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.

 

 

 

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