Day Three

When you go to alanon, they warn you that every time your qualifier relapses, it will be worse, and if you choose to stick around you'll need to brace for that. What they forget to tell you is that every time they bottom out, it will be worse. They don't tell you that bottom is verb, not a noun, or that "rock" is subjective and prone to change without much, of any, notice. 

Every time he bottoms out, I think it has to be the rock bottom bottom out because it simply can't get worse than it did *this* time. I think nothing can be worse than months of jail, nothing could affect him more than losing his family, that there is no punishment worse than losing a job of 11 years, that driving every single person out of his life must be the final straw...but what I forget is that, for him, there is nothing at all worse than not having vodka in his veins. 

Sobriety is his rock bottom. 

Ten weeks ago tonight, he hit rock bottom. 

Ten weeks ago, he walked in the door -13 hours after he walked out of it, 11 hours after he blacked out drunk in the middle of his work day - stone-cold sober and, for the first time in the 17 years I have known him, said he had a drinking problem. He lost ten hours, his car, his job, and himself that day. I am trying to decide if he lost me, too. 

He's been gone for three days of the three weeks that he'll spend at rehab, and while I haven't remembered how to make my jaw unclench itself just yet, I am reveling in the quiet solitude left in his wake. I forgot what silence sounded like. I forgot what it was like to be able to make phone calls. I forgot what it was like to be able to leave, and not worry about what was going to happen while I was gone. I forgot what is was like to let myself feel anything at all, and beyond this raging headache and the throbbing in my jaws I think there is something. 

She Runs Guns

I am really very good at not talking about things. This is a grossly counterproductive character trait for a blogger. 

Everything and nothing is happening with my husband and until I get to the place where I have even a singular answer, I don't know how to talk about any of it. Besides, he'll read this. He read everything the last time this happened and that instigated an international war.

I am mindful of the mines in my path.

And so I'm doing anything else but dealing with all of this inside of myself. Part of that is good: it's detaching, it's letting go, it's acknowledging that my life can and will continue even if his has come to a screeching hault. Part of that is not good, however: it's denying, it's avoiding, it's getting all worked up over bacon and cupcakes because I can't let myself get all worked up about this. 

Yes, I spent 500 words and countless hours over at my foodish blog on Babble defending my utter disdain for the common cupcake, and then I'm not even going to tell you how many nights I dumped into researching every single way the world at large has wronged us through bacon

Did you know that there is bacon flavoured personal lubricant? This is actually a thing, people.

I also got the hell out of Dodge for a minute, which was way more helpful than I ever thought it could be. I am, by nature, a runner. I run away from that which hurts me, and so far, it's a trait that has served me decently well in life. I ran from my mother 20 years ago, I ran from my husband five years ago, and I run away from every single person whom I love and cannot be with. (Ask my best friend Molly sometime. She'll tell you all about my ability to disappear in plain sight.)

It's a crappy coping mechanism, but it's mine. I let time handle the impossible business of healing what is otherwise incurable, and I convince myself the scars that will never heal, have. 

But it was pointed out to me a few weeks ago by someone much smarter than I am that I have started running towards my life, rather than away from it, and those words have sat right here on my shoulder, whispering into my ear, where my Abandonment Issue Angel used to sit telling me to just gogogogo

So I went to Blissdom, which at first glance seemed to me like I was running away from my problems but, I realized after, was me running towards the people I'm going to need to help me deal with them moving forward. 

I was terrified to leave home for three days with him being 3 1/2 weeks dry, because if I did, I would be relinquishing control of what could happen in my absence. I almost did stay home, in fact, but that Towards on my shoulder kept telling me to get a move on, already...and so I went. 

And everything was fine. I had unapologetic fun. I went to bed at 9:30pm my first night there because I have forgotten how to sleep these past four weeks. I went to bed at 2:30am my last night there because I had forgotten how to get silly drunk with my friends on stairs these past five years. 

And I talked. I talked to a lot of people about the things that I am not ready to talk about here, and it helped. I always forget how many people are willing to help you run your guns, if you only ask. I came back feeling a little bit lighter, a little bit more able to do the next thing that I have to do.

Even if I don't know what that is, exactly, just yet.