The Boston Marathon — A promise kept; a promise broken

by failuresfortune

WARNING: THIS POST IS, PRIMARILY, ABOUT MY LIFE WITH MY SPOUSE AS HE RECOVERS FROM ALCOHOL ADDICTION. WHILE IT DEALS WITH THE DAY OF THE BOMBING, IT IS NOT ABOUT THE BOMBING.

Thursday, April 11, I had a migraine. (See previous post.) Saturday I had an x-ray of my foot to make certain nothing was broken and the insane pain was really and truly just my arthritis causing my ligaments to flare up. Great: flare is flare and not break. Sessamoid bones in foot are still healthy and aplenty (uck), and more drugs and wraps and SCREW THIS! I got my ankle brace out and put on a Tiger Balm (TM) patch. Some things just work, while others just mask pain.

(lifesavers)

All weekend long, Spouse was dismissive; but Monday,taxes were due and my electronic app for an extension was bounced and I was at work; and I needed Spouse to mail it; and there was pressure and pain and stress; and to top it off Spouse had been ugly to me in the morning and I had responded in kind–NOT in kindness; and so Spouse finally asked why I always stress Spouse out just when he’s trying to stop drinking, and I all capped my response: 

NO. This has nothing to do with your drinking. THIS IS LIFE.

And Spouse insisted there was a way that I could handle it–without help–which was by way of saying Spouse WOULD NOT help; and Spouse suggested that I simply wasn’t trying hard enough; and so I finally said,

I’m sure you’re right. You always are. I also am sure that there will be a way for me to do it even if it isn’t kosher. And I’m sure that you need to let me know how long I ned to put reality on hold so that when we have problems they are problems and NOT in ANY WAY related to your drinking.

And I got my answer:

Don’t be surprise when I drink tonight

As you may guess, the fight managed to get uglier. And then radio silence. For two hours.

The next text was:

Two bombs at end of Boston Marathon

The conversation suddenly turned as it must to wounded and dead and domestic or foreign terror, news as it broke. Spouse thought domestic, I thought foreign. Spouse thinks he’s right, I think we both are. And in between snippets of when will you be home and what’s for dinner.

I got home early.

Spouse was not there; his schedule said he ought to be. I texted to ask where he was.

Blotto land

That punch to the gut went back and forth with no straight answers to direct questions about where Spouse was and whether drink was involved. Until I finally got the answer that no drinking was involved but that Spouse wanted me to suffer because I was “a shit head to me today.“

But here’s the thing. Spouse dates problem drinking to 9/11. So even if I hadn’t been a human and had a fight with him that morning, I would have been worrying.  Even if he hadn’t promised to drink, I would have been on the tether. And none of it changes the fact that one bad turn really should not deserve another and both of us were acting like children. I pointed out to him that he’d been no prince, and he texted that at least he looked like one–smiley included–as he walked in the door. And saw my face. And then realized this was more than he might have thought.

I explained why it did more than just barb me. That the idea of him drinking was a nightmare for me. The idea of him drinking OUT and driving home was a night-terror! The thought that Spouse had thrown out two plus weeks was a heartbreak. The idea that there was nothing I could do was, was… what’s chest pain with tears and a bleeding feeling that’s worse than heartbreak?

It wasn’t until the following Sunday night that I would find out what the look on my face did to him, but that is for another time.