Catching Idle Butterflies

Permission to be selfish

Not a pretty entry today. Consider yourself warned.

When two people marry, they become one. Their lives are no longer their own, but intertwined. Everything one does affects the other, both positive and negative.

What happens, then, when one spouse continues to do something that adversely affects the other, yet refuses to stop?

Take, for example, alcoholism.

But first, a little background information.

I grew up around alcoholism, my mother specifically. She stopped because she had to; she drank so much she nearly destroyed her liver. It was either give up alcohol or die. I was fourteen.

I didn’t think at the time, or even years later when I grew to adulthood, those circumstances affected my choices in boyfriends, however subconscious. Because my mom found herself in a weakened state, and neither my step dad nor my sister handled what happened afterward well, I took control, doing my level best to ‘fix’ things.

I took this attitude, this desire to fix everything with me when I moved out of the house and met Joe. He was another alcoholic, and a mean one, yet I stayed with him for a year and a half. I knew for certain I could change him – I involved myself in a person exactly like my mother.

When I realized my almost fatal error, I left, never again wanting to see or speak to him. I decided then it’s not my job to change anyone, plus it’s impossible. If I was to find a mate, I would have to accept him as he was, period.

Step in Dave. Did he drink? Yes. So did I, as did all of our friends, but I never noticed an indication he had a problem. I don’t think he did at the time. He never got mean when he drank, quite the opposite, so I figured no problem.

After seven or eight years of marriage, I noticed his intake of beer continued to increase. I ignored it, believing at the time because of what I learned from my mother, if there are no personality changes, he’s not an alcoholic.

Still, it began to bother me. The older I get, the less tolerance I have for drunkenness. I stopped drinking almost entirely now, having only the occasional glass of wine. Even then, I rarely finish it. I don’t like the way alcohol makes me feel. I’d been drunk enough I despise the feeling of being out of control, the puking that always seemed to follow, and waking up with hangovers no aspirin could kick, let alone the cottonmouth and feeling like I killed my brain.

I said little about Dave’s drinking, because another thing I learned about alcoholics is only they can decide to stop. Sure I could be passive-aggressive and give him the silent treatment when he’s drunk (which I’ve done and still do; I can’t help myself), but it does no good. I think he’s used to it now. I do it now not for his sake, but my own.

I’ve tried to use guilt, telling him he should stop because I want him around for the next 30 years. He said he appreciated it, and then took another drink.

When he was diagnosed with high blood pressure about two years ago, I honestly rejoiced. The doctor told him alcohol intake exacerbates the symptoms. Dave quit drinking beer, except the non-alcoholic kind, as well as coffee and chewing tobacco.

That lasted eight months. He figured that because of his medications, it’ll take care of the high blood pressure, and he didn’t need to watch what he ate or drank. Coffee and tobacco he still refrains from, but not beer. I added it up once using my Quicken software. He spends from $1,500-$2,000 a year in beer.

Two days ago as I watched him get drunk once again I asked, “Dave, how long has it been since you didn’t go to bed drunk?”

He looked at me and said, “I don’t know.”

“Do you think you have a problem?”

He looked away and said, “I don’t know.”

“Well you need to figure it out, and soon.” I could think of many reasons for this, but I didn’t elaborate.

After a few minutes of silence I said, “Unfortunately I can’t help you, so you’ll have to find someone who can.” Again I didn’t elaborate as to why.

Dave then got up and went into the kitchen. It sounded to me like he was digging into the fridge and throwing a bunch of stuff away. I smiled thinking he was tossing away the beer left in the fridge. He then went downstairs and outside with a garbage sack.

He stayed down there. Aside from going down to tell him he had a phone call, nothing more was said. He went to bed not long after without even a goodnight.

The next morning he left for work without a word.

I knew then I had made a mistake. He was pissed at me. I should have kept my mouth shut, I thought. Now I just made things worse. During the times I didn’t think or worry about my mom and her surgery, I worried about Dave. I couldn’t help but think he was so pissed at me he would not even come home that night.

You can then imagine how my heart dropped when I came home and Dave’s truck wasn’t in the driveway. He’s usually home from work by 2:30.

I found Rufus also gone. It was far too cold and windy for them to go hunting. I was so scared, in fact, I checked to see if he had taken some of Rufus’s food and her water and food dishes. He hadn’t, but I still worried.

Dave did come home with Rufus about a half-an-hour later, having only gone over to a neighbor’s house to look over a broken shotgun.

The night was strained, though. He didn’t kiss me hello, or anything. Thinking perhaps he thought I was mad at him, I took the initiative and kissed him hello when I came back from picking up some groceries for supper a little later. He kissed me back, but I could still feel the tension between us.

I did notice, however, he refrained from having a beer.

I allowed myself a glimmer of hope, that perhaps my words did make a difference.

Never hope. I said that yesterday. Hope in people, and find out the hard way they will always disappoint you.

I made supper, and when Dave filled his plate, he came out of the kitchen carrying a beer.

I didn’t allow myself too much disappointment, thinking perhaps he’d only have one.

HA! No such luck. He grabbed another, and disappeared downstairs. At ten I went down to wish him goodnight, and I saw another beer sitting on the table next to him. I could tell by how he slurred his words he was drunk again, or at least buzzed.

I made it back upstairs without crying.

Children and spouses of alcoholics have their own problems. They take everything personally. They assume they have the power to convince an addict they are one, and then help them to stop. When it doesn’t happen, they are responsible. The addict didn’t fail, the child or spouse did. In a way, the addict feeds off the enabling of the codependent spouse or child, and vice versa. That’s why they call it co-dependence. It’s a downward spiral that drags everyone down.

I know all this, yet I still spent the next two hours in bed crying myself almost to the point of puking. I had failed. I either didn’t say the right things, or I should have kept my mouth shut. I yelled at God, I mentally flagellated myself to the point I begged God to take my life, and do it soon.

I am so desperately tired of not being able to help someone I love. I’m lost and stuck, and I’m tired of being lost and stuck.

Unable to sleep, and needing to get a few things off my chest, I got out of bed. Dave was back in the living room. He saw me come out and asked, “What’s wrong?”

I sat on the couch and asked, “Am I losing you?”

He didn’t seem surprised at the question, but he said, “No. You’re not losing me. I’m staying right here unless you kick me out.”

“I won’t kick you out,” I said.

I started crying again, needing so badly to tell him why I was so sad and scared. But I couldn’t. I started, but never made it past, “I’m scared because . . .”

I think he knew, because he didn’t ask me why. He instead led me back to bed. He didn’t join me, though, not for another hour or so. He did ask me if I was feeling better, and like an idiot I said yes.

This morning I still couldn’t keep from crying. Dave noticed and asked how I was feeling. I could only say, “I don’t know.”

He at least kissed me and said good bye.

I awoke later feeling not much better, but I was thinking more clearly.

I can’t help Dave. I can’t change him. I can only help myself, change myself. Like I said the other day, only I can control my happiness, not my circumstances, or the people around me.

So I choose to take control of my life. Dave wants to destroy himself, fine, but I’m no longer going to help him. Come next pay day, I’m starting my own checking account. He wants beer, he can spend his own damn money. He can also pay his own damn bills, and figure out his own damn budget. If he runs out of money, too bad.

Also, kids are out of the question now. It breaks my heart, but it must be done. He can’t take care of himself, so I’m supposed to trust him with a helpless child? No thanks.

I’ve been the responsible adult in this relationship for 10 years. It’s time he took up some of the slack. If not, well I only have the time, energy, and ambition to take care of me. He’ll now have to do the same, or continue to kill himself in a slow, yet deliberate manner. If he does, I’m not going to feel sorry for him. I’ll drive him to the hospital, but that’s it.

I am rational enough realize I want to punish him, especially where kids are concerned. He wants kids I think more than I do. Still, it is what it is. I honestly don’t care right now if my motives are impure.