Month: September 2019

 

“Mommy? Do you still love Daddy?”

I rolled an omelet onto Molly’s favorite plate and placed it on the kitchen table where she sat doing homework. I helped her push her papers aside before sitting next to her with a salad. Determined to make up for all of the lies in our life by always telling her the truth, I struggled to answer as I speared a tomato. I knew she wanted a one-word answer, and hoped it to be yes. I didn’t know what to say. I often asked myself the same question these days. Did I still love this man whose addiction wreaked havoc in our lives? I imagined Molly thought if I answered ‘yes’ to her question, everything would be fine, but I couldn’t. Everything wasn’t going to be fine – not yet, maybe never.

“I feel so many things about Daddy right now Molly. Yes, I love him. But honey, I don’t want life to be crazy anymore.”

Molly accepted my answer asking, “Does this have cheese in it?” my cue to stop talking.

With Neil gone, a heavy mantle of worry seemed to lift from the house. Days became predictable. Only his phone calls shattered our peace. The thrill of returning ‘home’, (as he still called England) of seeing friends and family, seemed to last only a week. He grew more agitated as I quizzed him. “What about rehab? You’re going to do rehab, right?” I asked.

“Honestly, we don’t have any rehab places in the Midlands. There aren’t even regular AA meetings here and I really miss them. But I’m seeing my GP regularly,” he said as if that were enough. Then he changed the subject.

“There are so many beautiful little villages around here. There’s one I went to yesterday that has a lovely school Molly could even walk to… and we’re so close to Europe. Remember how we used to love our trips?”

He launched into the perfect scenario he’d concocted for us – we just needed to step into our assigned spots.

“Look, you wouldn’t even have to work. You could paint and write,” he offered me my favorite fantasy. I wouldn’t bite. The phone felt like it was turning cold in my hand as he described our imagined life. I knew enough of the lingo of addiction and recovery by now to recognize this ‘geographic’. Rather than deal with his issues, he acted like moving to England was solution enough. In fact, he was back where his problems began.

 

A week later, news of Neil’s two dodgy friends christened by Molly (along with her father) the three stooges, being arrested was splashed across the front-page of our local paper. My stomach soured remembering the afternoon I left Molly with these guys in my house. But I couldn’t help feeling vindicated as I reported this close call to Neil.

“You should consider yourself lucky to be there, rather than in jail with your buddies. According to the paper, the FBI has been watching them for months so I’m sure they know who you are too. Listen Neil, since you might easily have been in jail, why not think of this as an opportunity at real freedom, and do the necessary work?”

“I’m getting it sorted! Why won’t you believe me? And it’s bloody hard, I can tell you,” he said.

News of the arrest seemed to calm him for about a week but his moods were still erratic. He often called to yell at me, his fury stoked by drink and who knows what else.

“You – you’ve lost nothing! I’ve lost everything! I’m the one over here struggling and you have Molly and the house and I haven’t a pot to piss in! You still have everything!”

I held the phone away from my ear as he screamed. Sometimes I tried reasoning with him but when Molly was not home, I yelled my rage right back across the Atlantic.

“Yes I did lose, Neil. I’ve lost a lot! I’ve lost time — all those years when I should have been enjoying our beautiful daughter instead of stressing about you! Don’t you even think about that? What you’ve missed? Not to mention all the money! God, I can’t even think about that without feeling sick to my stomach. But most of all, it’s the time, Neil. It’s all the fucking wasted time, all of our dreams. You shattered them so don’t even suggest it was my fault!”

I stood in the living room screaming at the top of my lungs. The other end of the line grew quiet.

“Listen,” I lowered my voice, “You have to understand: we were on a sinking boat together – the three of us. It finally dawned on me that if Molly and I were going to survive, she and I better get out of the boat. Because the fact is, you never cared if we all drowned – you weren’t going to save us because you were sinking it. I did lose something, Neil: I lost you. I lost my husband.”

Was he listening?

“And I still hope you can get yourself out of that sinking ship, that you can save yourself. But let’s be clear: you did this, not me. And to hear you go on at me, it’s clear you still don’t own your own shit! I have news for you: this is not my fault!”

He’d hung up.

 

Molly was not spared the drama or manipulation. One evening she got off the phone in tears, “Daddy was crying! He wants to come home but says you won’t let him!”

“No honey, he can’t. Not yet. He’s not ready and I’m not ready.”

“When is he going to be ready?”

“That’s a good question. I really wish I knew the answer.”

After these agitated phone calls, anger and sadness reverberated through the house for hours. Some nights he called again and again making terrible threats one minute and then calling back a half hour later, weeping and begging for my forgiveness.

 

I worked hard to remain detached reminding myself there was nothing I could do for him, no threat or trick or drama I could concoct so he would finally experience his defining moment, his bottom. Without him in the house such detachment became easier. Only his calls drew me back onto the track of anxiety worn into my psyche over the years so I began to let the answering machine pick up, lifting the receiver only if he sounded calm and sane, otherwise leaving him to rant on tape.

Life without the worry and daily fallout from Neil’s addiction was a revelation. I connected with neighbors and made new friends. Single parenting no longer seemed so daunting as I realized the love and support available to me. When school was cancelled due to winter snowstorms the phone rang with offers from neighbors inviting Molly to stay with them if I needed to go to work. We became particularly close to two families a short walk from our house. Molly would hang out with their children while I shared wine, meals and laughs with Christine and Amina. I felt less alone.

I had long been the sole provider plus, unknowingly, supported Neil’s addiction so why did I doubt I could support just us? The shrink with the bed in his office was right: I had acted like a mother to him, picking up the shattered pieces left after he’d barreled on to feed his habit. No more. The economics felt fragile but I would figure it out, just as I always had. Money could no longer be one of my excuses for inaction.

 

Reluctantly, I agreed Neil could spend Christmas with us. Through the years, he’d always rally to decorate the house, cook an elaborate, roasted meal and somehow manage to buy a ridiculous number of gifts I knew we couldn’t afford while I scrounged for bargains so house bills would still get paid. I dreaded disrupting our serenity but Molly was excited to have her daddy home for the holiday. Grouchy from retail madness, I was no match for his spirit. I would be glad this year for the excuse of the crazy shopping season for working long hours – and avoiding him.

 

A taxi pulled into the driveway and my jaw set into a familiar clench. I watched from the house as he got out of the car. He looked healthy, like he’d gained weight since September. Molly rushed out of the house into his outstretched arms. I watched from the window as he lifted her up in the air and covered her with kisses. As they came through the doorway we hugged and I gave him a quick peck and tasted tobacco. I asked him about his family and life in England and he launched into his vision of our life together living in a little village in the West Midlands. I tried not to pay attention. The old fantasy that he might actually get his life together and be able to support both himself and his family had not vanished from my mind. Only with this story, the one he made up about our potential life in England, did it seem we had any possible future.

With all of his bridges burned in the States, his credit shot and friendships strained, Neil agreed that England would give him a chance to start fresh and get on his feet again. He had been working in his brother’s pub and seemed excited by the opportunity to help make the business successful.

The days passed without incident. The house sparkled with lights, the tree too big for our little house, was gorgeous. Molly cuddled up on the couch with him watching re-runs of holiday movies while a blazing fire filled the room with warmth. It looked idyllic. I stayed away, working as much as possible. We were civil, even sharing the bed although it was as if an invisible wall neither of us breeched ran down the center of the mattress. I woke often in the night, hovering on the edge, my fists and jaw clamped tight.

I left early for work and when I came home Neil asked to borrow the car so he could go to AA meetings. I furtively cleared the mileage meter and the next day saw that he’d put more than forty miles on the car. AA meetings were less than 5 miles away. I resumed my searches between cracks in the cushions and boxes in the basement, scanning the floor for white powder. I found nothing.

On his best behavior, he kept almost normal hours and was good-natured, even funny. He cleaned the house, cooked the meals and was affectionate and attentive to Molly. It was helpful having the extra set of hands and Molly was getting long overdue time with her father. I trusted none of it. I counted the days until his departure. Christmas morning, he showered Molly with presents brought from England and gave me a ring set with three stones saying they represented our family and his love for us. The weight of it on my finger felt uncomfortable.

 

We were upstairs in the bedroom putting away laundry when he asked me, “Can I borrow $300?”

“No! What the fuck? I don’t believe you! You haven’t given us any money and I’m scraping by here to keep everything together and you’re asking me for $300? No, I can’t give you $300!”

I yanked a handful of clothes out of the basket, throwing his into a separate pile for him to deal with. I folded Molly’s little shirts, pants and pajamas touching the soft fabric to my nose, the combination of her sweet scent and laundry detergent calming me.

“All right. All right, that’s fine.”

He picked up a gray, once white t-shirt and folding it, continued, changing the subject.

“So you’ll both come to England during Molly’s February break, right?”

He grabbed his socks and underwear with one hand and put them into the bureau drawer.

“Yeah,” I answered unenthusiastically.

“I promise you’ll have a great time. I have some dosh coming to me next month so I’ll send you plane tickets. You’ll see for yourself how our life would be so much better there. You’ll love it!”

I listened, my pulse racing.

“What? Don’t you want to come over?” he asked in response to my silence.

“Of course I do. But I want you to get your life together, Neil. That’s what’s important to me. That you are clean and can pay your bills.”

“I am clean! I swear on Molly’s life, I’m clean! And I am going to take care of you both. You watch – I’ve got the pub now and I can always get a job driving.”

I lifted Molly’s pile of clothing off the bed.

“I need to get dinner started.”

“I’ll do it. How about some eggs and chips?”

“Fine. I’ll get Molly in the bath before dinner.”

 

Neil had befriended a taxi driver during his stint at the train station and had arranged for this friend to drive him back to the airport. I thought this extravagant – the airport shuttle bus would be cheaper – but I figured his friend must have given him a good deal. On the day Neil left, we hugged in the driveway as the driver put his suitcase into the trunk of the cab.

“I’ll see you both in February – only 6 weeks away. I love you!”

He leaned out of the window blowing kisses and waving at us as long as the car was in sight of the house. Molly and I went inside.

“I don’t want Daddy to go! Why can’t he stay, Mommy?”

“I know hon, it’s hard to say goodbye. But we’ll go to England and see him during your February break. That’ll be fun, seeing your sisters and all those cousins.”

The week had gone better than I imagined. I kept my cool and he stayed calm. There were no scenes. Anyone peering in the window would think us the model family. And I couldn’t quite let go of the hope that things might work out in the end. I believed he loved us. As much as was possible for him, he really loved us. Molly and I went back into the house now strangely empty without Neil’s energy. But as I pushed the door closed behind us, I breathed a sigh of relief.

 

Getting into a residential rehab program is not like booking a hotel. I wanted him to pack up and go immediately but first space needs to be available and insurance coverage confirmed. But Neil approached finding a program as if he were planning a holiday, even suggesting a Florida location touting resort-like grounds and delicious food. While putting distance between us appealed to me, my insurance covered only treatment, not airfare. Nearly two weeks passed before we managed to find an opening at a place in a neighboring town that was suitably posh for Neil’s taste – he refused the state-run option in the a severely depressed city less than 10 miles away. On check-in day, I arranged for Molly to go to a friend’s house after school and left the store early to drive him.

Wearing a blazer, silk cravat tucked into the neck of a blue pin-stripe shirt still crisp from the cleaners, he looked like an English gentleman off for the weekend instead of a penniless, strung-out cokehead. After sliding a small duffel bag onto the back seat, Neil got into the car, his lips sealed in a grim line. I’d watched him pack the small suitcase until it bulged with clothing, a collection of Brit-comedy videos, framed photos of Molly and me and a leather-bound copy of the collected works of Shakespeare. I never saw him crack the massive tome, although he knew Hamlet’s famous soliloquy and other snippets of plays by heart from his days of working in film. The book like his costume, were purely for effect.

Within 20 minutes we arrived at a campus-like setting with New England-y buildings and lush lawns. Neil lit up a cigarette as we walked towards the registration office, the flame quivering in his shaking hand. Watching his back, I half thought he might bolt and take off into the woodsy streets we just drove on, away from this place. In the office we were instructed to wait. We sat for what seemed hours in a formal reception room with thick carpeting, overstuffed furniture and a loudly ticking grandfather clock. A mother and father sat poker faced with a complaining teenage daughter who seemed to have been there before. In the corner, a woman who looked about fifty, sat by herself. We all spoke in hushed tones as if the registration area were a library. I opened my book and read the same sentence over and over. Following any story but ours was impossible. Neil kept stepping outside for a cigarette and I stared at the door until he returned, sure he wouldn’t. Finally his name was called and he disappeared into an office. His admittance interview took about 30 minutes. He came out agitated.

“I don’t know if I can go through with this. I hate these places! I can’t even have my videos – like a bloody prison. I never told you about when I was a kid and they put me away for a few weeks, did I? They kept me locked up in a room. I just can’t be locked up,” he said, chewing his fingers.

“No, you never told me any of this. Why were you sent away?” Why had he never told me about such a traumatic childhood event? I felt sick at the thought of another secret.

“They said they wanted to do tests. I don’t know. I was only a kid.” He shook his head, irritated. “Anyway, it was fucking horrible. I am warning you, I really can’t be locked up.”

That was all he would tell me. What trauma caused this terrified child in my hulking husband to self-medicate? Over the years, Neil had shared only bits and pieces of his past – mostly the amusing anecdotes that were easy for him to deliver. Less often, he shared sobering stories. His father left when Neil was an infant, running back to Scotland, abandoning Neil’s mother and 4 boys. Overwhelmed, she placed her children in what Neil referred to as ‘a home’, essentially an orphanage where they remained until she married a sweet man who Neil loved dearly because he insisted the boys should be with them. But this snippet of history, of him being sent off to an institution as an older boy, I’d never heard before. I only half believed him. Besides, this was not time to be swayed by conjured images of him as a little boy.

“Oh, Neil, I’m sure it will be fine. Please, you just have to do this. Hey, and maybe you’ll have a chance to read some of that Shakespeare!” At the same time I was trying to muster sympathy and pleading with him, I couldn’t resist throwing in a barb. I’d become such a bitch.

He grunted. He had failed to impress the unsmiling young woman in-take Doctor with his usual charm and suave demeanor. I could see him floundering and sensed he was starting to panic. So was I: he had to go through with this! Nothing was stopping him from walking out of there. I willed him to stay put and I begged him, “Neil, please try and do this. Think of Molly, of us. Please! Remember, this is our last chance to make this work. I can’t do anything more.”

I followed him outside as he went to smoke again.

“Look! It’s nice here,” I motioned toward the lush grounds. “It looks like a college campus. I’m sure it will be fine. You’ll be fine.”

He sucked hard on his cigarette. His forehead pressed into his left hand, his eyes closed. We went back into the waiting room. A heavy woman with stringy hair stood in the middle of the room with a clipboard. She glared at us, apparently irritated at having to repeat her self.

“Everyone who has finished checking in will now be taken by mini-bus to the other side of the campus. You need to say goodbye here,” she barked.

Tears welled up in Neil’s eyes and as we walked out of the building towards the waiting mini-bus, he began weeping. I managed to choke back a sob swelling up from my chest but I could not hold back my tears. Even as I couldn’t wait to be free of him, I felt something inside of me tearing.

“I love you!” Neil said to me.

“I love you too!”

He had to duck his head as he climbed into the bus. He turned and looked back at me and I saw a petrified little boy. I felt a pang, as if I was doing something unforgivable – like leaving my child at the orphanage when I really could take care of him. But I could not take care of him. And he was not my child. This man was my husband and our life had become impossible. There was no other way. All I could do was hope this worked. We waved to each other as the bus pulled off. Back in my car, I lay my head against the steering wheel and sobbed.

“Please let him get better,” I prayed to a god I wasn’t sure I believed in, that I spoke to only in the darkest of times – like now. There was nothing left; every last corner of my being had been spent trying to fix Neil. Finally, I knew what it meant to admit I was powerless.

 

At Al-Anon meetings, I was never comfortable with the group’s shared prayer, and would remain silent or slip out of the room rather than participate in the recitation of ‘Our Father’. Too loaded with conflicted memories of childhood hours chanting on my knees in the pews of church. But I felt differently about the short little Serenity prayer and repeated it to myself throughout the day: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change and the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference”. I said it now, over and over invoking all of the glimpses of god I ever found in nature, in the remaining remnants of my childhood religion, the spirit of my dead mother and grandfather: I needed all their help.

I drove back carefully navigating the twisting, narrow roads. The leaves were just starting to change, colors lit by the dramatic slants of the setting sun. A new chill in the air made it clear that summer was over. It was time for me to pick Molly up from her friend’s house.

A few hours later Molly sat at the table doing her homework while I cooked dinner by emptying a jar of tomato sauce into a pot and boiling pasta. An unfamiliar sense of peace permeated the house. I knew where Neil was, I knew he was safe and couldn’t be doing drugs. When had I last been sure of that? I put two plates on the table and the phone rang. I let the machine pick up.

“If you don’t come get me from here right now, I swear to God, I am going to break out! I’ll destroy this place! They have me locked up with bars on the windows and I’m in a room with a drunk who keeps throwing up. The smell is disgusting. Please!”

I put my fork down and rushed to the phone before Molly could hear any more. “Neil!” Molly watched me, still eating her spaghetti. Neil continued his rant.

“They went through all of my things, took all of the glass out of my photographs of you and Molly – like I was a fucking prisoner. I’m telling you, I am not going to stay here. I’ll go straight to England, I’ll go anywhere, I just can’t stay here and I swear to you, I’ll break out if I have to.”

I held the phone arm’s length from my head and still heard every word.

“You have to stay! What are you talking about! You know what we agreed.” I said, my voice rising to match his.

How fleeting those moments of serenity had been. Molly now stood beside me and piped in, “Daddy! Just stay there! Otherwise how are you going to get better?”

“Do you hear that? Neil, listen to your eight year old! We need you to do this for us. For you!”

“I can’t. Not in this place. I’m dead serious. You need to come and get me from here tonight. I am leaving, no matter what. I can’t be locked in. I can’t do it. I’ll destroy the place!”

“What do you expect me to do? It’s almost Molly’s bedtime – I’m not bringing her there. Please, this is just insane.”

“No – you haven’t seen insane yet! I’m warning you. You need to come get me out of here. I beg you.”

“All right. All right – but calm down. I’ll get there when I can.”

I hung up the phone. God, I hated him! He had me again. I had to go talk to him. But that’s all I would do: talk. These few hours – only moments – of what my life could be like, was enough of a taste. I refused to live in the chaos of Neil’s addiction. Molly deserved to be raised in peace, even if that meant, I’d be doing it alone.

I arranged for Molly to sleep over at a classmate’s house. She could go to school with them the next day. I would not expose her to any more of her father’s theatrics tonight. She packed her little plaid backpack, happy to have the adventure of a weeknight sleepover. I crawled along the dark roads back to the hospital. Why was I even going? Why didn’t I just let that place deal with him, they must have seen worse cases than Neil? But the way he begged me – he sounded so crazed. I imagined him trying to break out, destroying furniture, being jumped by orderlies like a scene out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. And as usual, in spite of all the Al-Anon literature I’d been reading, I was trying to fix everything, to head-off disaster before it happened. Or was I heading right towards it, returning on this dark road where hours ago I admired the beauty of the fading light?

 

The building where Neil was did resemble a prison. It was as if the college campus image we’d been welcomed into was just a front. I peered through a window with glass so thick it appeared smoky. A man with rheumy eyes and deportment of a patient passed by the door. I knocked. Nodding to let me know he saw me, he ducked into a room and returned with a trim, bearded man in his 30s who unlocked the door and stepped outside onto the landing of metal stairs where I stood.

“Hi. Can I help you?” he asked.

“My husband is here and he’s freaking out. He called me hysterically threatening to destroy the place, saying he can’t bear to be locked up.”

Why the hell do they let them make phone calls anyway, I thought.

“Have you ever been to an Al-Anon meeting?” he asked me earnestly. I wanted to hit his handsome bearded face.

Not trying to hide my exasperation, I answered, “Yes, I know, I know! I’ve been going for years. I’m here because he threatened to break out and wreck the place while he was doing it if I didn’t come get him out of here. He’s a big guy and he could probably do it.”

“OK. Come inside and talk to him. But he can’t be released tonight – the offices are closed.”

I was relieved to hear this.

“I’ll call the doctor on duty to see what we can do.”

“Thank you! I appreciate it,” I said, although I felt like I was doing them the favor.

I followed him through the heavy metal door into an institutional hall that reeked of smoke and disinfectant, empty but for a pay phone. The man led me to a room with three shabby vinyl couches and a television. The mud colored carpet had patches that were worn through to the floor. Neil sat on an orange couch looking pale and sick, his face visibly relieved when he saw me. I nodded and sank down into the farthest couch holding my elbows, arms crossed in front of me.

“See what I mean? Look at this place! I can’t take it here, it’s doing my head in!” Neil gestured to the windows with metal gates over them. “This is a bloody prison. And the other people here, they’re drunks and junkies. My room smells like puke from the guy I’m in with – he keeps throwing up and has the shakes. I’m supposed to sit around with them and… I can’t do it! I’m not like them. They searched me when they brought me here and went through all my things. I feel like a fucking prisoner!”

What a snob he was, like somehow he was better than other addicts and his was a classier addiction. Did he think he deserved better accommodations because he didn’t shoot up or smoke crack? No – just snorting for him. And he couldn’t abide alcoholics, their lack of personal hygiene and slovenliness. I couldn’t believe how superior he felt. Getting angrier by the second, I took a deep breath before speaking.

“I don’t know what you expect from me now. I am so exhausted, I feel like just a shell sitting here. I have done everything I can. This is your problem to deal with and I can’t fix it for you. Everything I said still holds. If you leave here, you can’t stay at home with us. I need to protect Molly. And I can’t pay for a hotel for you. I don’t have the money to support you, your habit and accommodation any more. So what are you going to do, live on the streets? Before I will ever consider having you live with us again, you need to figure out how to be a responsible man. I need to see you can take care of yourself – that you can take care of us. Only then can you come home. And you are so, so far away from that right now. You need to end your love affair with this fucking drug once and for all. And at this point, this place seems like your best chance. So please, Neil – you’ve come this far!”

I spit this speech out. Something deep inside of me felt dead.

“I’ll go to England! I’ll get on the first plane there and get myself straightened out. I just can’t be in here cooped up like I’m in prison.”

A man came into the room and introduced himself as Dr. Abdullah, the doctor on duty for the night. Neil pleaded his case, repeating his childhood ordeal.

“They sent me to a home for evaluation and left me alone in a locked room with bars on the windows for days, just like this,” He motioned to the barred windows behind him. “I just can’t take it.”

“I understand. You have a phobia. I understand. Listen, it’s too late to move you to the ‘big house’ right now but what if I can get you into the medical detox unit? The doors are still locked there but it would only be for the night and you would have your own room. In the morning someone will evaluate you and see if you can be moved to where there are no bars on the windows.”

“I’ll do that. OK. Anything to get out of here,” Neil answered, apparently resigning himself to staying.

“Thank you, Doctor.” I was grateful I’d be going home alone. We shook hands and the doctor left the room.

“I’ve got to get going. I have work tomorrow and need to get to bed.” I picked up my purse, turning as Neil moved to embrace me then quickly brushed his cheek with a kiss and left the room, hurrying to get away from there, from him.

 

That night I remained scrunched up at the edge of the bed looking for sleep. The next morning, I went about my day at work, jumping every time the phone rang. When Neil did call, it was to tell me everything was fine. In the extreme detox unit where he was moved to, he listened to the moaning and screaming sounds of other patients in withdrawal, something he seemed to have no problem with. But he was thrilled to be in a room by himself and snapped back into his usual flirtatious self, teasing the nurses.

“They check on you regularly, like a few times in an hour. One nurse was quite cute. I had her laughing every time she came into the room. They loved me,” he reported.

He needed to be noticed by strangers, wherever he was. It was never enough for him to know Molly and I loved him.

“In the morning, I was interviewed by two more doctors and a social worker. I told her my Rottweiler joke – that it’s easier to get your kid from a Rottweiler than a social worker. Everyone agreed I could go straight to ‘the big house’. It’s much better there. I have a beautiful room and the food is gorgeous. We spend most of the day in groups talking and I’m learning a lot.”

“So you’re staying, right?”

“Of course I am, darling. I’m going to do this, Tricia – I’m doing it for you and for Molly and for me. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose my family; you’re all I’ve got!”

“Good. Last night you really scared me.”

I could feel it happening already: I began imagining him back with us, no longer chasing after cocaine, contributing to the household, loving us. I pulled myself back. What a mug. I could not let myself believe his bullshit. Not yet.

“I’m sorry, I just couldn’t stay in that other place. You saw it there! I was lucky it was Doctor Abdullah that was on duty last night. He understands my fear of being cooped up – he told me his story – he’s Palestinian and grew up in a refugee camp. We talked about the UN and our time in Bosnia. He’s a great guy. Listen, I’ve got to go to my next group now. I’ll talk to you later. I love you.”

“I love you too.” The words flowed easily now I felt safe.

Everything finally seemed in place. His rehab program was a month-to-six weeks, time for me to think.

 

I needed my own recovery after living in perpetual anxiety and fear for years. When people asked me how I managed to stay skinny I made a play on the popular diet program of the time telling them it was the ‘stress beach diet’. I had no appetite. Eating became a function. Where had joy gone? Not even sleep provided an escape, especially as I never made it through the night without being woken either by Neil’s jitters, the sound of the television at 3:00 AM or a panic attack over money. Most painful of all was when I obsessed over how Molly had been cheated by my focus on Neil’s behavior. Her dad had so rarely been my partner in life or in parenting. His craziness sucked all of my energy and attention leaving less for Molly. Enough years were wasted. I swore to myself over and over again that Neil could not live with us if he continued to use drugs. Of course, how would I ever know? He had fooled me for years.

Molly appeared to be handling the knowledge of her father’s drug problem well. Like me, she was relieved to know the reason for his bouts of strange behavior, even as the ‘why’ remained elusive to both of us. While she found it frightening to think of him using drugs, she told me it felt better knowing the cause for his madness. Like it wasn’t really his fault. Or at least that it wasn’t hers. Molly figured if it was something he was doing to himself, he must be able to stop. That if he loved her, he would and as much as I tried to understand that he was sick and addiction was formidable, I thought the same thing.

Neil called every day happily reporting his progress, telling us he loved and missed us. He swore he was working hard and promised he’d be back to his good self soon. Barely a week had passed since his first night there when an administrator from the hospital called to inform me that Neil would be moved to a halfway house ‘off-campus’. There, ‘the clients’ would have more, but limited, freedom, still attending meetings and appointments at the hospital. The cost for was $400 a week, not covered by my insurance.

“Are you sure? How could that be?” I asked.

“Call your insurance company and double-check, but according to what we have on record, your plan will not pay room and board for the half-way house.”

“Then can’t you just keep him in the ‘big house’ longer? He seems to be doing well there.” No way I could afford to pay $400 a week. Every last dime I generated went to covering the barebones of house and living expenses.

“No, I’m afraid the room is needed for other clients,” she apologized.

Clients. That gave it all away – this was business and they needed to move the customers through in a timely fashion. He wasn’t even gone a full week. None of us was ready for him to be home. He can’t come home – not yet. My heart raced just thinking about it. I braced myself to tell him.

“I can’t afford to shell out $400 a week for that place and I just can’t have you back yet. I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry.”

“I know, I know. I understand. I’ve already decided: I’ll go to England. The insurance in this country is awful. Every day someone comes into meetings after being told they are not covered anymore so they have to leave – even though they aren’t ready – even the doctors agree. You wouldn’t believe how much group time we spend talking about fucking insurance. It’s so fucked up in this country. At home at least, National Health Care will pay for everything.”

“Can you get into a rehab program there?” My beating heart began to slow. Neil really sounded so committed to doing this. Maybe he had finally hit his bottom and was on the way up – and back to us.

“Yeah, I’m sure I can. I’ve got to. I want to be the man you married again. I want to get that back. I hear all of these stories all day from people and how they lost everything. I don’t want that to be me. I swear on Molly’s life, I will do it.”

These pronouncements and oaths were so familiar, I knew not too get too excited. His words no longer held any sway. Would he ever become a partner? At this point, I could not count on him to be a reliable parent for Molly. Who would take care of her if I died? It was more than just being drug free now – if I was ever going to live with him again, he needed to grow up and be dependable.

“Neil, remember what I said your first night here: I need to see that you know how to take care of yourself, be responsible – at least for yourself. You become that man and I will even consider moving to England. I’m open to that. But just be clear, I’m not talking about you going over there and just hanging out and coming back after six weeks. You need to get your act together, to get a job, pay your bills. Really.”

“I know,” he sounded calm. “After this week, I understand like I never have before. I know what I have put you through – and Tricia: I am so sorry. I’ve been a lying bastard for too long. I’ve been a miserable git and you don’t deserve that and neither does Molly.”

I felt some satisfaction in finally hearing him admit that his behavior had hurt us.

“Ok,” he said, “I’ll figure it out from here and call you back later.”

The next step happened quickly. Within a few hours he called to say his flight was booked and ready for me to call with my credit card information. If I picked him up tomorrow afternoon, he would fly out the following day. The hospital was releasing him against Doctor’s orders and wanted him to leave for the airport directly from there so he wouldn’t be tempted to go out and get drugs – but he insisted he wanted to see us first to say goodbye properly. I agreed. In England he would stay with one of his daughters until he could be admitted into a rehab program. This was the plan.

I felt like a zombie, moving through the day, but I could handle less than 24 hours with him if I knew he was really going to England. This is our best hope, I thought. With time and distance away from him, I might feel sane again and hopefully, Neil would get his act together. And so would I.

It was a Saturday. Molly and her neighborhood friends were wandering from yard to yard to play. Last I knew, she’d been around the corner at her friend Brad’s house but I called to check on her – she was eight. Brad’s mother said they’d headed back to my house and I promised to let her know when the children showed up. I went out to the garden to find a few ripe tomatoes to slice into a salad. Neil rolled the lawn mower out of the garage and called to me,

“I’ve got to go get some petrol. I won’t be long.”

Jingling the car keys, he swung the empty gas container into the trunk of the car, waving as he pulled out of the drive. A few minutes later Molly and her group of friends burst into the yard.

“Do we have any juice boxes?” Molly asked.

“I think so.” I leant over to kiss my daughter’s sweaty cheek then followed the kids into the house to collect the cellophane wrappers before they ended up on the kitchen floor. Juice boxes in hand, they ran out to the yard to play on the rope swing. After pouring myself a glass of water, I hit redial to let Brad’s mother know the children had arrived to my house. At the same time I said hello, a woman with a Spanish accent barked, “He’s left already!” and hung up. I stared at the receiver in my hand. I’d redialed using ‘last call made’ – but that woman was not Brad’s mother. Who was she? Neil must have called someone after I did. But he said he was going out to get gasoline. A few seconds later, the phone rang. The woman with a Spanish accent had called me back and now demanded, “Who is this?”

“Who are you? I hit redial and it wasn’t you that I called before. I guess my husband Neil called you? Do I know you?”

“Never mind. Wrong number. Goodbye.” She hung up. In the few words she spoke to me I could hear a confusion and anxiety in her voice that mirrored my own. The disconnecting click triggered a powerful shift in me. I looked around the house stunned, unsure how I arrived in this place but knowing, I has arrived and there was no return. The echo of my own uncertainty and misery in the voice of the woman on the other end of the phone had galvanized me. No car accident, lost job, suicide threat, stolen money or horrible fights – nothing had been as clarifying as the sound of that woman’s voice. I did not want to be the person she was, that I had already become. I would take back a life I barely remembered. Fuck the therapists, his supposed meetings, enough! I no longer believed any of it. I no longer believed him.

I needed him out of this house. His only choice was rehab – to actually check in somewhere and stay as long as it took. Otherwise, it was over for me. I would not waver. Too many seasons of my life had been blurred together and consumed by his addiction. I could not solve his problems nor continue worrying about him, about money, about our safety. I definitely didn’t want to be his mother and I no longer wanted to be his wife.

Molly’s laughter as she spun around on the rope swing was my background inspiration as I wrote everything down in a letter. I’d barely finished and folded the two sheets of paper ready for an envelope when Neil returned proudly holding up the plastic gas container as he got out of the car.

When he came into the house, my voice quavered as I did my best not to sound too sarcastic. “I see you got gasoline – and? What else? What else did you pick up while you were out?”

“What’s this in aid of? What’d I do now?” he said.

I told him about the redial call.

“Oh, that was just Juan’s girlfriend. I called to ask him something.”

“So I gather.”

I thought of all the times I thought I needed proof – that I could only go through with giving him an ultimatum, or even kicking him out, if I caught him at it as if I were a cop or something. I skulked around looking for this fucking white powder, trying to catch him with a spoon up his nose for years. No more.

“I wrote you a letter with everything I’m thinking and feeling so you can read it whenever. I’m done. This time, I’ve really had it. You need to check into a real rehab program – one where you go away and stay there for 24 hours a day for as long as it takes. No coming home. That’s all that’s left on the menu in this house and I swear this is your last chance. I’m done with the drugs, done with the craziness, done with your lies. And if you’re not, then you’re on your own. Our marriage will be over.”

I blurted out my last straw between clenched teeth. His face screwed up in anger as I finished and taking the letter, he shredded it before throwing it in the trashcan.

“Fuck you! I’m not reading your fucking letter! What more do you want from me? I’ve done everything you’ve asked me!”

I walked past him to the sink and began washing the dishes. I clutched the sponge, suds filling the bucket as Neil slammed cabinet doors and shoved kitchen chairs around me. Rinsing cups, dishes, silverware, I refused to look at him. He kept screaming, his face now inches away from the side of my head. My stomach was in knots but outwardly I remained in a bubble of calm. I could hear Molly and her friend still laughing and playing outside. I willed them to stay there long enough to miss this scene.

“Fine! You want me gone? I’ll sod off and you’ll be sorry! You’ll grow old alone and bitter – an old spinster with no one. You can be like your mother – an old lady alone! Is that what you want? You can have that! But I’ll fight you for the house and for custody of Molly. You won’t have fuck all when I’m done with you.”

The suds slid off the plate in my hand and disappeared down the drain. I said nothing.

“Fuck this! And fuck you! I’m taking the car,” he screamed on his way out the door.

Slamming doors along the way, he peeled out of the driveway.

I turned off the water and dried my hands. The house was silent. Everything felt different, calm and clear and terrifying. I stood on the very edge of all the illusions of our marriage – none were left. I was done with denial and there was no turning back.

 

That evening, I cuddled close to Molly on the couch as she watched television. When I heard the car pull in, I did my best to muster the composure I felt earlier – but my gut burned. I gave Molly a squeeze and went into the kitchen to try and head off any scenes. Neil pushed the back door open and stepped into the kitchen without looking at me. Taking my earlier spot by the sink, he washed his hands. I watched the back of his head, leaning on the doorway ready to exit quickly and go upstairs.

Looking out the window over the kitchen sink he said, “All right. I’ll go. I’ll go to rehab.”

“I’m glad. I want this to work but I can’t do this way anymore. Nothing we are doing is working and I’m just wiped out.”

“I know,” he said.

“We need to tell Molly. She needs to know what’s going on and what’s going to happen.”

“Fine, let’s do it now then.”

“No, it’s right before bed and she’s watching television. We don’t need to do it now, we just have to do it.”

“No, we should do it now if you’re so keen on telling her.”

Neil strode past me into the living room. I trailed behind ready to pick up the pieces. Before I could open my mouth, he said, “Mommy wants me to go away for a bit, Molly.”

“Why? Where are you going?” Not waiting for an answer before turning her gaze back to her show.

“Daddy has a problem. He’s sick and needs some help.”

I glared over at him. Why was he speaking in the third person?

“What do you mean – sick? What’s your problem? Mommy?” She turned to me for explanation, wide-eyed, brows like question marks. Now we had her full attention as she looked back and forth between us looking for her answer.

“Just tell her, Neil! She’s not three!” I imagined that like me, after witnessing his insanity, she’d be relieved to actually know the cause.

“Daddy has a little bit of a problem with drugs. But I am going to go away for a few weeks to get better.” He paused, waiting for Molly’s reaction but she only stared at him, waiting for more explanation. “You have to know that I love you more than anything in the world, Molly and I don’t want to lose you. And please… don’t tell anybody about this. This is our private family business.”

A secret, he wanted to make a secret out of this. Of course he was worried about what other people think, he always was. And his daughter should feel shame for his behavior? And he couldn’t even say “I”, own his shit for once. “Daddy has a problem” as if he were talking about someone else. I clenched my teeth to keep myself from screaming at him.

“Can you get better?” Molly always asked the profound question.

“Yes, Molly, sweetheart, I can and I will get better!” he said.

Reassured she asked, “Can I turn my program back on now?”

 

 

On evenings when I needed to manage author events at the bookstore, I went into work later in the day. I missed not being home to put Molly to bed, but treasured the rare morning hours of solitude when she was at school and Neil was at work. On a warm morning in October, I went for a long walk on the beach, hoping to quell a simmering panic. I wondered if Neil was using, and my doubt meant that he probably was. Sitting cross-legged on the rocky beach, I closed my eyes and focused on the sound of the water rhythmically pushing and pulling the sand and pebbles. There are rarely large waves on the Long Island Sound, but the heaving tide jostled the stones and the sound soothed me. I imagined myself cleansed by the water’s movement, taking away thoughts of unpaid bills and visions of Neil with his drug, the incoming surges delivering serenity. I managed to do this for almost ten minutes before growing self-conscious. Opening my eyes, I pushed up the sleeve of my sweater and checked my watch. Time to go to work.

My job at Barnes & Noble kept me sane. My manager and a handful of closer colleagues knew about my struggles and lent me a sympathetic ear and whatever support I needed. It really was the perfect job for me. I could set my own schedule according to the needs of the work that needed to be done and never tired of walking in and seeing books. Growing up, we had bookcases and shelves full of classic and contemporary literature. The family myth is that my parents only spanked us children if we damaged a book.

Our relationship was in full swing before it dawned on me that no books were piled by Neil’s bed at the Holiday Inn. When we moved into a sunny apartment in Zagreb without one, I discovered how important watching TV was to him. The antique-filled flat at the top of 120 steep-steps, so high it seemed to be hovering over the city, captivated us. Suffused with light and a rare quiet, I resisted getting a television, not wanting to fill the space with noise and to suck away our time. Neil insisted he could not live without his English comedies. He bragged that in his house in Windsor he’d had a television in every room – even the bathroom. Horrified he might have such designs for our beautiful apartment, I finally agreed to the smallest set we could find. From then on, the sound of British television perpetually filled our home. The novelty of his English shows made it easier for me to tolerate, at least for a while.

 

Television was Neil’s idea of bonding with Molly. Nights when I worked, I’d come home to find them both on the couch watching a silly English comedy, a James Bond movie, or worse: Rocky or Rambo for the gazillionth time. By the time Molly turned five she had her own favorite Bond episodes and been witness to hundreds of bad guys being slaughtered in the jungles of Southeast Asia.

With some cajoling and a sterner countdown, I usually had Molly in bed by eight o’clock. Our ritual was to read her choice of five picture books and then I stroked her hair and rubbed her back, singing from my limited lullaby repertoire until she fell asleep. When I wasn’t there, Neil, not wanting to miss whatever he was watching on TV, would let her stay up with him until she fell asleep on the couch.

Arriving one night after an author event, I threw my bag and car keys on the kitchen table and followed the noise of the television. Molly lay sprawled across her father’s chest, staring wide-eyed as Sylvester Stallone machine-gunned his enemies. Scowling at Neil, I snapped, “She should be in bed by now. It’s a school night!”

“She couldn’t sleep and wanted to cuddle with her dad, didn’t you poppet?”

“Come on Molly, let’s go. It’s time to go to bed.”

She stared glassy-eyed at the screen.

“We had a good dinner of daddy’s sausage and mash and a really nice time tonight, didn’t we Molls?”

I reached down and Molly wrapped herself around me as I hoisted her off the couch. She leaned down from my arms to give Neil a good night kiss.

“Books-a-bed, Mommy?” she mumbled as she settled her head into my neck.

“Not tonight honey. It’s really late.”

Nestling into her pillow, she looked up at me with her beautiful blue eyes.

“Mommy, cuddle me?”

“Just for a minute, okay? You need to go to sleep and so do I.”

Climbing into the narrow bed, I pulled her close, relaxing into her sweet scent. I loved this time with my daughter, feeling the heat of her back through the flannel pajamas and the softness of her fine hair against my nose, tension melted away even as the sound of yelling and machine gun fire drifted up from the living room.

“So you had a good day, honey?” I asked.

“Uh-huh,” Molly murmured. “I missed you though. Daddy’s acting a little crazy.”

My heart froze. “What do you mean?” I tried to sound nonchalant.

“Well, he borrowed the neighbor’s car and we drove to the video store to meet somebody. The guy didn’t come and Daddy kept calling him and he kept using the F word and the A word – but mostly the F word. Then we drove to a gas station and waited there until the guy came – he had all these things stuck in his face. I didn’t like him. And then he gave Daddy something and then Daddy was okay again and stopped saying the F word.”

I resisted quizzing her for more details and willed my heart to stop pounding lest she sense my alarm. “Go to sleep now honey, it’s late.”

 

Molly always recognized Neil’s suspicious behavior before I did perhaps because he underestimated how perceptive she was and didn’t bother trying to hide his shenanigans around her. How pathetic of me not to have been more alert that he was up to something. He was taking her with him when he scored drugs! He’d gone too far – how could I have let this happen? I needed to get away from him. My mind raced. I thought of wrapping Molly up in blankets and fleeing into the night immediately. But where could I go? My mother was long dead and my relationship with my father practically nonexistent. My sister was in the city but Molly needed to go to school and I needed to keep working. I also needed to remember to breathe. When I was sure Molly was asleep, went to the bathroom and found a t-shirt I’d left on the back of the bathroom door this morning. I changed into it and slid back into Molly’s bed as the sounds of war raged downstairs.

 

I woke to Neil slamming doors. He was late. Barreling into Molly’s room where I feigned sleep he announced, “I’m taking the car. Catch a cab and pick it up from me later.”

We had only one car between us now. Neil drove so recklessly he’d destroyed the last old junker and we could not afford another. Most days he took a cab back and forth to his current job at the coffee shop at the train station.

“Why should I do that?” I snapped, lifting my head from the bed. After hearing about yesterday’s escapades, there was no way I was letting him take the car. “I have to take Molly to school and get to work myself!”

“Just take a cab down to the station and come pick up the car. I’m late, I’ve got to go.”

“Why should I have the hassle because you’re late? You should have gotten up earlier.”

“That’s it! I’ve had it with you! I’m going to see a lawyer and I’m divorcing you and I’m going to make you sell this house and give me half!”

Molly raised her head sleepily off the pillow. Pulling her close, I spoke to her quietly,

“It’s okay. Daddy’s just a little mad right now.”

Turning to leave the room, he snarled,

“I mean it. I’m sick of you! I want a divorce!”

“What’s Daddy talking about, Mommy?”

“He’s angry because I don’t want him to take the car. It’s okay, don’t worry honey.”

“Mommy, just let him take the car, okay?” She stroked my arm as if to calm me. She was learning skills to keep the peace.

The front door slammed and tires screeched out of the driveway. Did he mean it? Was he going to a lawyer? Good! I wanted an end to this insane life with him. His mood swings were getting out of control. I pulled Molly close to me, seething and scared.

“It’s still dark out Moll. Let’s try and go back to sleep for awhile.” I nuzzled her and tried not to cry.

 

I picked the car up at the station without exchanging a word with Neil as he handed me the keys. In the school parking lot, I ran into the mother of one of Molly’s classmates who I knew was a divorce lawyer. As our girls became friendly so did we, chatting at pick-up time and play-dates. She knew about some of my struggles with Neil.

“Susan? Can I ask you something? Our situation is really deteriorating – it’s getting a little scary.” I described this morning’s scene to her. “He said he’s going to divorce me and at this point, I want that. Does it matter who files first?”

Susan looked dismayed.

“Tricia, he’s being abusive – Molly shouldn’t be exposed to this. If I were you, I’d go down to the courthouse this morning and do two things: ask for a protective order to get him out of the house and file the divorce papers. Yes, it can matter who is filing and you want to be the one to do it. You need to protect yourself and Molly now. Call me afterwards – although I can’t be your lawyer because I know you both and it would be considered a conflict of interest. But I’ll give you some names. Do it!”

She looked me in the eye and gave me a quick hug before climbing into her own car.

The morning felt unseasonably cold. I cranked the heat up as I sat deciding what to do. I felt like throwing up. My friend had looked at me with such pity. She’d used the word ‘abuse’. Was this my life? When did I become someone who was afraid of their spouse, who made excuses for their bad behavior, who tolerated their addiction to the point that he scored drugs with our child? That’s the person she saw when she looked at me. That’s who I had become. What was I waiting for? How many more times would I be fooled into thinking, fool myself into thinking that everything was going to work out? When would it be enough? Now. It is enough now.

I pulled out of the lot, returning waves to the parents I knew. I imagined their normal, happily married lives as I headed south on the turnpike. What did others see when they looked at us? Neil, so handsome, charming, making people laugh at school events, and Molly the perfect kid. I bet they couldn’t imagine the lunacy of my life.

Twenty minutes later, I parked on the street outside the courthouse, passed through security check and was directed to the county clerk office on the second floor. I moved robotically through the halls, feeling nothing. Two women were ahead of me, speaking through the small, bulletproof window to a clerk. One didn’t speak English, the other acted as her translator. I gathered that they were also applying for a protective order.

“Do you have the police report?” the clerk asked.

The woman shook her head as she listened to her companion’s translation.

“You have to get one. Here, fill out that form.” The clerk passed another document through to them. “Go upstairs to room 345 and they’ll give you a copy of the police report.”

She took the paper, looking overwhelmed by the additional bureaucracy.

I stepped up to the window.

“I guess, um, I want an order for protection and also,” I hesitated, “divorce papers.”

She reached for the different documents and slid them through the slot as if there was nothing extraordinary about wanting protection from your husband.

“Bring the court order papers back to this window after you’ve filled them out,” she said to me before closing the plastic window.

I set the papers down on the scratched counter and struggled to read the instructions through tears. ‘Reason’ How about: I’m terrified that my husband brings my daughter with him to get his drugs? And, I want to sleep at night, to answer the phone again, to enjoy food, my friends – life! Instead I wrote, “My husband is a drug addict and regularly uses illegal drugs in the house where we live with our seven year old daughter.” I paused before heading back to the window and eyed the door. I could leave. I didn’t have to do this now. If the judge agrees to a protective order, Neil would have to get out of the house right away – there would be no more threats, begging or persuading. But where could he go? Molly and I are his only family here and his friends are mostly my friends. I had to stop thinking about him first – I couldn’t do this anymore: Molly and I needed sanity and to be safe. I slid the form through to the clerk.

“What do I do now?” I asked, leaning towards the thick plastic.

“Wait here and I’ll bring you an answer from the judge. It shouldn’t be long,” she answered.

I collapsed into a molded plastic chair bolted to the wall. A young couple tumbled through the doorway, holding hands and giggling. Marriage licenses were also issued out of this office. Staring at these two in their mid-twenties and in love with each other, I tried to remember. Is this how it starts? I looked at the divorce papers in my hand. They were complicated, requiring financial information I didn’t know off the top of my head. Assets and debts – that’s what remains to be fought over. And Molly. My heart beat faster. Neil’s ranting from this morning and Susan’s words of urgency rang in my head. I felt in a race to do this thing – to file for divorce – first.

After about 30 minutes, the clerk motioned me towards the window.

“The judge denied your request.”

“What? Are you serious? Even though he keeps drugs in the house and we have a young daughter?”

She shook her head and shrugged. “There has to be threat of physical abuse. Did he hit you?”

No. I couldn’t imagine Neil hitting me. He abused himself – we were only the collateral damage from his self-loathing. Even as I blamed him for my misery, I understood that much.

Tucking the divorce papers into my bag, I left the building, got back on the highway and headed to work. Clutching the steering wheel, I crawled along in the slow lane. Even my confidence in navigating this familiar road felt unhinged. This system was not on my side. Drug abuse wasn’t considered serious enough to merit protection – he needed to physically hit me? What now? My head was spinning, but part of me also felt relieved. I could pretend for the day, yet another day, and there would be no drama — no scenes with police escorting him out of the house – to where? Not today. But, when – when would it be over? I wanted to fast forward to a future life I couldn’t imagine. The dream that began in a war zone was tattered but all I knew.

I felt like I had no recourse, no way to change anything. It had taken everything in me to get down to the courthouse and file the protective order against Neil and it hadn’t worked. I didn’t know what else I could do. At work I shoved the divorce papers into my filing cabinet and called my lawyer friend.

“The order was denied.”

“Oh shit. I’m sorry. It can depend on what judge you get. I’m really sorry. But fill out those divorce papers – call me with any questions – and I’ll give you the name of somebody who can serve them.” She sounded disappointed.

“Thanks for your help, but I have to think about what to do next. I don’t have much faith in the system right now. At this rate, I’m not sure I feel ready to get the wheels spinning on divorce.”

I plowed through the rest of the day. That evening, Neil and I were cordial. After my books-in-bed reading session with Molly, I held her close and spent the night sleepless beside her. Neil watched his English sitcoms, laughter rumbling up the stairs. The next morning, he took a cab to work without complaint.

 

I badly wanted to believe Neil’s lies were truth. That he was clean and everything would be fine. He knew how to convince me. Up early in the morning, he’d be energetic and sweet natured, go to meetings and toss AA slogans around for me to hear. I hadn’t forgotten the divorce papers in the filing cabinet at work but all it took was a few weeks of normal life and I abandoned thoughts of escape strategies. The thought that Neil might never stop his drug use terrified me but so did the thought of life without him. I was so desperate to keep my family together that I created a new normal for us with every new bump. Any fragile boundaries I’d ever had were long shattered. It took only a few crumbs of hopeful moments for me to be convinced (almost) that we were through the worst of it and at a new beginning.

My friends and my sister worried, offering hollow responses when I told them Neil was clean and everything was great now. I retreated from them all, reluctant to hear the scream of doubt obvious in their silent pauses, the worry at the other end of the line. I knew they were right but denial had become second nature to me and I resisted any challenges to my fantasy – until pretending any more felt impossible.