Swoop.

I'm up at an unfortunate hour tonight because I had a terrible dream:

Look! he shouts at me. We are getting out of my car and approaching the house I lived in when I was in high school. It's a house that always makes me feel unsafe. I look at him, and he's pointing up in the trees.

My eyes aren't adjusting. I can't quite open them. It's suddenly too dark, and I can't see what he's so excited about. He seems afraid, but also interested. "Look!"

I hear feathers and rustling and feel something swooping down on us. He grabs me and pulls me to the ground, and my vision adjusts just enough to see an owl attacking us. He's covering me, but the owl is coming down, and it's going to get him, and then I know it will get me because I can't see it well enough to fight it.

It's a graceful metaphor: the bird of prey, looming; his fascination with it, and my inability to see it coming and fear of being unable to ward it off.

Predictable.

He's detoxing, and he doesn't want to tell me he's detoxing. He says that he walked way too much today and his legs hurt because of all the walking. His legs are cramping unbearably because he walked so, so much. He is acting like a dick because he walked so much. His methadone dose for tomorrow is gone (four empty bottles in the refrigerator instead of three empties and one full) because he walked so much. He walked so much that the methadone empathically evaporated. Or maybe it's those dastardly dogs again, opening the refrigerator this time, taking the methadone out, opening the lid, and drinking it.

I've had kind of a complicated couple of days, and I'd deluded myself into believing that I was going to have a supportive, rational partner. I'm not sure where I got that idea. I'd heard supportive, rational words coming out of his mouth earlier today when I spoke with him on the phone, and it seemed, somehow, like those words and that mouth might have been attached to something, someone, real.

It's ok, though. I called a friend, and now I'm writing about it, and I feel ok. I'm ok. I won't deal with him detoxing tomorrow. I'll take him to his parents' house or something...but either way, that's tomorrow. It's not today, and I'll deal with it then. Half of my mind is working, worrying about the future (I can't live through another relapse. What am I going to do? He can't live here. This is horrible. Etc.), but the other half is just warm under the covers, snuggly with my cat, and going to bed.

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!

No.

I've gotten a little spoiled lately by the incredibly pleasant man who has been living at my house with me. Partly, I've been working and praying and focusing really, really hard on staying positive and enjoying my time with my husband, and partly, he's been more himself. Over the last few days, though, there are more and more little snide comments where I hear his victim-thinking, more and more rationalizations, more and more neediness and shittiness and general addicty-relapsey behavior, and I wish I didn't see it. I wish I wasn't so familiar with this fucking back and forth dance. I wish there could be some other way for the story of my life to go.

"Support."

"I don't get any support from you. It makes it hard to recover. You won't let me have any victories. You want everything fixed in the next 24 hours."

I'd gotten home from a long, long day at work, and he told me he'd gotten another part time job. He also told me he'd not gone to the part-time job he needed to go to in order to be able to buy his methadone the next day. I began detaching, lovingly, from the upcoming day without methadone, and said, "That's great. This new job could be a good opportunity. I hope it works out for you."

Apparently, my response wasn't effusive enough. If I'd been doing it right, I would have told him to wait a minute while I ran into the bedroom to change into my cheerleader uniform, and returned to say, "Oh, baby! That's wonderful! You got a job! Wow! Let me pay for your methadone for the rest of this week to celebrate!"

But you see, I've retired my cheerleader attire. After the fourth or fifth job that he diligently went to, filled out an application, and was given a start date that he blew off, I stopped getting very excited about these possibilities. It would be great if he got a job. It would be great if he'd support himself, even in a bigger way than paying for his own medicine. I'd be thrilled to have an actual partner, actually participating in the grown-up work of maintaining our household. If he puts a paycheck in my hand, maybe then I'll do a couple of cartwheels for him. (And really...even then...it's kind of what people do. People put their paychecks in the bank and then pay bills. It's what he used to do before heroin turned him into a large, expensive toddler. It shouldn't be something to celebrate.)

But for now, it's hard to muster up much more enthusiasm than, "That's great. This new job could be a good opportunity. I hope it works out for you." That's the best I can do.

His words hurt me, deeply. No matter how many times I tell myself it's just another tin foil hat, that it's not about me, that he's just talking crazy-ass addict talk...it hurts. I know I'm supportive. I know I've been patient for a year, for over a year now, and that the bit about 24 hours is just plain madness. I know I'm kind and compassionate and good to this man...good to him beyond what is reasonable. Knowing these things, I'm still hurt when he says I'm not.

It also makes me afraid. For the first time in a while, he's cobbled together a few weeks of clean time, and I have come to know that his need to blame me, to blame anyone, to turn the energy of his inner turmoil outside and on to the nearest target is a warning sign of relapse. I hope it's not where we're headed.

Hope Vs. Desperation.

"Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave everything behind they have ever believed in can hope to escape."

-William S. Burroughs

Sometimes, especially now that I am a Zen Master Blackbelt Detachment Warrior Of The Order Of Nar-Anon, I feel like I'm watching a race when I watch my husband struggling with his recovery. Yesterday, recovery was leading relapse by a nose...who knows what we'll see today.

I watch him wanting to get better but battling such a well of despair, fear, depression, guilt. It sometimes seems like he doesn't think he deserves to have the wonderful life that is waiting for him on the other side of his sickness. Sometimes, I'm so afraid for him.

One thing I never understand about him, and about addicts in general, is the need constantly to be perched on the edge of some precipice. Instead of taking care of problems before they become too huge to be manageable, my husband pushes and pushes and pushes up against walls and deadlines and boundaries until there has to be conflict. He has waited 3 weeks, for instance, to begin the process of reconciling with his family member who employs him. At this point, he is very close to being unable to work, which will mean he won't have money for methadone. I understand that he hasn't felt well while his dose has been adjusting, but I don't understand why the promise of feeling so much worse when his methadone runs out hasn't been enough to get him out of his stagnancy and on the phone.

It's always like that with him...always, he creates situations where he is on the verge of a crisis...so much of what he faces is so perfectly within his purview of control. I can't understand not taking care of stuff before it spirals completely out of control.

Which is why I have to focus on me, not him. I have to reign myself in, often, before I let my thoughts get carried away in trying to understand his thoughts. If I'd married a schizophrenic, would I constantly try to understand why he wanted to wear a tin foil hat? Nope. So why am I constantly trying to understand my husband's addictive behavior? It's outside of reason, in the land of tin foil hats.

Pete Doherty.

Watching.

I don't like watching him hurt. I want to fix it. Imagine that.

He's all over the place, mostly doing well, but occasionally being really consumed with guilt and shame and pain. It seems almost as if the bad moments are worse for him than they have been before. He's finally feeling like a person again, contributing to our livelihood, participating in the world...and it's hard to realize that he's missed a year of his life and hurt everyone he loves, everyone who loves him.

Last night was meeting night, and he fled the meeting in a hurry. I found him sitting on a bench by himself, looking upset. He used to like this meeting, but a few weeks ago, someone mentioned methadone, and the group largely trashed MMT as a valid tool for sobriety. He's afraid that folks know that he's on methadone maintenance because I've told the people in my meetings, and he's convinced that no one is talking to him anymore.

It might be true. I don't know if some of the people in my meetings might talk about their experiences with their spouses. I think, though, that he's likely paranoid and upset with himself for being dishonest. It might be better if he finds a meeting that isn't affiliated with my Nar-Anon.

It hurts me to see him hurting, though. It hurts to see him sitting alone and feeling rejected. It's hard watching him work through all the crap he's working through. I want to help him, and I can't. I want to take some of his pain off of him, feel it for him. I want it all to be easier for both of us.

Boundaries.

Sigh. I guess I need to call my sponsor.

I'm struggling with those complicated borderlands between boundaries and control, acceptance and accepting unacceptable behavior, keeping quiet to keep my sanity and keeping quiet to keep a false sense of peace.

A few weeks ago, we'd reached a breaking point in our marriage. He'd gone to stay with his folks, and I'd taken his key to my home. I needed some time to think about what it was going to take for him to be welcome to stay here, and I came up with a few things, a few boundaries that are necessary for my sanity, for my comfort living with someone who has been in and out of active addiction and who has entangled me in all the insanity that comes along with it. I told him that he needs to be able to pay his own way, including both paying for his own methadone and paying half of our bills, and that I needed to see outward signs of recovery, beyond going to the methadone clinic. I need to see him attending meetings, working steps, building community, having a sponsor.

His response to these requests was to find a job, the next day, and to bring me money for groceries. He told me that he can do the things I need, that not only can he do them, but that he realizes that these are things that are vital for his own survival. Without a job and without some recovery in his life, he says that he knows he isn't going to make it, regardless of what happens to our marriage.

The job isn't perfect; it's only going to last for two or three months. It is, however, a job, and it's paying his bills and paying for his methadone. For the first time in almost a year, he's being a true partner, at least financially. That's a wonderful thing, and I'm grateful.

And he has been lackadaisically attending the meetings that are held in conjunction with the Nar-Anon meetings that I attend. He gets in the car, he goes with me, he listens and talks to the folks in his group. He has not sought out a sponsor, and he hasn't looked for a different group. Last week, he blew off one of the meetings because he wanted to hang out with his father. It made me furious.

So what I'm struggling with is where, exactly, it is that I've placed my boundary, and what my boundary means. I suppose that attending one or two meetings a week is better than never doing anything. I hope that he will continue to build relationships, and he'll find a sponsor (one that accepts his methadone maintenance...there has been some controversy at the N.A. meetings he's attended), and he'll fully engage the program. I don't know if he will...especially as he is doing well with his methadone and feeling very "fixed."

Part of me wants to yell and cry and tell him he's not doing enough. Part of me wants to ignore it. I don't know what would be right, and I don't know what it is that I want.

What I am most afraid of is that he will fall apart again, relapse, and that without the support and tools that he can gain from recovery, it will be another long, hard fall. I am afraid that we'll be on this roller coaster forever, and that he's not going to be a person who I can spend the rest of my life with. I'm afraid I'm letting myself down by letting him off the hook for one of the boundaries I set in order for us to continue in this relationship. I'm afraid that I'm borrowing trouble by worrying about his recovery when I'm knee-deep in the muck of my own. I'm afraid that if I don't worry about his recovery, nobody else will.

I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

I thought you'd be happy to see me.

I went out of town this weekend, and I got back yesterday. I was tired, but I'd had a nice time seeing friends and enjoying nice weather.

He met me at the door. He's feeling pretty good now that his methadone dose is regulated, and so he's just a big old barrel full of happy. I'm glad he's feeling better. I really am. I hope this methadone business works. However, there's no methadone for me. I don't feel better. I feel as bad as I've ever felt. It was good getting away, but coming back home felt something like the way it must feel to be this poor kitty.

So he met me at the door, smiling, and he put his arms around me. It was nice, but I was aloof. He pulled me inside, and he sat me down on his lap and told me he had to tell me something. He wanted me to know that he used one day last week.

"I still didn't feel right. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I'm sorry. I feel better now. I had to tell you."

I know, I should be glad he's being honest. At the moment, though, I just didn't care. I don't care. I don't want to hear about it. I don't want his honesty if it's not good news. I don't want to hear any more about how he's feeling, what he's doing, what he's done, what he's going to do.

I want to see it. Show me. Show me good things.

He was very hurt that I wasn't thrilled with coming home to this cold, wet life, that I wasn't ecstatic that he'd scrounged up $30 to use but wasn't able to come up with a damn dime to help me pay bills or buy groceries, that the sheer miracle of his honesty wasn't enough. He didn't understand why I wasn't happy to see him.

It's just a mix, now, and I'm tired, tired, tired. I understand that it's hard for him to tell me the truth. I understand that this new, burgeoning truthfulness is an important step in the right direction. I am proud of him for it. But it doesn't make it stop hurting. It doesn't make this life more bearable right now.

He's not staying with me tonight, and maybe he won't stay here for a few days. I need some time and space for myself. I need him out of my line of sight so I can think about what I need, what I want. I'm tired of thinking about his feelings, his needs, his wants.

Struggling.

I found this picture today. It's kind of what it looks like inside me right now...grainy and dark and unclear and uphill and dragging obstinate things behind me.

I'm ok.

Thanks, folks, for your nice comments. It helps to have all that affirmation. Today is ok.

I Want Eternal Sunshine.

I want the place he occupies in my brain removed like in Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind. I don't want to do this anymore, but I don't want the hurt of the undoing.

I've grown from all this. In a lot of ways, I'm personally in a better place than I was before. I'm stronger, smarter, and I know that I can survive some real hard shit. And I guess I already knew I could survive some real hard shit...but there are whole facets and layers and textures of shittiness that I now know are manageable with the right tools. That's a real gift. Thank you, Mr. Junky and Nar-Anon and yoga for showing me that I'm going to be ok, no matter what, as long as I've got myself to look after me.

I've grown so damn much that I know I could accomplish great things without the dead weight of an addict husband. But damn if I don't love me some addict husband...and damn if I'm ready to let go.

Not tonight. (Or rather, not this morning. It's 5 a.m. where I am, and I'm up, blogging away. It's almost as if I've never done this before. I know I need help sleeping on these nights, but sometimes, I get this idea that I'm not going to take sleeping medication anymore. Hah. ) Tonight, I have it in me to stick around. Tonight, I still have hope that he wants to be a better man, that he is willing to work for it. Tonight, I have faith in the process, in recovery, in our love for each other and a better future.

But I don't know if I'll have that faith for as long as it will take. I know he can do better than this with the right help and the right tools. What I don't know is if I have it in me to stick around for the whole process.

Relapse.

It's official. He's relapsing.

Oh...

It wasn't so long ago that I was just a happy pig in healthy shit. I can look back at the blog, and it was just like last week. I'm still ok, still growing and all that old bullshit, but my man is stuck in some kind of unconquerable funk. I want to get involved.

I don't need to be involved. He's doing him. I should be off doing me, taking care of myself, not messing with him. But I REALLY WANT to mess with him. I want to cheer him up and argue with him and chase him around the house and go through his stuff and meddle and do all the things that I know better than to do.

I don't know why. I know the routine...3 steps forward, 2 steps back, slow growth, early recovery, relapse is a part of recovery...blah, blah, blah. I know all the parts by heart.

I am frustrated lately with the litany of truths that contradict and intertwine with one another. I am frustrated with feeling hopeful and despairing, in love and infuriated, completely drained of all my energy and completely invigorated by my fledgling spirituality...I don't know anything.

I'm off to a meeting.

Nodding Off Pisses Me Off.

I couldn't sleep, so I took one of your sleeping pills.

In the middle of the day?

Yeah. My head hurts, and I think I'm getting a migraine, and I don't feel right.

So you took my sleeping medication? In the middle of the day?

He started nodding off on the way to the meeting. Nothing, and let me emphasize NOTHING, in this world makes me feel more crazy than my nodding junky husband. It reminds me of all the time he spent nodding off on heroin, and it makes me absolutely hysterical. Panicked. Nervous, Anxious. Nauseous. It's a bad scene.

We spent some time this weekend with his family. His mother is an addict in recovery as well. She's been doing quite well, and she's gotten some real clean time for the first time in many, many years. But, it's still early in her recovery, and while we were at their house, she started nodding out. She's taken "two muscle relaxers," whatever that means. She has some chronic pain issues, and it's a struggle for her to negotiate the area between her addiction and her chronic pain. She's doing well...she's got a sponsor and she's working the steps...but I think what we were seeing this weekend was a little relapse. I don't know if that's what she'd call it, but that's what it looked like to me.

It made my husband furious. He kept pointing to her, "Just look at her! She can't even keep her eyes open!"

I thought it was strange how he was reacting. I just looked at her, struggling to keep her eyes open, and thought, "Yep. She can't keep her eyes open." She used to look like that a lot, and this is the first time I've seen her look like that in a long time. To me, that's progress. Not perfection, but progress. Addicts relapse. She's an addict. Tada.

And then, today, he's nodding off. It's as if he had to get a taste of what his mother was experiencing. I don't know why he was taking my sleeping medication in the middle of the day. This is not narcotic medication...it makes you go to sleep. That's it. It's not fun. I don't get it.

My sleeping medication is now locked away in my lock box. It's mine. I need it when I need it. It's not his, and it's certainly not his for 4:00 in the afternoon.

The meeting was a large one, and he wanted to go home. I was sort of pissed that we'd driven all the way there to drive all the way back home. Even though it's close, it's still gas that I don't have to spend...but it's his meeting, not mine, and I was eager to get home after work, anyway.

So part of me is frantic. "Oh my god," my crazy head is saying, "he's using again! He wanted to go to a meeting because he's gotten some heroin!" or "Oh my god, he's abusing my sleeping pills! He wanted to go to a meeting because he'd gotten into my sleeping medication, and he realized that it was the dumbest thing anyone ever did, ever!"

But that's a small part. That part of me, as a matter of fact, is getting left here, on the blog, for you all. The rest of me is content. My pills are locked away now, so he won't be getting into them anymore. My stuff is safe. I'm safe. I've got some work to do, and I'm about to get started on it. I took a long walk with my doggy, talked to a god-like person, place, or thing, cried a little while asking for some guidance and strength and peace, ate a nice dinner, and had a nice bath.

He's lying on the bed, groaning with an ice pack on his head, nursing a headache or heartache or existential crisis or closing his eyes and enjoying a filthy, guilty heroin daze or something. That's awful for him. I'm sorry he's suffering. I'm glad that he wanted to go to a meeting, even if he didn't make it in, and I'm glad that he's going to his home group meeting tomorrow. I'm glad he's got the tools he needs, and I'm glad that he's doing the best he can, even though it's hard for him.

Paris?

So finally, MPJ showed me today that the San Diego Reader column is out.

I really want to be excited about it, but reading the post makes me so sad. I'm excited because it's the only time I got something published without submitting it...it's the only time I got "discovered." That's a good feeling. But reading it...fuck!

It was his last relapse. It was 148 days ago. We did the math last night. That's a long time. It's not long enough. For a long time, I didn't believe him about the last time he used being that time, but now I do. Or now I don't care. Or now I care too much. Or I realize that I care so much I have to find ways not to care.

Even my writing is different back then. I was so tense. I can feel it in the way I'm handling words, like they might explode or shatter.

Looking Backwards.

Here's a recipe for how to get really mad:

First, marry a heroin addict.
Then, start a blog. Meticulously record your every thought and feeling and your heroin addict husband's every word and deed.
Each time your husband confesses to a relapse he's hidden from you, go look at the post you wrote during that time.

Fucking intuition.

Or Maybe Not.

But either way, we had a good, long, honest talk. At least I was honest, and he was receptive.

I recognize that I'm feeling really vulnerable and scared for all kinds of reasons, and the last time I've felt that way was the last relapse. He offered me various evidences and explanations for why the things that were making me afraid weren't true. I rejected them all. I don't want to see receipts or piss in a jar or anything. I wanted to say my piece, explain my upset, hear his response, and go back to living.

And that's what I'm doing. I'm ok. My stuff is safe. I came home to a clear-headed, clear-eyed husband. His voice doesn't sound like it's at a bottom of a well. He washed the dishes and we talked, a lot. He's sitting next to me drawing. It's a happy moment...I'm a sucker for this drawing/writing scenario.

I'm not saying that I think he's not using. I'm not saying that I think he's using. I'm saying that right now, I don't care either way. Right now is good.

I love all of you for your comments and good wishes. I'm sending them back to you.

I Think He's Using.

Yep. That's what that awful feeling is in my gut. That's what the disconnect is in my head. Maybe I'm upset about other things, and I'm imagining it...but I don't think so.