I was at work today and he called to tell me he was not ‘ok’.
After ‘yes that’s all there was’ and ‘no there is no more anywhere in the house’ there were two more bottles under the bathroom sink. Empty, now, obviously.
I tell him that if I have to be the sane one in this, he is going to just have to deal with me being half fucking crazy too. I tell him that no, I will not help him figure out how to tell his boss he can’t come in today. That we are going to need us both at work today in order to pay for the god-damned medical bills that this is going to cost us. I tell him that I am not angry, I am terrified. I cry and then yell and then thank him for telling me. I tell him I love him and that I don’t want him to fucking die. Then that this is somehow progress, because this time he told me before I happened to find out and he didn’t try to hide it or fake it – like he did before. That maybe next time he can tell me or God or someone before he actually does it.
I tell him that I am coming to get him and take him to work and that he has 20 minutes to figure out how to suck it up and get ready.
Because I don’t know what the fuck else to do.
omg – I had no idea that you and I belonged on the same freaking team all this time…
Cat’s last blog post..Maybe…
Yep – in fact I read your blog LOOONG before I started mine; found you though The Second Road and decided that ‘blogging’ seemed pretty therapeutic. I guess we speak the same language, huh?
[...] At some point, my husband hit a crisis. He was gone, he had relapsed, it was bad. He didn’t know I knew, and he was on his way home. This was it. He was going to die if he didn’t stop, and I didn’t know how to make him stop. I just wanted him to get home to me safe and alive and I would figure out what to do if God would just let me lay my eyes on him again. Alive. [...]