three hours looking for him. I go to every nearby liquor store and bar. I remember standing in our apartment, my forehead against the glass balcony door, wondering if he’d passed out in the street and been run over by a car yet, feeling just so forlorn and so alone. I’d called the jail to see if he’d been arrested. After waiting in agony for an hour or so I get a phone call from my coworker. She’d followed me home and had spent a long time tracking him down, and she finally found him, passed out in the dirt next to an entrance to our apartment building we never used (it had 4 on the ground floor). He didn’t have his glasses or his shoes (I was in possession of his phone/wallet because when he stormed out of my car in a rage when we got home he forget it in the cup holder , which was good but also sucked because I couldn’t track him with it). My coworkers help me get him into the apartment and then leave. Shortly after he’s tossed inside he comes to and is REALLY and scarily angry. He INSISTS that he be allowed to leave the apartment. I stood between him and door, my arm braced against the doorwell, and he fucking shoved me so far out of the way I went through the coat closet door behind me. And that is by far the most physically abusive he’s ever been with me. And I don’t know how to think about it, even all these years later. It’s never happened again. I guess you can say it was the booze…but…plenty of people get shithoused and don’t shove their fiancees through a closet door….so….. But then he ended up passing out in the doorway, on the dirty fucking cheap vinyl tile they used in those apartments. He slept there until I went to bed. I (OF COURSE) had to work the next day. He texted me the next day, upset and very hungover with no memory of why his glasses were missing. He asked me where they were via text. I was like I don’t know, you lost them. He didn’t believe me. He called me and was tearful when I told him what he’d done the night before. I didn’t care I was excruciatingly angry. THIS all happened less than two months before the wedding. And frankly, on our wedding night, he became that same HORRIBLE person again. One big thing that really pushed that descent downhill was the sudden impulsive invite of a guy my husband knew from when he was 18, we used to buy weed from him on occasion before he went to jail for illegal firearm/heroin possession. He met him because he sold his Saudi friend crack. This guy. For some reason, my husband has to act like a big man and invite this hood rat guy and four of his friends to the NICE fucking ritzy hotel his parents paid for us to have a reception at. Someone he hasn’t seen or spoken to in years, someone who only ever bothered to contact my husband by writing from jail, asking for commissary money.
I’m not trying to blame those people, but they were the beginning of the end. Because all of a sudden I’ve spent so long running after my husband trying to control his drunken rage that I know is one misplaced phrase away from erupting, the reception is over. My brother and my sister in law are obviously obsessed with each other by this point, and my maid of honor seems like she’s in a pissy mood, goes to her room to change then just never comes back. Her twin, my only other bridesmaid who was a friend, disappeared too. I didn’t know it then but they’d gotten into a fight because her twin assumed she’d be able to mooch/crash in the expensive hotel room my MOH wanted to share with her boyfriend so when she grew vexed with her twin’s lackadaisical attitude, her twin was like okay I guess I’m leaving bye and texted their younger sister to come get her. Neither of them said bye or good night to me.
So now the party left to us are the hoodrats, my idiot brother, my sister in law (the nuts one), and two of my husband’s obnoxious moocher friends he knew from DJing back in the day. THAT was the obnoxiously loud crowd of people was taken back to our hotel room. IT WAS OUR WEDDING NIGHT. But no, he was in drunk-fun-loving-I’m-the-life-of-the-party-I’m-invincible type of mood. I remember the hoodrats had turned the TV in our suite to some music channel and were blasting music, asking if they could have one of the chocolate covered strawberries the hotel had had delievered to our room during the reception as a surprise. My brother was OF COURSE preoccupied with rolling a huge ass joint on the coffee table. I’m just sitting in a chair, by myself, with a VERY VERY VERY angry look on my face. The plan of action was to walk around outside smoking a few joints (stupid, stupid, stupid behavior for that town, and especially for the hotel and area we were in, ritzy and policed as fuck) then go swimming in the 24 hour pool. I DID NOT want to do either of these things. I did not want to spend the fucking wedding night keeping these idiot loser fucktards entertained. NO ONE cared how I felt. Or that I was so upset I wanted to scream.
That was, until my husband suddenly, after ignoring me for hours, noticed how angry I was. Then, in his words, he “had a panic attack.” Which is what he called it whenever he heavily abused alcohol then something (usually asinine) triggers him and he falls headfirst into a rage vortex. To the point where he claims he blacks out and doesn’t remember doing or saying things.
Like he doesn’t remember, he says, making me go into the bathroom with him while the hoodrat fucktard trash brigade is still whopping it up having a grand ole time in MY WEDDING SUITE. He says some terrible shit, but we agree that HE will go outside and smoke weed that he just HAD to smoke with this group, then he’d come back to the room. I wasn’t pleased, but I was telling myself I’d have time to put my specially purchased bridal lingerie, and that he’d come back in a happy mood and we could end the night on a positive note.
But that’s not what happened.
I’ve just gotten out of my wedding dress (solo) and into my lingerie (just a very see-through white lace teddy and a thong). He’s back. I remember hiding behind the door because I didn’t want someone walking past to see me. I should’ve noticed the deep black rage he’d sunk into. I should’ve noticed he stood in the doorway just seething with anger at me for ruining the night.
Apparently, the night had been going perfectly, until I completely ruined it for everyone by becoming upset at my husband for acting like a 16 year old having a forbidden party while his parents were gone instead of a fucking man who just got married. It was all my fault. He spent a VERY long time just screaming at me. I remember quite distinctly he was in the hotel bathroom taking a piss, he just yells at me over his shoulder “YOU’RE YOUR FATHER’S DAUGHTER, THAT’S FOR SURE!!!” Which, as you can possibly imagine, is the worst, most painful thing you could ever say to me. That’s why he said it. Alcohol consumption REALLY just lays bare how much an absolute shit person he really is. I know it’d devastate him to read that. But he’s the one who made me deal with a terrifying nightmare when he’s supposed to be the one to love, cherish and comfort me. It was our wedding night. And he was the WORST he’s ever been to me.
Then, he just went on a drunken rage rant. He kept bringing up how I liked other guys and fucked a bunch of guys before we met (5, there’d been 5). Then he started lamenting about how awful his life was and how nothing had a point and he was doomed to be a loser his whole life, and “why did I ever even believe in Jesus?!?” things like that. Then he was just screaming at me again. The hotel had sent a bottle of champagne with the strawberries. He opened it and threw the cork at me, then chugged all of it from the bottle. Then he threw the bottle at me when I’d told him for about the fiftieth time to be quiet or we’d be dealing with security, and there was weed all over the table. But all that did was trigger him to start threatening suicide. He kept saying he hoped he would get arrested so he could go to jail and slit his throat as soon as he got out. He would not stop using the phrase “I’ll slit my fucking throat, I don’t care!”
But, he was still determined to go smoke weed down by the river behind our hotel. So he rolled a joint, and I went with him. By this time I’d changed from my lingerie into a hoodie and jeans. I was wearing my glasses with a bridal updo. I’ve never been more miserable. Because…somehow….he decided he wasn’t angry and everything was great between us once again after we’d left the hotel room. There was a security guard right outside our door too, someone had called about his screaming.
Had I been screaming too? Of course not. He was acting exactly like my dad would, so he’d very much sent me back to a place of fear, back to being the cowering prey animal, back to this burning tension over my neck and the back of my head as I repress so many emotions I feel crippled.
That’s where we were as we walked around. He smoked his joint, I refused to. He walked over to people night fishing and held a really long, annoying, pointless, awkward conversation with them. He told them we’d just gotten married. I wanted to throw him in the river and watch him drown.
Then, that joint must have done it, after the dozen or so beers and the champagne he drank all to himself. Because he went back to the hotel room and promptly passed out in the bed.
Despite my exhaustion, despite it having been such a long, hot, tiring day, I couldn’t sleep. I laid in the bed next to his snoring, smelling body. I remember kicking his legs repeatedly, after awhile I started crying and kicking him, saying, “You ruined our wedding night!” over and over.
That didn’t help so much. These rooms don’t have bath tubs or I would’ve taken a bath. So I just took a very, very long shower. I cried and cried and thought about what my options were. I thought about just leaving for home, letting him explain everything to our families set to convene at his parents’ the next morning. I wondered if this meant I should leave him. If I was just going to be a weak worthless fuck and take it like a good girl and shove my feelings so far past my soul it probably gave me cancer.
I think you know what I did.
The next morning was just a lengthening of the nightmare. My husband doesn’t seem to remember a SINGLE negative thing about his behavior from the night before. He has the fucking gall to say something about how we should try to “use the room.” I wanted to gut punch him. The absolute last thing he was ever going to get from me right then was sex. It would be a very long time before we had sex after that night. Some images and memories and words that are hurled at you…they just like leave you perma-dry. I made some remark about not having time. See, I wasn’t going to get into it with him. For some reason, it was important to me to get through the day without acknowledging the horrible, horrible night before.
We arrive to his parents’ to be JUST in time to catch ALL of his extended relatives as they leave. They have this family good-bye system that makes me want to cut my wrists with a butter knife until I bleed out and die. I’ve seen it in action a lot at their family reunion. No matter who’s leaving, they all gather in a group for the send off. Then instead of saying good bye, fucking hugging like they always have to do and being done with it, they hug and chit chat, move from person to person, all in all just putz around instead of getting in their goddamn fucking car. What should take 3 minutes takes 30.
So I suffer through that, then almost as soon as they’re gone my parents and brother get there. My brother’s in a fine form because he’s angry my sister in law is still asleep. She sleeps until 3 or 4pm if she can. He asked me loudly in front of our mother if I was as embarrassed as he was that she needed help getting up and down the deck steps. Then he loudly commented to me that it was nice walking into a house without the smell of cat pee burning his nose. He’s SO good at being critical of others. But that is literally the only thing he can do, it seems. Then his mood suddenly and drastically improved because my useless sister in law finally was up and he no longer needed my attention. Classic him.
The suffering continues. In all of the pictures of me from that morning after my eyelids, especially the bottom ones, are SO puffy and swollen…I don’t understand how no one noticed. My mom always talks about the wedding and day after as one of the happiest/best days of her life and she thinks about it all the time. I guess it’s good someone enjoys the memory. Doesn’t feel like they’re all tainted. Doesn’t feel this lump form in her throat whenever anyone talks about their wedding, because she’s devastated that ANOTHER major (should-have-been-a-source-of-joy-for-her) thing in her life was DESTROYED by the BASTARDRY of a mentally fucked autistic alcoholic dickwad. That’s how my wedding makes me feel. But I guess it’s good my mom enjoys the memory.
Then, as if to twist the knife just a liiiiiittle bit more….we’re all packed up, we’re saying our LONG STUPID ASS STUPID good byes, I’m SO READY to start crying by myself in my car (we’d taken separate cars because we knew we’d have so many gifts to bring back), and my husband asks me “Do you want to get a sandwich somewhere before we go home?” Before I can even answer, my sister in law (the one I can’t stand whom we can all see is clearly now into my brother) shouts, “I want to get a sandwich!” Which is SO some obnoxious behavior/verbiage their mother would do. And it is certainly a peeve of mine when people invite themselves into something. Like oh cool, now you’ve put me in an awkward position of having to tell you you’re not welcome, and you’re assuming I just won’t bother doing that so you’ll get what you want through rude coercion. Boy, how endearing this behavior is! It’s just SO cute when someone is like that! AHH!!
So, on top of several hours of family time and gift opening and dozens of hugs, I now had to endure a meal at Panera Bread with my brother and sister in law. After that ordeal was over we left separately. I was FINALLY able to start freaking out. I had a splitting headache. At the time I used an electronic cigarette and desperately needed more oil for it. I drove 80mph the whole way home, only to arrive a few minutes after the shop closed.
I’ll always remember that drive home, and the music I listened to I cannot and will not listen to ever again. I cried the whole time. I was going to tell him what he’d done as soon as I could, because I couldn’t bear more one more second of living alone with some memory of what an awful, horrible, drunk piece of shit did and said while we were alone. No, no no, no, no no, no no was that going to happen. Nope, fucker didn’t get to get off with a lack of guilt. He deserved to feel fucking guilty, he should STILL feel guilty. I’m still real fucking mad and it’s almost been 3 years now.
We got home, got all the stuff in the apartment, and I was waiting for the girl who’d watched the cats to drop off the key before I tore into him. But by then, the rage had made me so tired, I was just sad. I asked him if he remembered what he’d done, it was clear he did not.
So, the next several hours were spent going over what he’d done, me crying, him acting a little more hurt and upset than he had the right to, in my opinion. I mean, we’d both been drinking a lot, but he somehow had to always be the one to go off the deep end, into the rabbit hole. I was always left chasing him in parking lots, getting shit thrown at me, being humiliated in front of people I worked with, it just wasn’t worth it.
So, we quit drinking. Yeah, both of us. We even threw out beer we’d had in the fridge from before our wedding. Then, we also did something odd. We knew a groomer from my work with a preteen daughter who needed a place to live for a week, while they got things sorted out with a new rental. The two of them stayed with us for like 6 days. Then after they were gone, an ex-girlfriend of the mooch dipshit DJ-ing friend from the reception moved in. She ended up staying for three months. It would’ve been longer if we’d allowed it. We ended up having to get harsh with her because we weren’t seeing her make strides in her plans to save money and get a place. But I think we took in these wayward drifters as some sort of barrier/distraction. When we started getting tired of the three month one, we’d bond over complaining about her. It was annoying, because she’d said she was of course unable to give rent $ at all, but that she would do things around the house to earn her keep. She never once did anything around the house. I mean, even if she’d vacuumed or cleaned cat boxes, I would’ve been content. But no, literally nothing. I ended up cleaning up after her a few times. She would act like a roommate and be watching Netflix on the TV in the living room with her boyfriend when I came home from a day of work/school. And it’s like…you live here for free and contribute nothing….let me fucking watch the Netflix I pay for on my TV in my apartment that you are living for free…Plus her boyfriend was an alcoholic so there was bountiful drama between the two of them. It sucked, in general. But it gave us something to do that wasn’t talk about our underlying issues.
We gave up the sobriety that New Years. In lieu of a honeymoon, our in-laws paid for the fancy hotel to stay in Chicago for a few days, including New Years Eve 2014. We didn’t plan on it, but of course it happened. And we took it way too far. Then of course, when we got back, the whole “only in Chicago” rule just went out the window.
And it’s not hard to picture what happened after.
So the drinking continued. If I could have known what 2015 was going to be like…I never would have willing gone about that year. I would’ve cloistered myself or something.
One good thing happened, that year a week before my 28th birthday, I was hired at my current job, which meant finally leaving retail after 11 soul-destroying years.
About a month or so after that was the beginning of the end with my parents. My dad was acting extra insane, my mom was about to have back surgery again, my brother and sister in law were dating…it was an odd time.
The last time I saw my dad was the January of this year, 2015. The last time I saw my mom was the June of 2015. She was recovering from her surgery at a hospital somewhat near me. My dad had asked to stay in my apartment while she was at the hospital, and I wouldn’t let him. The idea of him staying in my home appalled me, even then. Plus, my graduating from graduate school perfectly coincides with all of this.
My parents didn’t go to my grad school commencement. My in-laws did, but my own parents did not. My mom was off her meds for the surgery at the hospital near my home the upcoming Monday and didn’t think she could handle the walking and pain of sitting for so long. My undergrad commencement had really done a number on her, I remember that well. My dad refused to go without my mom, mostly because he needs her to emotionally abuse at all times and to upset and to be a psycho to. If he were alone with my in laws, he’d have to spend several hours acting normal and alert and paying attention to conversation instead of just talktalktalktalktalktalking at someone as he SO strongly prefers.
And….do you remember what else happened the weekend of my MA graduation? Yeah, the whole gross, weird beginning of my shit with R started that weekend.
YEAH. So many painful endings and weird beginnings in 2015. It was also the year we moved into the house we’re still in.
Now that I say all this at once…I’m REALLY starting to see a never ending pattern to my behavior.
And like whenever I talk to people, I really do hear how all of my stories and memories involve being shit faced and high or hungover.
Like I hear it, I just don’t care that I hear it. Also, what am I supposed to do about it?
From there the shit with R lasted until…well I think the last time I saw him in person was Memorial Day weekend 2016.
Then, you know the whole…swinging with those two couples…that happened November 2016. Both couples, all three times.
I’ve been up to no good for awhile now, huh?
See I don’t even see myself as some burned out alcoholic drug addict because I was at least working and earning college degreeS and then getting an all right job during this shit show that was my person life.
It’s almost like I needed the depravity of what I did with R to balance the chaos with my family.
When my mom went home from her surgery near me, my dad was supposed to take care of her, and pretty much just wouldn’t do it. My brother, worthless POS that he is, just hid in the basement and dissociated and smoked weed and wouldn’t even go upstairs to check on her. I heard all about it from my husband, who heard it from my sister in law who was at my parents’ house all the time because she was dating my brother.
I spent one summer night in 2015 on the phone with Adult Protective Services reporting my dad’s mistreatment and neglect of my mom.
To this day, I think he thinks my in laws did it, since they’d stopped over to visit my mom post surgery, and bring her baked goods that my dad ate in their entirety right away (because he’d also stolen all of her Vicodin and opiates make you crave sugar something fierce, my brother tells me). But it was me.
That was another low point in my life. It matched my wedding night, in its own way. But at least by then things were moderately tolerable between my husband and I, and things had yet to really “get going “ with R.
I’d say things hit a low point between my husband and I when his drinking was getting worse, and he lost his shit a few times over my desire to spend time with R away from home. He made an absolute fool of himself in front of his family at the family reunion that year because he was so drunk. He was repressing all of this anger and hurt over my dealings with R and it was coming to a head, so to speak, while we were at a resort with a huge assortment of his extended relatives. It was horrendous. He was also finally finishing his undergrad degree and was stressed from that. We really shouldn’t have tried to make the reunion that year, but it was our first one since the wedding and a big part of me wanted to try and act like a normal part of a normal family for once….and we see how well that hope worked out for me. Sometimes I feel like I’m fucking stupid for expecting others not to ruin things for me.
And honestly, I don’t feel like most or any of this is my fault.
I know they’ll say I was obviously an enabler. But I also so clearly have a drinking problem myself so…like…I’m busy with my own shit, basically.
Plus like, there’s a lot of people, even a lot that I know, who would hate on me or judge me for not leaving before, because of the drinking.
BUT, they could remember an important detail – well, not a detail but listen anyway:
After I was finished with my Masters program, after my husband finished his Bachelor’s, after we moved into our house, after I was underway with R and with not speaking to or seeing my parents, and then that final straw – the botched reunion – I finally had to tell my husband that if anything more happened because of his drinking, I WOULD divorce him.
I guess being told that was enough. Because he did it. He hasn’t drank since. He went to an AA meeting that night. That was August 30th, 2015.
And that is what saved us, everyone.
Things aren’t perfect now, but we never ever would have made it if my husband had continued drinking. He is now a significantly happier and healthier person.
If you need help, seek help. If you know someone who needs it, encourage or even assist them, but don’t be an ass. Use tact, I know you have it in you.
Now it’s the summer of 2017. I’d say things are good, except we’re still broke as fuck. BUT, my husband is working now and even though it’s a sales job and he’s had 3 sales in 4 months, he at least makes our rent every month. I just have to be able to handle paying for everything else for two people. That’s SO easy when you have two student loan payments, 8 credit cards, utilities, insurances, rent, groceries, etc for two. But at least he’s working. I cringe to think about those four months of unemployment. So frustrating and infuriating.
See, that’s my issue. I have just SO many memories of frustrating and infuriating things. All of which give me tension headaches. All of which make me spend hours writing pages of a single memory that bleeds into so many other memories because my actions are all intertwined, but like my feelings, they are a veiled mystery to me.
It’s the height of insulting to presume you know how I feel, because besides when I’m angry, I’m sometimes not certain how I feel. I’ve kept my true self hidden too long now. Now I’m just a weird alcoholic with a secret blog who wants to be a writer who struggles with her faith because some seriously long lasting terrible shit happened to her who works a really pointless job but doesn’t mind it so terribly and is married happily but at times is worried she doesn’t have the emotional capacity to connect with someone and truly and passionately love them and she’s always been really worried why she disconnects so much from sex, and used it to her advantage many times when having degrading sex was available and why she and her husband have always had such a lackluster sex life and why she can’t make friends or save money or lose weight or quit drinking.
Jesus, now that I think about it….I think I cut people out of my life because it’s the one thing I can do. Maybe I’m more like my loser dad and brother than I thought. Gross.
Well. I feel a little better. And, okay I won’t lie I’m out of beer, so I’m about to wake my husband from his now three hour nap to go get me more.
And no, that doesn’t make me feel like a bad person. I just…IDK, this thing like happens, when someone is SO awful to you, that even though you still love them, you’re also still really mad, and really sure that this person should try to be as cool to you as they can. Which he is, like 90% of the time.
But wait, okay there’s one more part.
I know, now, from thinking back on it, that the only reason I carried on with R for as long as I did, as frequently as I sometimes did, was because deep down, I was getting back at him.
I told myself that wasn’t what I was doing. But really, R was an even bigger loser, a worse alcoholic, than my husband. Even when I was sometimes picturing myself leaving, I certainly did not imagine that I would ever start a real relationship with R. You do not downgrade in that situation. R was for escapism and sometimes moderate fun and sometimes pleasing sex. He was not for a real thing or genuine affection. And I was perfectly frank with the lot of that from the very beginning. So, any caught feelings are his fucking problem.
And you know, I felt bad. I really did, as I was driving away all those nights (mostly in the summer, but it stemmed a little into the winter before mostly completely fizzling out by the next summer) leaving my husband alone at home. I felt a lot of guilt. I can remember its weight even now.
But it was never enough to make me stay, or turn around.
And I think the reason for that, is because I was then so much angrier than I am now about the wedding night in particular, but with the drinking episodes and drama overall. It’s just kind of like…oh right I forgot you MISS me so much because I MEAN so much to you….mmmm that’s certainly not how I felt ON OUR GODDAMN WEDDING NIGHT WHICH YOU RUINED COMPLETELY.
Things like that.
But I guess I feel better now, and when my husband actually quit drinking to save our marriage…and R got two DUIs in one year and went to jail for a few months…yeah that was a tough call.
I’m not trying to excuse myself or make it better or get people to like sympathize.
I don’t mean to sound like I scorn the opinions of others, because I want to be liked like most people do, but I don’t expect pity. I didn’t get it when I needed and deserved it as a child. No one thought to look at me and my plight in a kind light, to help me. Most didn’t even have an inkling there was such dire problems at home, so convincing was my mother’s cheerfulness and campaigning for the approval of others involved in our church/school. So I knew from a young age I’d have to get out. And I did, and the first three years were tough, but then right after I turned 21 I met my future husband, and I started a relationship that would ONE day be good.
And I guess that’s where I’m at now. I’m never one to genuinely worry about where my life’s headed. I have a place to live and a job, and there’s always something that needs writing.
This blog was supposed to be about my horrible childhood memories, but this story needed to be told in its entirety too.
If you can picture it somehow, I don’t tell this to many people. In fact…the only person I know in real life who knows is my best friend, the maid of honor. She might have told her twin, and probably told her boyfriend but they’re both extraneous to her so that’s fine. Then it was mentioned in passing the one time we went to see our couples therapist since the wedding so I guess she knows. We went to see her to discuss the upcoming stress of my dad being at my grad school graduation and my mom’s surgery and the possibility it might be time to cut ties for good. Then he said he brought the wedding night up at AA, but that doesn’t count.
And even though my best friend knows, she’s never heard the whole story. Because this is some long, involved, fucked, complex shit (like most of my life/thoughts) so it’s not like I’d make a friend listen to all of this at once.
But well, I guess you just read it, so. Remember what I said about people with substance abuse problems. There’s a 100% chance there’s a fucked psychological reason behind their addiction. Sometimes several.