Catching Idle Butterflies

Toxic Beaches

I don’t want to write this entry, and for two reasons.

1. I’m honestly tired of this subject, and if I am, you might be, too. The last thing I want is to fall into the boring groove of uniblogging.

2. It happened two days ago. Really, is it all that important now? It’s over, it’s done. Let’s move on, shall we?

I tried all day to come up with a different subject. Same with today, but I am a dog gnawing on a bone; singular of purpose, and to hell with the rest of the world – or subject matter.

I once described a blog entry as brain vomit. I even considered naming my blog that, but it would not have met with giggles of delight by the WdC Powers That Be. I can’t blame them, though. Would you read a blog entitled “Brain Vomit?” Okay, perhaps you would, but it still conjures up grotesque images that may not be appropriate for children under 13.

But I digress. Brain vomit is just that. It’s a mixture of toxic crap swimming around in the head, begging, aching, and screaming for immediate release. The longer you hold it back, the more uncomfortable and painful it gets.

Let it out deliberately, or watch your head explode, either way it’s coming out. The choice is yours how it comes and where it ends up.

I don’t feel like picking up brain matter from my nice shirt, pants and computer screen, so here goes.

I said Thursday night Dave refrained from drinking. I was happy about it, but I managed to keep my hopes and expectations at a low level.

Good thing, too. Friday night before supper, he opened a beer and poured it into a glass. He made a phone call and I patiently waited for him to hang up.

When he did I said, “So you’ve decided not to stop drinking.”

“Yes.” Defensive. I knew then he had spent his day off of work to think long and hard, not about quitting drinking, but how to best defend his drinking.

I won’t torture you with the ensuing argument except to say I managed to stay fairly calm. I even printed out a link (Thank you jspinelli!!!) stating how drinking can severely lower a man’s sperm count and prevent conception. I tried to tell him that beforehand, but he didn’t believe me. We went around and around for about ten minutes.

I then realized I was making no headway. One thing about Dave and his entire family is they’re masterful debaters. I don’t come close to measuring up, even when I know I’m right. Knowing I’m right and convincing others I’m right is never the same thing. So I told him flat out I’ve had enough. He can forget about having kids, and he could now take care of himself, because I wasn’t going to help him. I stood, grabbed my coat – in the process knocking over a chair, but didn’t bother to pick it up – and said, “I’m going for a drive.”

“Drive careful,” is all he said.

I thought of a few places to go, but I ended up nowhere. None of my friends would understand, and being a Friday night, most wouldn’t be home anyway. Plus, I didn’t want to impose. I thought of two people I could call, but I neither had a phone, or their numbers. I couldn’t stop anywhere, because I was crying and mentally beating myself up for all the wrong things I said and did.

I couldn’t stop at a park or any other location with no people - I certainly wasn't going anywhere public with tears and snot all over my face - because it was too cold outside. I wasn’t so angry or depressed I wanted to harm myself.

So I drove back home, still crying so hard all the street and car lights were streaks of red, green, yellow and white mixed in with the road ahead.

I sat in the driveway for about five minutes with the engine running and wondered what to do next. I couldn’t stay outside, and I had nowhere else to go, unless I wanted to get a motel room.

Not wanting to stay in a motel, I shut off the engine and went inside.

I found the knocked-over chair unmoved. I set it back up and placed my coat on it. I glanced at Dave who looked . . . broken. He also hadn’t moved from when I left. I expected him to at least be playing on the computer. After all, he made his decision. He should have been happy about it.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I’m not.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.”

“No, Dave, it doesn’t.”

I then grabbed my book, and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind me.

Dave came in a minute later and lay next to me on the bed. I was so tempted to ignore him, but I reminded myself to no longer be passive-aggressive. I set down my book and gave him my full attention.

“Please don’t take my wife away from me,” he said.

“I'm not the one who’s doing it.”

He then apologized and held me close.

He didn’t take another drink that night, yesterday, or today. I’ve been treating him gently, knowing he’s terrified of losing me. Part of me hates seeing him like that, but at the same time I keep thinking, “Good. He should be scared. Now he knows how I’ve been feeling for the last week, if not longer.” Vindictive, I know, but hey, I’m a woman. It’s what we do.

He had to work today, and right now he’s beyond grumpy. He doesn’t even care about eating supper. I understand, but at the same time, can’t help but be concerned, even anxious. Hey, I’m a child and spouse of an alcoholic. It’s what we do.

As I thought about our fight and my never-ending fears this afternoon while drinking a coffee at Barnes and Noble, I thought of a beach. I took out my little Psion and wrote this:

I walk this beach every morning and every evening, but I don’t want to. I gaze at the high tide, not in wonder at its cleansing beauty, but in anxiety of what remains underneath. I tense up when the waters recede, afraid the sand below will not be a pristine white beach, but still full of garbage and toxic waste.

I do my best to clean up what I can, but with no one to aid me, it’s a losing endeavor. I cannot control the tides, and I cannot control the garbage or toxic waste poured into it.

In the last two days, the beach has shown itself clean.

But what of tomorrow?

That is the constant fear taking up my thoughts minute by minute, day after day. I pray in time I will trust the ocean to clean its beaches. This constant anxiety is doing me no good, especially since I can’t control the results. Talk about a waste of time and energy!

A friend of mine, Wendy, recommended I give them a shot as they might be more helpful than a counselor. Al-Anon will at least know exactly what I'm going through. I searched for a local Al-Anon group. The closest one is on the west edge of North Dakota, over 150 miles away. I was honestly surprised, and not a little dismayed. With all the substance abuse centers, public and private around here, I was certain there would be help for family and friends of addicts. I did check out the Al-Anon website, and I can sign up for internet meetings/correspondence. To have face-to-face contact would be much better, though, and they even state that.

We deal with what is in life, not what we want them to be. I can only hope and pray a counselor will either help me or get me in touch with people who can.

Okay, brain vomit now out and I’m feeling much better. Sorry about that, and I hope I didn’t get any on your shoes. If I did, you can use the sink and towels by the door. I even left a bottle of Febreze to take care of the stench.

Now I can get on with my life, and hopefully write about something different come tomorrow. Thank you for enduring this with me.