My life is like a slow moving train to hell. And I mean that in the most loving way possible. Hell is when you have no choice. And, for Jean-Paul Sartre fans, hell is also other people.
So I have it coming and going. My choice is that I have no choice but to stay with my husband until he dies. He’s a sick and often depressed man, who has tried to check out on us twice before. He’s also a recovering addict and unable to earn a living. He’s infuriating, selfish and can push buttons in me that I didn’t even know I had.
Some days I want to take a brick and smash it through his fucking face. I want to “Clockwork Orange” his ass (Malcolm McDowell’s giant blue eyeballs still haunt me) and force him to hear me list, one by one, all of the selfish things he did, and still does, and how they tore me down little by little to the point that I take 10 mg of Lexapro just to make it through another day.
The shit I have lived through! The energy and time I took to hide his "antics" (a word that doesn't come close in describing the bad craziness) from our children for years. The covering up, the lies, the days gone missing. The bullshit I have endured to keep this motherfucker alive is beyond what I even thought I was capable of! The upside to all of this downer shit (if you can really call it an upside) is what I’ve learned about myself. I now have a great sense of my own personal power, endurance, strength and commitment. I walk with a very straight back and a knowledge that I cannot be knocked down.
Oh, I forgot to mention one other thing and that is what a beautiful soul this man has. How we met 28 years ago and got married four months later. How our love is so real and strong. If there’s such a thing as a soul mate, he is mine. Our shared passion created three children who are a living testament to our pure love and desire.
When his demons aren’t knocking on his door, my husband has a kindness and compassion that seems almost Buddha-like. He has an endless well of love and concern for the needy. He’s incredibly talented in painting and sketching and clay and can tell a Southern childhood tale like Truman Capote. He is like no one else I have ever known.
He’s my true love and I am literally dying for him. Health-wise, he actually would die without me and that’s a reality that trumps my anger. I need to keep him here for as long as possible for my children’s sake, for sure. Who wants to lose their daddy?
And a part of me, a large part of me, is just filled with compassion for him, and as emotionally abusive as he's been, I can’t help but try to cure him.
To love someone you hate so much and to hate someone you love so much is a living hell, but somehow I feel really happy and grateful for every day. I can’t figure it out.