One of the worst things about loving an addict is that if they get sober, they don’t remember their drunken antics. WE do.
This is her story:
By the time I was 20, I had battled drug addiction, been married and divorced, survived sexual assault and birthed a baby without a daddy.
If you said that I was broken when I met him, you’d be right, but there were a few pieces of me still hanging on.
He was sexy and wild and I wanted to be part of that. I was a bad-girl. I was the other woman and played the role well. We did the things we shouldn’t be doing and it was all fun and games. Until we decided to make us a permanent thing.
We married and I settled in. Doing all the things a good mom does. We had a baby together and I got to experience what it felt like to have a partner to help me through it.
I was not alone. But my wild and sexy husband remained wild, and drank and drank and drank. He drank us into debt. He drank away our love. He drank away my life.
Two more babies came and each time I thought it would be better. But it never was. He called me names. He pushed me. He drove drunk. He forgot to pick up our children from school. He ruined birthday parties and anniversaries with his moody, sloppy drunkenness. I tried to leave half a dozen times and every time he said it would be different and so I returned to him. But it was not different. It was worse. It was a game and we were all losing.
One summer day I could not take it anymore and I (stupidly) demanded that it stop. Furniture was thrown at me as my children watched. I pushed him out the door, made him go. My 9 year old son called the police.
He never drank again. He worked hard to be sober, and it’s been 5 years. He is healed, people say. How proud I must be of him.
And I am outwardly pleased, but inside I do not trust. I wait on the edge of my seat for the other shoe to drop.
Will today be the day? Will it all fall to pieces again? I can never be sure. I took my vows, and I stood by him and helped him through his darkest hours.
I suffered through years of agony. I cried along with my babies at night while he was out drinking us away.
I am supposed to forgive and move forward, our lives restored, but I am unable to find this “fresh start” that people tell me I’m so lucky to have. I am not the lucky one.
I spent too many years fixing him for it all to fall apart now.
But I’m the one with the memories, the nightmares, the emotional scars. All the deeds that he cannot undo, and the behavior that remains the same, whether he is sober or drunk. I am still mother and father and caregiver and nurturer to everyone but myself.
I am tired of doing this alone. I don’t want to be a martyr. I want my life back.
I want to be whole again.
Infertility affects us all differently with the exception of one thing: the pain.
This is her story:
FULL DISCLOSURE: I am not a Mommy Blogger. That is because I am not a Mommy. I would like to be a Mommy mind you, but alas, I am not.
Apparently, my female parts don’t get along with sperm as well as they should and they reject those little buggers every time my husband busts a nut. And yes, trust me, we’ve tried everything from WD-40 to Grandma’s old tyme Hold Yer Legs Up Over Your Head technique. My husband actually refers to this as “Mauding it” a term he coined after watching The Big Lebowski one too many times. For those of you who haven’t watched the film 70+ times, that’s Maude Lebowski’s (Julianne Moore) technique of rolling around on her back to let the semen deposit brew.
So anyway, it’s been two years of nut-busting and Mauding it and quite frankly, I’m starting to get a little bit depressed. Sure, we joke about it and try to make light of the issue, but the last time I got my period, my husband cried. As you can imagine, in my hormone-enhanced state, it turned into a dueling cryfest. It was worse than when we watched Sophie’s Choice last winter.
I should probably also mention that aside from our down-home techniques, we have gone through all the proper medical tests. According to my doctor and all the lab technicians we’ve met along the way, everything is working properly on both sides. My doctor eventually pronounced our situation as “unexplained infertility.” I sort of stared at her when she delivered that prognosis until I was finally able to locate my smart assedness and retorted “so is that like the proper medical way of saying you don’t have a clue?” My OB-GYN doesn’t have an ounce of humor in her and she said “it’s what we call it.” Thanks. She sent me back out into the streets knowing less than I did before I came to see her.
While we’re technically not in any rush, we are both 34, and well, time is a-ticking. I swear that all the comments my mom and in-laws make don’t bother me, but I would sort of like to get pregnant so I can just tell them to shut the hell up. My mom, especially. She totally blames me. Everybody does. Even my husband.
Carrying this burden is annoying and unfair. While I realize that there are people out there with problems far worse, it doesn’t change the fact that getting pregnant is theoretically a fairly simple thing to do. I frankly just don’t understand. I see crack whores in Hell’s Kitchen who are able to reproduce. Repeatedly. I only smoke crack when I drink. It’s just not fair. (note the sarcasm)
Seriously though, I take pre-natal vitamins and do yoga and do acupuncture for fertility. I eat healthy, I exercise. I’ve even given up lots of stuff like running and drinking wine and eating sugar. I guess I haven’t given up on hope though. But you know what, it’s a daily battle.
We all experience loneliness sometimes in our lives.This is loneliness to the extreme.
Please read her story:
I’m depressed. No. I’m not depressed. I’m extremely depressed.
I lost my job in October. My job, you know, the one that I hated but worked my ass off for. The job where I worked 50+ hours, made me miss time with my kids, and was so stressful that I often cried myself to sleep. The job that I had to cling to when my husband decided that he wanted to sleep on his cousin’s couch and smoke pot all day and night. And when he wanted to come back, the job that paid for his plane ticket.
We lost our house… My gorgeous 2,100 square foot house that I spent hours painting and sanding and cleaning. Gone. Now we are living in an extended stay motel, which is a fancy term for crack house.
My kids are back with my mom because it’s all I can do to scrape together enough money to feed them right now, and my company is fighting me for unemployment. South Carolina is an at-will state after all. At least I know that they are fed and warm, and safe.
My husband does nothing but bitch about me not having a job.
‘Scuse me?! Aren’t I the same woman who worked two jobs for over a year, while trying to finish my degree and raise three kids, because every job you found “sucked” and you usually quit around the time you got your first check? Aren’t I the same woman who supported you, through EVERY shithead thing you decided to do to me? Didn’t I take you back; PAY for you to come back when you left me for her. Twice?
He doesn’t look at me or touch me or tell me he loves me. He comes “home” and plays on Facebook before passing out. And so I sit, in this single room, every day and every night.
I lost most of my friends when I took him back this last time. They were tired of watching me go through this. So alone I stay.
And every night, while I sit here awake I think about how much better it would be if it all just went away. I no longer look at myself and see the slightly chubby woman who is raising three amazing kids and kicking ass at everything.
I see nothing but this horrible beast of depression. If my husband doesn’t want me, who would? If I can’t raise my kids, what’s the point? If I can’t work, what can I do? I am nothing. A void. Useless.
There aren’t any words anymore, and all I want to do is go to sleep, and not wake up. It seems that I’ve stumbled into this place and I don’t know how to get out.
My husband is against antidepressants. He says that they are a crutch. That I have to get through this on my own, because that’s what people are supposed to do.
I have nothing and I can’t do anything.
And every night I dream that I don’t wake up.
(ed note: Prankster, you are not alone. And you are loved. I’m not going to presume to tell you what to do, but you do know that you are depressed and you do need help You don’t have to do it all alone.I hope that you are able to find the help that you need.
We are none of us alone. You are so, so loved. Please remember that.)