Showing posts with label heroin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heroin. Show all posts

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Dinner with a Junky's Mom.

I had dinner after the meeting tonight with a few friends, one of whom is the mother of a heroin addict. We ended up being the last two left at the table after a few others left, and it was fun swapping our war stories.

"There was this belt on the floor, and I just knew he'd been using!" she explained. I told her about how I'd developed a similar belief in my own psychic powers when I found a scarf on the floor a while ago.

It's funny how many of these weird things become triggers. It's not just belts and scarves. We talked about how spoons always seem evil now, how cigarette lighters are menacing...and (GASP!) syringes are awful, frightening things. Syringes give me a chill up my spine like a spider in the bath tub, or like an eery face in a's primal and traumatic and terrifying.

The worst syringes, of course, are the ones I've found in my house over the last crazy years, but they are scary any time. They are scary on television. They are scary in movies. They are scary at the pharmacy when they are for diabetics. They are scary in pictures on boxes selling test strips for diabetics or sharps disposal boxes. They are awful, evil things.

It's kind of funny and kind of sad to share these things with someone, but it's always refreshing. It helps me more than anything to know that I'm not alone...that I'm crazy, but it's a common crazy that grows from living in uncommon circumstances.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

The 10-Second Saga of the Scarf.

I got home from work today, and there was an odd scarf on the floor. No big deal, right?


Instantly, without missing a beat, a story unfolded in my mind:

He's using again. He pulled out my scarf to tie off his arm. Why does he always have to use my stuff? Are the drugs better when my stuff is involved? He's been spending all that time with his mom. They're using together again. I can't believe it. I need to go through all his pockets. Why isn't he home right now? Where is he? This is just like that time I found a scarf of mine with a pair of scissors and he'd burned the scissors because he thought he wouldn't get caught if he didn't steal the spoons. I can't believe I've been so blind!
And then I looked again. It was just a scarf, on the floor. No blood on the ceiling. No burned spoon. No track marks. No syringe. It was a scarf on the floor among dozens of other objects: dog toys, towels, sheets, yesterday's jeans. Just a scarf.

My husband gave me some money yesterday. He's been doing little labor jobs here and there, and he handed me $40. That's a good thing. He's treating me well, with some slips here and there...but nothing that says he's using. So why is the scarf so menacing?

I'm still working that out.


I was sick and tired of MPJ and Mantra having new, cool signatures, so I got one, too.

Scarf by UberHottie

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Why Stop Now?

Someone wrote to me asking me why my husband is detoxing from methadone if the methadone maintenance program had been working for him, and I thought I'd answer here.

First of all, I'm not sure what made him decide to detox so suddenly, not being him. I can tell you what he's said, though...

He has felt like a slave to the clinic for a while now, and he wants freedom. He can't take care of a lot of problems, such as a legal issue that's lurking out there for him, because being able to get to the methadone clinic has been his first priority for a long time. Every time he's had a little money, he's taken it to the clinic before anything else...before paying his bills, before buying groceries, before buying himself something nice. He says he wants to be able to be financially responsible, and freeing up the $300 a month that he's feeding to the methadone clinic will help.

He says he doesn't feel as creative or as emotional as he used to, which changes the way that he sees himself. He wants to be creative again, and he thinks that his drug use has stemmed that.

He says he feels like he's gotten as much out of methadone as he could. It helped him to get a little more stable for the time he was on it, and while it was a great catalyst, it's a dead end now.

He says he wanted to be free from drugs, all drugs, for a long time, and that the only reason he hasn't quit methadone before is because he knew it would be hard. He says that something being hard isn't a good enough reason not to do it if it's the right thing to do.

He says that he's not been able to feel comfortable going to N.A. meetings while he was taking methadone, and he'd like to get serious about the program. He'd like to change his life thoroughly, and not just skim over the surface.

So I think what he's saying is that the methadone maintenance program is not working for him right now. It was a tool for him, a step along the way, but it's served its purpose, and he's ready to move on. He thinks that methadone is a great resource for people getting off of opiates, and I agree. I also agree with him that it's probably not been working for him for some time, and I'm glad he's making the choices that he's made.

And in the end, I don't know. Everything he's saying could be a big fat sack of horseshit. I've been on this roller coaster long enough to know better than to hang on his every word. He could be coming off methadone because he wants to be able to get high again. He could be high right now for all I know...I try not to invest too much of myself in his recovery.

However, this seems different. He's saying things that seem so much more authentic, and he seems to have his head in a really good place. I am grateful for the progress he's making, and I hope that it sticks.

This morning, he was talking about the anxious, sad feelings he has. He says the mornings are the worst time of the day for him right now, but he had a realization today. The feelings that he's facing are what he's asking for. He said it's what he wants back in his life--the ability to feel, and to feel deeply. He said that he's been hiding from feelings for a long time, and so there are going to be some shitty feelings that he'll have to sort through...but that he wants it, and he knows he'll have to get through the rough part to get to the good.

That's right! He said that! Out loud! I didn't say it first for him to repeat back to me. I'd never even thought of that was him! To me, these little realizations and little steps that he's taking towards a healthier future are really big. I'm so proud of him today.

Friday, August 1, 2008

The Detox Kitten

Methadone detox is really pretty kind, it seems. At least that's the way it looks at my house. There's been no throwing, no yelling, and minimal twitching. My husband is sad and weepy and miserable like he has a really bad flu. I kind of like him this way. Is that wrong?

I had a brief freakout yesterday. He'd spent some time with his mother, and I started to think they'd been using together. I had no real reason to think that they'd been using together other than that they sometimes use together, and he's detoxing, and they were hanging out. I did the whole projection thing and called friends to talk me sane and help me figure out what it was I was feeling.

Eventually, though, he came home, and he was still sad and sick and miserable. I was so glad to see him sick. Is that wrong?

I'm recognizing that methadone maintenance has given me a lot of peace over the last few months, and I'm afraid of facing life without it. Methadone is its own beast in many ways. My husband's world revolves around when and how he's going to get to the clinic when he's on the methadone program. It's his first priority financially, and it's his first priority in terms of how he lives his life. I like the idea of that being over. I don't like the idea of worrying about him using. I don't like the way it seems like methadone was a buffer for him, softening the edges of the real world. I don't like it that he needs a buffer. I don't like it that I want him to have a buffer.

Sometimes, sitting next to him, it kind of startles me how different our lives are. We live in the same house, sleep in the same bed, shit in the same toilet, eat the same food...but we face the world so differently. He runs from pain. I seem to chase it.

I don't know.

At the meeting last night a lady said the addict in her life, newly clean, seemed to want to be a house cat. He wants to lie around all day on the couch on a soft blanket. He wants everything to be warm and fuzzy and nice. It made me giggle in that way where I was afraid I was being inappropriate, like my head may split open or my eyes pop out or I might have to leave the room.

My husband is a house cat.

Friday, July 25, 2008

"I told everyone that you don't give a fuck."

"I told her that you don't give a fuck about me, or how I'll be detoxing, or whether or not I'm comfortable. I told them you didn't want to be involved at all," my husband informed me.

The relative who he's been working for is planning to nurse him through his detox. I'm glad she will do it. I won't do it anymore.

In a lot of ways, he's right. It hurts me that he's telling folks that I don't care about him and presenting me in a nasty way; however, I can't get involved in his decisions right now. I can't be his nurse. I can't spend my money or my time on it.

It's not my natural inclination. My defaults are set to "Help" mode. I WANT to sit next to him, rub his hair, wipe his face with a cool cloth. I just can't do it. I've done it too many times. Detox nurse is a thankless, painful job, and I can't put myself in his space when that's going on.

My sickness is to be susceptible to sickness in him. When he's hurting, I hurt. I hurt myself to be able to hurt with him. I try to take it into me, to take what I can of it for him. And oh, if I could, I'd detox for him. I'd be sick and crazy and mean and miserable in his place. I hate for him to hurt...

But damn it, I've learned my lessons! I've been extraordinarily stubborn, but I've learned that it hurts me more than it helps him for me to do too much. In fact, it hurts me and it hurts him. He won't do for himself what I'll do for him, and I can't do for myself when I'm doing for him. When we get swept up in that cycle, we're both stuck in his disease, sinking. I've found a way out, and I'm not sorry.

I wish the voice in my head that wants to explain myself to everyone would shut up. I want desperately to call his relative and tell her what I'm really thinking when I refuse to pay for things for him or to sit by his sickbed. My sponsor often says that it's not my business what other people think of me, though. I have to keep remembering that it's not my business what his family thinks of me. I'm doing the best I can for myself today, and that's all I can do.


The methadone crisis continues.

My husband has been on his last legs at work for a long time, and it seems like every day is his last day of methadone. He keeps suggesting that it's very dire, that soon he won't have methadone at all. I keep worrying, preemptively setting boundaries, seething, fretting...planning to loan him money, then planning not to. Planning to make him leave if he starts detoxing, then planning to let him stay forever.

Today, though, I've decided to stop. I quit. He will have methadone, or he won't. He'll get a job, or he won't. I'll want to be with him, or I won't. Today, I want to be with him more than I want peace. Today, that's my choice. Fretting about it, about whether or not I'm doing it right, is getting me so bogged down in my own head that I can't possibly ever have the clarity to do it right.

My focus belongs on me: my body, my mind, my spirit. I'm not facing detox. I'm not addicted to methadone. I've got a great yoga class to go to in the morning. I've got plans with a friend to do something positive. I can surround myself with positive, healthy things that feed my spirit, and I'll find my way to the right answers.

For today, I'm firing my worries.

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

2 Choices.

I have two choices. Both choices stink.

Choice 1: Stay with my husband. Stay with my husband, exactly like he is, today. The man who he is today is unemployed. When he has money that he could contribute to our household, he chooses to spend it on selfish things instead. He thinks that it's my job to take care of him.

But in his best moments, he's sorry for this behavior. In his best moments, he's a wonderful man.

Choice 2: Leave my husband. I'd leave all the garbage, all the lying, the manipulation, the selfishness...I'd leave my rage and resentment for his expectation that I'm going to take care of him. All my money would be mine. My house would be mine. I'd be able to worry about nothing except for myself, only clean up my own messes, actual and metaphorical.

I'd lose the man I love. I'd lose the wonderful moments.

I don't like it. I don't like it at all. I want more choices. I don't like it that it's live with him like this and be happy about it or leave him and be happy about it. I don't lieke it that there's no happiness in either's all these halves.

My life has been even more like a country music song than usual lately. I wish I had the energy to write it all out.

Friday, July 18, 2008


Oh, you're dead now. Now you've gone and died and made a mess. How am I going to clean you up? Am I supposed to call the doctor? Do I call the police? Goddamn it.

I'd found his body on our couch, stiff and blue. It made me furious. Furious! He was calcified and cracked and it was a great, big mess, and I was going to have to clean the whole thing up by myself like always. I tried to lift him up, and he was too heavy, and his skin kept peeling off and getting all over me. There were stains where he'd leaked on the couch.

The couch is going to be no good after this!

I finally figure out how to hoist him up, and I kind of fold him over my shoulder, slide him in half, and fit him into a duffel bag. I notice that he's ripped apart at the seams, and he's filled with lasagna.

You got sauce on me!

I take him outside and try to get him into the trunk of the car, and he's too heavy. An old acquaintance from college happens to be walking his dog as I'm hefting my husband onto my shoulder. "I need help!" I shout, imperiously.

"Ok." He starts trying to help me lift the bag. The dog is curious about the lasagna.

We finally get him in the trunk of the car, and the guy asks me, "Don't you think you should have called the police before you cut him up like that? You might be a suspect..."

"I didn't do anything!"

I'm really fuming now, and I realize it's time to get to the airport. I'm on my way to Rome.

And I'm in a hotel in Rome, and I'm on the phone with the accountant in my office. I'm explaining to her that I won't be in the office for awhile because I had to go to Rome for vacation because I'm really tired. I explain to her that I can see St. Peter's from my window, and I can see it from every angle, no matter where I look. I keep talking to her, telling her how tired I am, how awful it's been lately, how much I need vacation, and suddenly, I realize that my husband is dead.

I realize it, and I'm paralyzed. I start trying to tell her that I'm really, really sad because my husband is dead, and that I've been wrong all's not a reason to be so angry. It's really, really sad. I can hardly breathe. I'm trying to tell my mother that my lover has died, and she's not listening to me one bit. She's telling me he was a good for nothing junky and that I'm better off without him, and I can feel my heart beating. I can't breathe. I can see my heart beating, bluer, because he's died, and I don't know what's happening. I don't know how I'm going to be able to open my eyes anymore. I don't know why nobody can hear me.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

What's Your Specialty?

When people ask you what you do for a living and you respond, "I'm a writer," the question often follows, "What's your specialty?" Nice girls respond with nice words like, "I write copy!" or "I review movies!" or something, anything, other than what I say.

Someone asked me recently, and it was all I could do to keep the word "Addiction" from flying out of my mouth. I actually choked on the word, stuffed it back down my throat, and responded with something like, "I write personal essays..."

Addiction: it's become my area of expertise. Specifically, I'm quite knowledgeable in writing about heroin addiction, and even more specifically, my husband's addiction to heroin. If there were only a job that would pay me well and give me benefits to write about my husband's addiction to heroin, I'd be a great candidate. I bet I'd get a promotion quickly.

I'm trying to diversify a bit, to expand my writing portfolio to include subjects that lie outside the circumference of my own asshole. I'm not good at getting outside of my comfort zone. Or more accurately, I prefer to stay within my discomfort zone. My life isn't comfortable at all. It's comfortable in its discomfort, and it's what I like to write about. Other subjects seem kind of dull, lackluster.

I don't know where I learned that pain is exciting and glamorous, and I don't know how to unlearn it. I guess it's getting better, and I'm getting better at taking care of myself and pursuing healthy, loving activities and people in my life. Still, though, sometimes all my recovery hoohah and spiritual blahblahblah kind of makes me gag.

I don't know.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

God Gave Me a Door.

Every farthing of the cost,
All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.

-W.H. Auden

God gave me a door. I slammed it closed.

I'd prayed and prayed and prayed for knowledge of God's will for me and the power to carry it out. I got knowledge of God's will for me. I didn't have the power to carry it out.

I look at the choices that I make, and I scare myself. I seem to have a clear split in my path, and I choose the wrong way. I walked up to that open door, and I saw myself on the other side. I saw serenity, personal growth, spiritual growth, security, peace. I saw a clear mind, a clear space to live in. I saw life without him.

I looked back at the life I'm presently living, and I saw a mess. I saw constant angst, turmoil, pain, resentment, rage. I saw him, and life with him. Spoons, needles, financial trouble, sickness, struggle, pain and pain and pain and pain and pain.

I saw him. I thought of his warm mouth on my shoulder. I thought of the famished look in his eyes when he sees me at the end of a long day apart. I thought of the smell of his skin, of laughing in bed, of sitting quietly together.

It's not over. It may never be over. I'm not done. I had an answer, and it wasn't the right answer. I won't have that answer. I want him, regardless of the cost.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Please Leave Me Alone. I'm Tired.

"I'm really tired."

"But what's wrong?"

"It's a long day, and I'm tired, and I don't want to talk."


"I worked 3 different places today. I'm tired. Please don't keep pushing me."

"I don't understand why you always act like that."

"I'm just fucking tired, and I don't want to fucking talk."

"See? You act like I'm the one who's crazy, but then when you get to the middle of the week, you get all pissed off that you're working so much, and you take it out on me."

"I'm just asking you to let me be. I want to take a bath and go to bed. It's been a long day."

"See? You have to blame me for everything! Everything is my fucking fault!"

By the time we'd finished with this exchange, I was so overwrought, and he was yelling, and I was yelling. I locked myself in the bathroom to get away from him. I really, really was just so tired, and I just wanted to be left alone. I didn't want to fight with him about how I have to over-work to compensate for his unemployment. I was too tired for that...but he wanted to fight about it.

Everything is his fucking fault. He's right. I do a great job of ignoring it and trudging along through my life, but really, truly, is his fucking fault. I don't want to split my time between three jobs and four jobs and a thousand freelance gigs. I don't want to be tired all the time. I don't want to take up his slack...but the bills have to be paid.

For a long time, I'd think that his unwillingness or inability to get and keep a job wasn't a very satisfying reason to leave frustrates me that he won't work, and it frustrates me to have to work more than my share even though he's an able-bodied, intelligent young man...but asking him to leave won't make a difference. I won't be able to stop working a jot if he leaves, as all the same bills still have to be paid.

Things have changed,'s not pleasant just to have him around. It is becoming more and more unbearable to come home to him, as he's more and more likely to be pissed off at me. I feel like my house is his lair, his filthy, shitty lair. At this point, if I decide to ask him to leave, I'll at least have some peace when I get home. I could clean my house and keep it clean. It would be quiet, and I could be alone.

I hang on for the few, sweet moments that pass between us...but they are very fucking few these days, and I am very fucking tired. This life has gone on for too long.

Sunday, June 15, 2008


I'm tired of being so goddamned responsible. I want to tell everything to fuck off, and I want to go on vacation. I can't afford to tell anything to fuck off and go on vacation. I at least would like a vacation from my husband.

He was "joking" with me last night about how I can't make him leave...he said he'd been thinking about how even if I decided to split up with him, he'd tell me that the house was his, too...that even though he doesn't pay the bills, I can't make him leave his house. I'm not sure where he got that idea from. I can think of several ways that I could make him leave this house, my house. I've looked into the laws for spousal support, and I know what the worst things he could do to me would be. I also doubt very much that a judge would have much sympathy for the able-bodied heroin addict who has been leaching off of his wife for 2 years...

And really, what is he thinking about to make him want to talk to me like that? Why push me towards thinking about the bad things that he could do to me if I decide to leave him? Is it really such fun to force yourself on a person who doesn't want you? I remember him so differently from this...the man I fell in love with had some self-respect. The man I fell in love with wouldn't have said that he'd make me keep supporting him even if I decided I didn't love him anymore. It doesn't make sense.

He has about 10 days before he is officially without money for methadone. He only seems concerned sometimes. I'm not sure why he is so comfortable with his present situation. The relative he's been working for is done with the project they've been doing, and he's only got about 10 days' worth of money left. I have to stop thinking about it. It's not mine. It's not happening to me. I can't stop thinking about it.

What is scary is that I've decided I'm not doing detox with him again. If he doesn't find a job and get himself squared away, I'm asking him to leave for the detox part. It's not good for me, and I can't do it, especially not right now when I have too many jobs and not enough time.

So many things in my life are going so well right now. I wish things at home would ride the coattails of my professional upswing. An unhappy marriage sucks the sweetness right out of life. It's hard to celebrate anything, and it's hard to have perspective on the things that are going well when the things that are closest to me make me feel like a rat running in a treadmill.

Art by James Christensen

Friday, June 6, 2008

Another Competitor In The Worst Mother Ever Pageant.

Edith Whoreton once said that it's like my husband's mother must be competing in some kind of worst mother of all time pageant. I thought it was a funny, and sadly apt description, and have since taken to collecting other mother who are competitors in the pageant. Here's a nice one...

Monday, June 2, 2008

My Life Story.

If anyone should ever write my life story
For whatever reason there might be,
You'd be there, between each line of pain and glory...

I met an old man this weekend who has spent more than two decades caring for his wife. She's been sick with Parkinson's since they were in their forties. We had breakfast together a few days in a row, and each day, he talked about caring for his wife. He talked about the surgeries she's had to find some relief for the muscle spasms and pain she experienced. He talked about her daily medication regimen. He talked about taking her to doctors and the ways that the various doctors' weren't caring for her properly. He was a thoroughly pleasant old man, and his love for his wife was apparent even though she hasn't been herself for decades. Her memory was affected by one of her surgeries, and she is often confused. She is completely incapable of caring for herself and requires his 24-hour care.

There was an undercurrent of sadness in everything he said, although he seemed content with his role as his wife's caretaker. He said he can rarely leave home without her because she is prone to seizures and he worries that something will happen if he isn't with her at all times. He gets a bit of reprieve when he takes her to daycare, but it's only enough time to run errands, so he doesn't get much time to himself...

This old man's life story, now, is the story of his wife's illness, and hearing him talk made me think a lot about my own life and my role as my husband's caretaker. I thought about whether or not I wanted my life story, which I'm recording, diligently, here for you, to be the story of my husband's addiction and my response to it. I don't think that I want that to be what I've done with my life.

I don't think that when I'm very old, I want to have that hint of sadness in my throat when I'm telling someone about my life. I don't want to explode, to foam at the mouth, with the story of my husband's disease, its transference to my own life. I don't think I want it. I don't know.

It also made me think a lot about marriage, connection. I know that my own husband would not care for me if I suddenly became unable to care for myself. He's too self-absorbed, too unpredictable, and too sick to be able to be responsible for another person.

And it confuses me, too...I want a partner who could, who would care for me if I were to be unable to care for myself. The agreement to provide care to your spouse if he or she is sick is one of the fundamental marriage sickness and in health. My husband, now, is in sickness, and I am growing increasingly tired of standing by that vow. I would want him to do it for me, and I don't want to do it for him. I'm conflicted about what that means for me...

I've heard many people describe addiction as a disease like cancer, suggesting that while yes, you'd care for your spouse if he or she were sick with a cancer, you might become frustrated if your spouse wouldn't seek help...wouldn't take medicines properly or visit doctors. (Blog BFF and recent real-life BFF MPJ described it beautifully as a nasty bowel disease.) You might not leave your spouse under those conditions...but you might, and you might do it with a cleaner conscience than if you just abandoned a sick spouse because you didn't have time, energy, or inclination to deal with the disease and its ramifications for your own life. One thing that confuses me, though, is that one of the symptoms of my husband's disease is that he doesn't want to seek help. Addiction masks itself so inkily from the addict...when he is spiraling, he can't see that he's spiraling. When he is saying that he doesn't need to go to meetings because he isn't like the other addicts, it's a side effect of the sickness...

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

Sometimes I think I'll never leave because I find the disease itself to be so fascinating. Other times, I think I will never leave because I find my husband to be so beautiful. All the time, I think of all the reasons why I will never leave.

I'm making my life, every day, and every moment of every day. I'm thinking clearly about who and where I am...but I'm not sure what to do with this clarity. Nothing changes in what I want: a healthy, happy partner who can take care of himself and be fully engaged in his own life as well as the life we're sharing. Nothing changes in his inability to be that person...there are brief, beautiful steps forward and then long slides back. I wish I could step back and get a bigger perspective, see really how I'm growing, if he's growing, and what we look like as a married couple...

I don't know.

Art by Mark Tansey

Sunday, June 1, 2008


I don't want to go home, ever, anymore. I think back to how much I used to love to come home to him, how much I wanted to be with him, in my house, our house...I am not sure what has changed, because I didn't used to feel this way about him even when he was using. I hate it when he's using, but I always love him. And I still love him...I'm just so fucking tired. I'm tired down in my bones of him, of this life, of the same problems, the same attitudes, the same stagnant bullshit again and again and again. I'm tired of how fucking self-absorbed he is. It's like my only function in his life is to be his ATM machine/personal assistant, and I'm just not so interested in being in service to him anymore. I want him to be my partner or go away.

We had a long time that things really were much better...where we really seemed to be a married couple, doing things with each other, for each other. I thought he'd made so much progress, but it seems like he's coming unglued now, and I hate the same addicty bullshit behavior.

It's sad, though, because it's so good when it's good. He's so full of hope for himself, and I get so hopeful for us together. He told me one day when we were coming home from a yoga class, his fingers twisting in my sweaty hair, that he was going to make sure that I never again regret marrying him, that he was going to do everything he had to do to make sure that every moment that we spent together from that point forward would let me know that everything he'd put me through was worth it. It lasted for a while, this feeling in lasted through that afternoon, through the rest of the week, but it's gone now, and I miss him.

CSI Celebrity Heroin News

Thursday, May 22, 2008

And More Boundaries.

"I want an MP3 player. I'm going to work really, really hard the next couple of days, and I want to spend some of the money on an MP3 player. I just really want something fun for myself," he has been reiterating for the last several days. I don't know what put a MP3 player bug up his ass, but it's a mighty annoying bug.

Our present financial arrangement includes a set amount of money that he needs to give me each week in order to be paying half of our household bills. He has never, not one single time, given me that amount of money. The most he's ever given me has been a little over half. After his last relapse, however, he asked that I handle all of his money from now on. The relative for whom he works transfers his daily money directly into my account. For weeks now, he's been paying off a debt to this relative that he accrued with a series of astonishing lies during the February relapse and making only enough money to pay for his methadone. I was patient and kind and forgiving through that part. It seemed like the right thing to do for him to pay his debts off and get back square.

He's square now, and he's making money again...enough to pay for his methadone and some surplus. So far this week, he's given me about a third of what he owes me for bills, and he has been growing increasingly adamant about this MP3 player business. I have been obsessing about it because it's the first time we've been in this situation. The money is in my bank account. I can choose to pull it out or not pull it out. I've chosen that I won't give him any money until he has paid me the full amount. I don't trust him to go to work and earn the rest of the money if he is able to get his new toy before the end of the week.

And that's good, right? I'm standing up for myself, setting boundaries, and making sure I get my needs met. Still, however, I'm feeling conflicted about my decisions. It feels like I'm being controlling. I don't know how I feel about this level of entanglement with our finances. I want to make sure that I get the amount of money that it costs for him to live in my house (finally), but I don't want to feel like I'm attempting to control, to change, to manipulate him into acting the way I want him to act. I'm not sure about what's right.

Monday, May 19, 2008

Conviction In Cheese Heroin Death.

Monday, May 5, 2008

And So I Will Distract Myself...

...with celebrity gossip...

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Pete Doherty News.

I can't get enough of this guy. My fascination with him is the last vestige of my early fascination with celebrity junkies. I wish he'd get better. It's sad.