day 11

Ok. Hi. I'm back. This is kind of, um, awkward and stuff. I don't really know what to say.

(Let's start from the very beginning, a very fine place to start. When you read you begin with A-B-C, when you sing you...)

(The craziest, mostest randomest things float through my head on a regular basis.)

So, my husband. He drinks. He sort of stopped for a few years, but sort of un-stopped when he moved in May.

So, me. I have this, well, addiction to people who treat me badly. Alcoholics treat me really badly. Turns out it doesn't much matter if they are sober, dry, clean or otherwise non-drinking drunks. They find a way to get their punches in, and I find a way to jusify, blame myself, or ignore it.

I have been ignoring it for a while now. And then, a few weeks ago....

Hold on for a minute. I have to say this first. I really, really don't want to be putting this stuff on the blog. The blog, it's sunshine and rainbows and shit. But I have been reading this book and wondering why I have never read this book before (in all fairness, hot gay Russell once told me I oughta read it, but I never listen to anyone) and I got to thinking that maybe, out there in THE REAL WORLD, in that magical land where everything is not black-on-white-in-ariel, that maybe one of you also is married to an alcoholic, or is a codependant, or has suffered an amazing sort of emotional/physical/sexual abuse in your childhood that has left you unable to attach emotionally to people and leaves you, instead, seeking to re-live that same childhood relationship over and over again as an adult with someone who not only will not but probably can not give you anything emotionally, and maybe, just maybe, you will read this and see that I am not some brave super-hero but a scared little girl in way over her head and realize that I am doing it anyway, maybe not well, but DOING IT anyway, and perhaps you will realize that if I can do it with my craziness and my baggage and my crippling sort of fear, that you can do it to. It being making something better in your day, your month, your life. So I will try to blog as much of this as I can. No promises, but I'll try.

....i found him drunk in the middle of the kitchen floor. And then 11 days ago he locked me out of the house. Honestly, he really locked himself in the house, with the kids, forgetting in his stupor that I was not in the house, and the police came and there were sledgehammers and police reports and warnings that Canadian Child Services only gives you one chance and then they give your kids foster homes, and so we left. Four hours later. In the middle of the night. The day before my 8th anniversary. We left with 10 bags, the four of us, no stroller, no nothing, all alone, got through customs, found our way on a plane, and then slept like the dead that night.

We are all ok. The boys started school on Monday, 6 weeks behind the kids here. B already has friends. T is having a hard time. He really misses his dad, he's terribly shy and he is sad. He will be fine, though. I kiss him a little extra every day. L only was walking for her dad, and so today when she stood up and walked, it was like the first time all over again. She will be one in 14 days and our incomplete family will have a very small, very fun party for her.

I am, oh, this is a a tough one. I am great right now. My nephew and his friend are watching America's Next Top Model and they just bought me Sonic tots. Good boys. Being here with my nephew (we're living with my sister in law for now) has been the greatest gift I could ever ask for. He is a great kid and I love him and his silly fourteen-year-old-football-star-pimple-girl-myspace world has been refreshing and the
most amazingly beautiful sort of a distraction. My boys are enamored with him, my daughter is totally head over heels in l.o.v.e with him and I, well, he is the reminder that I am blessed. He and my own kids. They make it magical and glittery and lovely and delicious.

Don't think that doesn't mean that I am not dying slow little deaths every day. Because I most certainly am. I heard someone once say that they were just as addicted to their alcoholic as he was to his booze. That may be the truest thing I have ever heard. I am addicted to the stress of a loveless, emotionally dead relationship just like the one I grew up with. I am addicted to the chaos that life with an addict brings. I am addicted to the panic that you live with every day when there is no predictability, no security, no guarantees. I am addicted to trying to help him, trying to save him. I THRIVE on that shit.

I have to start thriving on something else. Maybe that something else could be these. They're really good and I already have huge thighs, so why the hell not, really? I have to do a searching moral inventory, as they say, and, in a nutshell, fix this shit. And fixing yourself is seriously hard stuff.

So, that's what's really going on. I really want to get back to boogies and bandaids and stuff. And I will, but expect a little bit of this in between. And thanks for e-listening.