and a pissy paragraph from my last post bears repeating.
"may 20, 2012, "hen doesn't live here anymore":
[ah, beware ye of little dysfunction.]
the addict and the codependent.
the prince, a not-so-charming-control-freak, and the princess-has-pea-ed-the-bed.
you sit there smugly behind the computer screen, anonymous, arms folded in self-righteous, knotted victory, finger taut, ready to delete; snap shut, shudder away my pain. ah. but, we were the chosen ones. news printed for all of toronto's morning glory; morning java. we were the mostlikelytorocket stars. and tonight i sleep in a stranger's bed. alone. trust me. it can happen to you.
the prodigal son's family feathers around him. and the hen feathers alone."...
the transplanted, golden state couple. comely canucks en route-86'd.
now i chase pavements in mindless, maggie-less glendale.
suffering morning panic attacks, unflagellated by the serenity prayer, i back my mid-size rental out a rear driveway, an inch to spare on either side. sweetly soaked in deodorant-spray sweat, the technicolor town assaults circus bright, midway loud. it hammers heavily the obvious, nail-tearing truth.
four years, an auto-pilot passenger.
time to own the wheel.
the guy looks great on paper.
the hero who slayed quick the disease, delivering the ailing princess with his bloodied kidney, glistening thick atop his sterling silver sword.
but here's the thing.
sometimes, an extended arm; an open palm works better than a razor sharp object being pointed directly at your face. from a horse.
and as for that piece of paper. there are two sides. and two stories.
his side. my side.
the story is 20 years old. and addiction is but one of a thousand of threads that must be untangled.
two hearts have been declared broken and the crazy glue's been doled out with strict instructions.
you fix YOU. and you fix YOU.
[and don't get any on your hands.]
i had a thought the other day.
i used to beg him, for hours and hours for my pills.
but i never once begged him for my kidney.
and here's another.
it was his choice to be there.
i swing wildly on this pendulum of recovery, back and forth between wild-child hysteria and leaping to connect the dots from a to z. and there are moments like saturday night, when i just wanted to drink. period. but when i allow the gyrating, the jerking, to cease, i am momentarily cemented in gray; in blissful zenhen.
these moments are pulled tightly around my shoulders, silken threads i can knit together with my furrowed brow; hot, syrupy sips that clear my thin and trembling voice.
i am hen.
but there's only one person in the world i want to share these revelations with.
and it's scream8timesaday, heartstrippingly, bendoverthesteeringwheelsobbingly surreal.
so for now, i do it on my own.
and so does he.