Maybe if I wrote to you, dear blog, more than every six months, my blogs wouldn't be such a dramatic roller coaster. So much happens in life.... and here I am.
My husband is an alcoholic and narcotic addict. He's in intensive outpatient treatment currently. He is only doing this because he knew I was about to leave him. He is taking his sobriety out on me. He blames me. He expects too much from me. I am an empty husk of a human.
He's been sober now for just over a week. It came to head two weeks ago. I came home from work and told him, as straight forward as I could, that his abuse issues are ruining our marriage. He decided to look into treatment and here we are. A little over a week. One day at a time.
He doesn't understand why I'm not jumping for joy. He assumed if he went to treatment and cleaned up, he would get his old Nikki back. It's funny, really.... I would LOVE to have the old Nikki back. I miss her too, you selfish asshole. I can't, unfortunately, just flip a switch and be happy and light again. If I could, don't you think I would? It's not the case though.
I'm fucking pissed off.
I'm tired.
I don't trust.
I feel more alone than I've ever felt in my life.
I am disappointed in him.
I am disappointed in myself.
I want to run away.
I want to be in love.
I want my soul back.
This is truly the only place I can come and be completely honest (silly, I know, since it is a public forum, but hey, if you are bored enough to read my bullshit, then you're the one with the problems, not me.) I wish I could tell him exactly what I think of him. It's not just that he broke a thousand promises to me when he vowed to be my husband. I didn't JUST start dreaming of my life THAT DAY. I've been dreaming about my life and my future since the minute I could.
Now, almost 30 years later, I feel stripped of that indulgence. Stripped of who I thought I was. Stripped of my pride, my strength, my drive, my ego, my..... self. I bounce back and forth from feeling absolutely nothing, to feeling so many horrible things simultaneously. There's a constant conversation going on in my head during those times, and I can't get everyone to shut up long enough for me to pick through them and sort them out. It's like everyone is yelling at once, butting in line, inpatient for their turn to talk.
I can be mad all I want, because no one can take my anger away from me, but when I get right down to the quick, to the bare bone, I know I'm actually angry with me. I made this disgusting bed and now I'm lying in it. And lying in it, in the verbal sense of the word.
It's the only thing I can control these days, my words/actions/other life. I'm living another part of mine devoid of him. It's really the only thing keeping me grounded.... or keeping me in denial maybe. I want to feel. I must feel SOMETHING or I'll question my own existence. Isn't it better to feel than not to feel? Isn't that the exact definition of living? To feel? I decided, in hindsight, subconsciously, to continue living my life regardless of if he keeps up with it or not. I moved forward. I found pleasure in small things that I am clinging on to with an alligator's strength. No one can take these things away from me, no one. Without them I will fade away into a dust. A non-feeling, non-existing, liar. I will allow myself this indulgence because it's the only one I have left.
For the first time in I can't recall, I felt something.... I wish I could put it into words. Desired? True passion? Openness? I can't put my finger on it. A glimmer of a memory from my youth. It was palpable, a true presence. I acknowledged it instantly and like a drug, craved more. Screamed for more! It was life giving, truly quenching.
It is my muse. A thing I can manipulate if I want to, but I choose not to for fear of causing pain, although I think if I am to be completely honest here in this place, the pain is now unavoidable. It's brought out the poet inside of me. I'm selfishly drinking it up, large gulps. I can write again. I am writing again. Songs are pouring out of me at the same speed in which I am drinking from my fountain of muse.
One day, many years from now, I hope to read this particular entry and laugh at how silly and young I once was. For today though, these words are what is written on my heart. Keep them safe, Blog.
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