I’ve come into the 21st century…so I could listen to 20th century music on our SmartTv.

The 70’s were a little before my time but with older sisters in the house and shared bedrooms…plus somehow Madonna’s music of the 80’s doesn’t quite evoke the same nostalgia, hope and hopelessness.

I was cleaning the house when I heard the line, “even though we ain’t got money…” and I thought,

“What did I expect for my life? My marriage? My children’s lives?”

You know what?

I don’t know.

I’m not one of those women who had a preconceived view of how grand (perfect?) her life and marriage would be.

But I do know I never thought it would be like this…

I like Valentine’s Day.

I like Christmas.

Halloween.

Mother’s day.

Father’s day.

Thanksgiving.

I like holidays.

And frankly I think the argument that they are just “made up” is bull shit.

Everything about life is “made up!”

We didn’t come here with houses and literature, art and iphones.

Man, is anything more made up than an iphone?

And yet no one yells, “it’s just made up” when the next generation comes out.

In my opinion, the whole “made up” argument is an effort to justify not participating in life.

In society.

I’m no anthropologist but if you ask me, we “make up” these rituals to give the whole of society some commonality. A way to connect everyone to each other. So yeah, I like all these “made up” holidays.

But I’ve come to expect little from them.

This year for Valentine’s there were flowers and candy.

Other years there has been nothing.

I’ve come to the place within myself where one isn’t that different from the other.

You can’t guard your heart against the nothing but still getting excited if there is something.

I bought my kids some candy.

I gave the obligatory candy to my husband.

I placed the flowers in a vase…

And then started the laundry.

Alcoholic household or not, we all know that as kids get older, the likelihood of everyone home on a single evening decreases in direct proportion to their aging.  You know parenting would be so much easier if things were “spaced out.” All the intensity of babies….it’s hard to realize that one day you’ll be wishing and waiting for your children’s noisy presence.

Last night that wish came true and we were all home – my husband included – in the living room watching a movie together! There was popcorn and side crafts and friendly, fun banter.

And the beer bottles?

The one (and then another and then another…and then another) in his hand…

The one halfway under the couch and his surprising shock when I pulled it out.

“How’d that get there?”

The one he knocked over.

Ignored, ignored, ignored…ignored.

His intoxicated state?

Ignored.

Made easier because last night was a “good” drunk.  A “fun” dunk.

And so since it was a good and a fun drunk, it was like we were a normal family.

Almost.

In an effort to detach myself from my husband, I have been trying to get rid of things that no longer signify joy or happiness – like a set of kitchen canisters we got as a wedding gift.  It’s harder than I thought it would be.  We’re not using the canisters.  They just sit taking up space and taxing me mentally in a storage closet.

That is what I intended to post about today – the difficulty of letting go of things, i.e. him.

And then, as I was thinking about what I would write – it hit me.

It’s actually not him that I am having trouble letting go.

It’s my marriage.

In today’s throw away culture – get a new one if it’s broken, you changed you mind, there’s a “latest” version or it would simply make you feel “better” – it can be surprising to hear there are people who still hold sacred something like, oh I don’t know…

Their wedding vows.

But there are and I am one of them and I suspect a lot of women married to alcoholics are as well.

I’m not being sanctimonious.

In fact, it even surprises me a little how deeply important honoring my vows is to me.  Had I not married an alcoholic, I am SURE I would have never (ever, ever) understood the concept of staying married because of your vows, regardless of the state and quality of the marriage.

I don’t believe anyone should stay married “no matter what” simply because of their vows.  I think there can come a day when your mental and emotional and spiritual health need’s outweigh the committment you made to your husband, your marriage and yourself.

But when that day comes – and make no mistake, it comes like a slow rain, not a sudden downpour – it won’t be as easy to walk away as one may expect.  Leaving your husband – the man – may be the easiest part.  Leaving your vows, your dreams, your expectations, your future and even your past won’t be so easy or simple.

 

I never thought I’d never be able to write.

Pain is a stereotypical catalyst for all creative output.

What artist every created great work while happy and content?

Heminway, Picasso, Van Gogh.

They were all famously miserably, weren’t they?

But I guess there reaches a point where the pain becomes numbness and that promotes or produces nothing creative.

I just got the renewal bill for this blog.

Has it been a year aleady?

Time flies when you’re married to an alcoholic.

And it drags.

“The days are long but the years are short.”

I read that somewhere and I don’t remember what it was referencing but it certainly could have been referencing life with an alcoholic husband.

The other day my husband happened to be in the living room with me – I say happened because we really are never purposely in the same room together – and the news was running one of those fluffy little stories about cutting your food costs and they said taking your lunch to work was one of the most effective ways to save money on food.

My husband said to me, in a sort of vulnerable way actually,

“Remember when you used to make my lunch every morning?”

Oh I wanted to say,

“Yes remember when you kissed me good bye in the morning.  And you kissed me hello in the evening.  And you were present…”

Oh I could have gone on forever with the “remember whens…” but I didn’t.

It would have been just to sad.

It’s so easy to lose perspective in the alcoholic marriage.

The first years are piercing, acute pain.

You feel every jab, every stab.

And then it becomes more like a constant headache.

It is there.

Always.

Somedays affecting you more than others.

Until one day you realize it’s not the sharp pain of the first years.

It’s not the dull ache of the middle years.

It’s just a pathetic numbness that overshadows everything about your life.

About who you are.

About how you live.