Saner.

Sometimes, the back and forth scares me as much as the bad times. My husband was much saner this morning. He's going through a hard time, so I'm trying to be patient with the ups and downs. I understand. I hate to watch it, but I understand. He hasn't mentioned how ridiculous his plan from yesterday was yet, so maybe it's still percolating in that hurricane of a brain he's got. It just seems that sometimes he's so much better, clearer...as if a veil has been lifted.

Eureka!

My husband had the best idea today! He had to call me to share it!

"I just need to find a doctor who'll prescribe me whatever I want. I'm not going to be able to find a medical detox that will take me, so I need to find a doctor that'll prescribe me some benzos and Valium and Lunesta so I can sleep and something for my stomach. I'll just detox at home and sleep for like five or six weeks. We've got to find a doctor who doesn't care, one who'll prescribe me everything I want."

He said it as if it were a brilliant plan. He doesn't even know how crazy he sounds. I said, "Mmmhmm," and "Ahhh," and "Hmmmm," a lot. I didn't bother doing that thing that I often do, where I burst his bubble with that dastardly reality. If nothing else, how does he think he'll be able to afford all of this medication? Regardless of the rest of the addicty, dangerous madness of the plan, where is he going to find the money even to get in the door of a doctor's office? He is completely delusional. He is unemployed and he has no health insurance. There is no money.

Maybe he can build us a castle from scratch, too. Maybe we can get a jet or a helicopter to take him back and forth to all of his doctors' appointments.

I wonder if he has broken his mind? If he will ever be able to reason through a problem in anything like a sane way ever again?

Art by Luc2Day

Funding Terrorism.

"I just want to stop funding terrorism. I just want to pay taxes. Why can't I find some help?"

My husband's plan to go to a medical detox facility today fell through, as I'd suspected it might. He'd been very attached to his plan, attached to the idea that going away for awhile would be a magical cure for the things that aren't working out for him, would help him break his bad mental habits. The medical detox is a precursor to handling more difficult problems and going away for an extended period of time, and he'd been excited to take this first step.

I'd been encouraging him to call the facility. I'd called it months ago, during his last big relapse, and they'd told me in a brief conversation that they would take people in withdrawal who didn't have health insurance and help them through detox. I didn't get into any details. I came home, and I told him that there might be an option for a medical detox facility if he wanted to go to one, and he held that in his mind until today. He never called, never followed up...just assumed that he was going, today, to the facility, that they'd take him in, ease his withdrawal from methadone, gentle as a lamb, and that he'd be all better afterwards and ready to face his next challenge. It was sad and hard to watch, but I am proud of myself for staying out of his business. I have a really hard time staying out of his business.

He was devastated to find out that his methadone dose is too high and that the facility can only treat someone for three days, which won't even touch what he's going to go through if he cuts off his dose cold turkey. He's devastated that he was so cocksure that he was doing it right. He was devastated that he is finally trying to make some good decisions, and even when he's trying, he still doesn't quite get them straight. It's hard, hard, hard to watch.

But he is trying, and I am proud of him. I have readers who are damn close to angels, and one of you wrote to me not long ago letting me know that he and his wife had been reading, that he related to my husband, and mentioned that he worked as a liaison between addicts and treatment facilities. He offered me his number, and I passed it along to my husband. He used that number today, and hopefully, they'll find a good option together. I am proud of myself for staying out of it, proud of him for making a call and reaching out for help, and so, so grateful to have folks reading, listening, and wanting to help. It was one of the most lovely, serendipitous experiences I've had...Thank you.

And honestly, I am glad to have the rehab-searching work off my job description as resident codependent in my husband's life. It is frustrating. I've spent too much time calling and calling and calling and being passed along and passed along and passed along. I am sorry that he has to do it now, but it's his. It's not mine. It's my job to be supportive and to understand, but it's not my work to do it for him. It is fascinating to me how long it has taken me to comprehend that these things aren't my job.

9 a.m. Bedtime.

My husband went to bed this morning when I got up. I went in to work late today, and he was still sleeping when I left this afternoon. I got home from a late night at work, and he is in the bed.

Long days sleeping the whole, entire day have never been a very good sign at my house. Before I found needles, he was on these fantastic sleeping binges. I was SO SURE that he was TOTALLY DEPRESSED. Now I don't stop by the depression junction anymore; I go straight to, "Oh. He's using." We're back to this again.

Tonight, I'm ok. I've taken care of myself today, and I can't say that I'm surprised by his behavior. He has had several chances to make some good decisions lately, and he's blown them off. He bombarded me yesterday with a long, addicty rant with a thousand requests to break boundaries that I've set pretty firmly. I hate how predictable his behavior is. I hate how he's such a textbook junky. I hate how special I remember him being. I hate how much I'll miss the nice man who has been around the last few weeks.

I am thinking, though, that my higher power is looking out for me. If he'd been wonderful, if we'd kept up the high romance, the moonlight walks, the whispered words at night, it would have been so much more painful for him to leave when it's time. If he continues to act like this, all I'm going to think about is how hard he is to live with...how much more peaceful my life will be once he's gone. I feel guilty for thinking these things, for looking forward to him being gone. But it's true. I'm looking forward to it.

I'm looking forward to sleeping as much as I need to. I'm looking forward to leaving my wallet lying, recklessly, on the table. I'm looking forward to having cash sometimes. I've not done these things in a while, and it will feel good to be able to let down my guard. I don't remember what it feels like to live in peace, to live without someone working, seemingly, to disrupt my serenity at every possible turn. I will miss him, but I'll be glad when he's gone. One of you readers directed me to that Sinead O'Connor song. It's one of my favorites now...oh, I can put it here. Here's a thing!

Little Watermelon.

"This little watermelon keeps making me cry," I told him.

"Why?"

"I always want to share all my fruit with you, and this little watermelon is exciting, and I think about the next exciting fruit that you won't be here to eat with me."

He picked up the watermelon and tossed it around. "I wish you were a boy and we could throw this watermelon around. Let's go outside and break it."

The Campaign For Love And Forgiveness.

Check out the Love And Forgiveness Campaign's letting go ritual. I thought it was kind of nice.

The Disappearing Husband.

I don't want my husband to stay. I don't want him to leave. I want him to be with me always and never. He fell asleep early last night, and it made my stomach tighten with panic. I don't want him to sleep. I don't want him to bother me when I'm sleeping. I want every moment to matter. I want to follow him around everywhere. I want him to follow me everywhere. I want to spend every second gazing at him.

He has perfected the art of creating perfect longing for me. Our entire relationship has been a long, long, long grieving, a long wanting, a long longing. There have been moments of bliss, of union, of happiness that capped long spells of hurt and despair. Even now, married, living together every day, there is this perpetual sense of imperfection, of brushing right against something that is almost just right, but never quite. In many ways, it's just what I want. It's good material for me to write about. That's sick, isn't it? It's sick to want a perpetual impossibility, a sense of something constantly turning, returning, being built and destroyed and never quite completed. I'm in love with dissatisfaction. Nothing will ever be right, finished, complete, and I'll always have something to search for. I live like a kind of spiritual cockroach, scrounging for these bits, these moments, building my completeness like a collage of momentary satisfactions.

I want to go home. I have to keep working. I want to take this week off to follow him around, to sit in his lap and touch his face, and I can't. I know I have to keep going, keep moving through my life, keep working, keep surviving, keep trying to make myself happy. I want to be happy. I do. I want to be happy in a particular way, though, and I'm not yet willing to reset my vision of what I want. I want him. I want him to go away. I want him with me always. I don't know what I want.


Man Disappearing by Jean Albano