Michael,
I have always
compared sober you and drunk you to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. For good
reason. When Dr. Jekyll is present, you
are kind, romantic, funny, playful and smart. You put nothing else above your
family and you go out of your way to make us happy. When you are sober, we are happy. We rarely
argue, and never about anything serious.
People have told me in the past that they envy the kind of loving
relationship we have. I smiled half-heartedly at those people knowing that Mr.
Hyde is a sleeping bear and that at any moment the transformation may occur and
everything else disappears, shoved into a tight box and shelved for a later
date.
Mr Hyde came out
of hibernation in full-force this weekend. Sunday night I had softball practice
and when I arrived home you were already stumbling and slurring your words. I
knew you had relapsed earlier this month, and I was waiting for this side of
you to appear. You were in bed by 5pm and when I went to ask if you wanted
something for dinner you said out of nowhere, “Fuck you! Keep plotting with
Nadia to leave me. I don’t care anymore.” I have no idea how I kept my calm but
I told you that wasn’t something I would ever do and I left the room. It only got worse. After I put the kids to bed you stomped
downstairs and started swearing at me and Nadia as we were sitting quietly
watching TV and stumbled outside, presumably to grab another drink from
whatever hidden stash you had. When you came back in, you looked at me and
said, “Don’t talk to me, you useless whore,” and marched up to our bedroom
slamming the door behind you.
And so the night
went. Doors slamming, shouting
obscenities at me and my friend, stomping, throwing things and blaring the TV
at 2am. When I had gone up to our
bedroom around 11pm to brush my teeth in our bathroom you cornered me in the
bathroom, blocking the doorway. You have
never hit me before, but in that moment you looked like you wanted to as you
told me that you knew I was planning
to leave you and how dare I betray
you like that. In the past I would have
fought you and that’s what you were looking for on Sunday night. A fight.
I didn’t engage you in one and by some grace of God maintained my calm,
it seemed to enrage you more.
I’m grateful for
Nadia. Since I discovered your relapse she has stayed every night on our
couch. Keeping me from feeling alone and
with her here I think it helped me to not engage in an argument. I know the kids did not need to hear it and
honestly, I didn’t think I needed the emotional blows of hearing you call me a
whore, a worthless cunt, a shitty mother, a terrible wife, etc… All the things
I know I am not.
I know I am one of
the lucky ones who doesn’t get physically beat by my alcoholic husband, but
your words cut to the core and you know it.
You have broken my very soul and every time I start to make repairs, you
destroy me again. Emotional abuse is just as damaging as physical, except the
cuts, bruises and scars aren’t visible to the naked eye. The wounds of
emotional abuse take longer to heal and there is no medicine to speed the
process.
I spent the night
tossing and turning on the other end of the couch not occupied by Nadia.
Frequently waking to go tell you to turn the TV down in our bedroom so you
would not wake our innocent children and being told, “fuck you,” in
response. It was a very long night with
limited sleep.
The next morning
you didn’t wake until almost 11am. I just let you be, knowing that I would see
a different side of Michael when you came to. You were still angry and started in
on your typical “I didn’t drink” diatribe.
I cut that off quick by telling you I wasn’t going to listen to any of
your bullshit. Surprisingly you were
smart and shut up.
Eventually you
calmed enough for me to get out what I really wanted to say. I want a separation. I don’t want a divorce yet because I, myself,
am not ready for it. But I need to be
away from you and this endless cycle of benders and sobriety. You need to be
introduced to the feeling of losing everything.
You’ve begged and pleaded and cried.
Telling me you don’t want to lose me and the kids and that we are
everything to you. That’s not true. The alcohol means more to you. Until you seek professional help on your own
and commit to recovery without me forcing your hand you will never really get
to a place where we can be together and be happy, free of the dark cloud hanging
over us.
So, with shaking
hands and an empty feeling burrowing deep into my chest I booked a ticket away
from you. I’m packing our bags and taking
the boys where we can be happy and free of your poor decisions. I’m not sure I see your alcoholism as a
disease. You are sober when you choose to crack the seal on a bottle, and sick
people also see doctors to get treated.
You fight that with every fiber of your being, saying you’re a man and
can handle it on your own. You can’t. And until you come to terms with that you
cannot have your cake and eat it too.
~V
Comments
Post a Comment