My
Darling Husband,
I
love you. And you are dying.
ref:
September 98 Heroinsight
As
you leave me, little by little each
week, each month, I struggle with
acceptance. I try to prepare for when
you will be gone altogether. I try to
prepare for the loneliness. I'm getting
some practice now. Alcohol drags you
away from the living, I watch you go,
and though it hurts to realise your body
is in the room with me though you are
lost in another world, I can find some
solace in the chance that these frequent
experiences are going to make your
death less agonising for me. On those
nights when I cannot bear the pain of
your abandonment, I must leave the
room. I retreat to my study, the
wonderful sanctuary you built for me and
for which I'm very grateful, or to the
other bedroom to sleep or occasionally to
go to a movie or shopping. The
loneliness is hard.
I
have to be practical, too, and consider
finances, even though it feels so coldly
harsh to think along these lines. You are
my bread-winner, the family's successful
provider. Your earnings keep us in our
wonderful little home, keep us fed, keep
us comfortable, healthy and entertained.
When you can no longer provide for us,
then I must. I have to create a career for
myself that brings in sufficient income to
replace yours, and that isn't going to be
easy at my age.
It
is ironic that one of the characteristics
that impressed me most when we were
dating and first married was your
strength, both mental and physical, and
your wonderful self-confidence and
intelligence. I loved to watch you at
work. I've never seen anyone who
worked as well with young people. It's
because they knew you could be trusted
to do the right thing and to do is
consistently, even if they didn't much
like it.
You
were the same at home. If
something needed repair or needed to be
built, you repaired it, you built it. I
counted on your willingness to make our
home prettier or more efficient whenever
I asked. I felt so lucky to have that kind
of husband, and I could see you took
pride in your work, even when you
pretended you didn't.
You
don't jump in so willingly any more
to do the extras. There isn't much time
because of all those hours addiction
demands, but you do manage regular
home maintenance for which I'm
grateful. I know how hard it must be to
mulch leaves, mow the lawn, and take
out the trash when you suffer from
heartburn, diarrhoea and headache. Yet,
you always do them. The day will come
when I will have to hire outside held, I
know, but for now, I thank you for
working when you are sick.
One
day at a time, that's how we are
told to live with addiction, and it's not
only excellent advice, I've found, but
absolutely the only possible way to
mentally survive. The moments when I
allow myself to think of future events are
the moments I suffer the most anxiety,
like the vacation we are planning for the
summer. There is no way to know what
your condition might be by then. Your
liver or kidneys may have deteriorated to
the point you are physically too ill to go.
Or you may be unable to get through any
24-hour period sober the way you can
now. Already I don't know how you can
manage the rigours of our trip while
adhering to the present pattern of
poisoning yourself one night and
recovering the next. Even if you can
physically manage, how can you possibly
enjoy more than a few moments of such
an exciting adventure. I think about the
cost and wonder if it's a waste of
money.
Still,
some things in life one has to plan
for in advance, and this is one of them. I
will purchase the airline tickets and make
reservations at hotels and buy the
necessary clothing. Those are the things
I can do. The things I can't do include
planning for your health or making you
stop drinking or managing your
behaviour in any way. One day at a time
means I cannot think about next
summer's vacation or the retirement
years or exciting adventures together in
the future. I can turn the future over to
God and try not to grieve over what we
could have had and won't.
The
thing about your illness that troubles
me most is the superficiality of our
relationship now. We started with that
something special. We shared an
explicable chemistry that exists in some
love affairs and goes beyond physical
attraction. We related to each other so
honestly, with very little held in reserve.
Alcohol
has changed that, of course. It
has weakened you physically and
depleted your sensuality. It has become
so much a part of you that I cannot be
honest in my feelings towards you
because I hate the alcohol part.
Sometimes all I want to do is scream
obscenities at the alcohol part, but I
can't do that without screaming at you,
and so I can't talk to you at all. So
often, when I need some good honest,
in-depth conversation, you are in your
other world, and the moment passes. If
I'm not careful, the need is replaced by
resentment. Resentment, I have learned,
is very bad for my health while it
doesn't do a thing to make you stop
drinking.
There
is much more, lots of accumulated
little sorrows I'd like you to be aware of
but what's here is enough, I guess. Do
you know why I'm telling you all of
this? No, it's not to hurt you. It's to
enlighten you. True, I hope the
enlightenment does hurt because that will
show you are still able to care how I feel
and what I think. I am telling you
because this morning you made two
statements; one may be true, though I'm
not so sure, and one false. First, you
said you were aware that your drinking
may kill you but don't wish to do
anything about it. Maybe this is so, and
maybe it isn't that you don't want to but,
rather, are afraid to. Second, your
addiction harms you, not me, which is
definitely false.
I
consider myself lucky that you don't
drink and drive. Very lucky! I'm grateful
that you aren't a hostile drinker with all
that implies. The difficulty is, because
the harmful effects of your addiction are
so subtle, your children and friends and
more importantly, you, yourself,
consider your illness a somewhat mild
problem and, therefore, acceptable. And
this only increases my sorrow, for I
often bear it without the empathetic
caring of others.I will continue to attend Al-Anon
meetings and read literature about living
with alcoholism and talk to a sponsor
who's been through it all before. I will
continue to prepare to be independent as
best I can and to grieve what is already
lost and to love you with all my heart
until you are gone.
Love, Your Wife
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