Thursday, June 2, 2016

Swahili

I know you won't read this; You won't see it!  But, it's here for the whole world to see!  Isn't that strange? Oh, I don't write for me. I'm used to it.  

"I don't want to read what you write anymore.  I don't want to see all that," you said. But here it goes:

You need to stop drinking.  You need to stop drinking rum and then passing out before the kids are even asleep.  Before you can even tell me goodnight... to wish me goodnight.  

To kiss me goodnight.

That has always been rare.  But you really sounded like you wanted me here to kiss at night, and not ever be without me next to you.  Can't live without me

You don't notice when I'm not there next to you, when you are drunk.  Oh, you aren't drunk, just tired. You either say that, or I'm in another room and you disappear, stop talking, become very quiet.  You pass out quickly and fully before I even know you're even in the bedroom.

And in my PMDD times, my darkest times--aren't I in them now?--you sleep and sleep.  And sleep.  No, you don't wake up when my breathing becomes labored, or I am trembling in my sleep, or sitting next to you awake, with my finger nails digging at my skin.  You sleep through it.  I am over this, so don't worry.  It used to make me feel so much worse:  More scared.  More creeped out.  Brain nausea x 2.  Like everything, I think I just learned to stop feeling?  I accepted the truth of at least one blatant reality, even when I was sure I had bugs crawling all over me, or I swallowed a different mix of pills (because I felt sad, dummy).

And I drink too. I drink whatever you buy for me, and I feel like I really need it. I need it. And for goodness sake, that just makes it worse, doesn't it? Drinking and depression? Drinking and sadness? Drinking and loneliness? Drinking and PMDD? Drinking and pills (prescribed, but still scary to me)... Yeah...

Oh. I actually wanted to get myself to the hospital, or at least my parents' house, because I could feel how fucked up I was from the pills and the alcohol. I knew enough to know it was not at all normal, and it was not at all healthy for my body... and I knew I didn't want my kids to wake up to a drunk father and a dead mommy.  And you were drunk enough to not only pass out, but then wake up and be stupid enough to stop me, physically and verbally.  "Just go to bed.  Stop being stupid.  You're not going anywhere.  Get in bed and stop it."  When I laid down, and clearly wasn't moving towards the door again, you feel asleep.  Or maybe you fell asleep as I was slipping out of consciousness, and didn't wait to make sure I was... asleep.  "Just sleep."

That's pretty scary, isn't it?  I wrote that in a really descriptive, and upsetting way, didn't I?  You never cared when I tried to talk to you about it.  Gotta write it, is what I say.  Write a nice letter, or message, genuine and clear.  

Here's some more honesty:  
You admitted you shouldn't drink.  You admitted it was the worst thing for you.  For me.  For us.  For our children!  You know it, and you keep doing it.  Oh shit, this is a bitchy way to talk to an addict. Am I one too?  I shouldn't be accusatory, I should be helping you.  You aren't making choices, the alcohol infected you is making choices.  You need my help.  You need help.  I'm hating my entire self for having PMDD right now.  Damn it. I should have talked to you when I was feeling better, not luteal... Oh.  I did.  

You sing the lyrics, "What goes around, comes around..."  And say, I love that song.  
My sister asks, "Justin Timberlake's song?"  
You say yes.  You like that song.  
You have told me how much you like it.  You sing along, while I stand there thinking, "This is crazy!"  You don't notice I look at you, with my read-this-book-face, and wonder how you don't see that as so ironic when it's so relevant and grotesque in consideration of our situation... our relationship...  He is drunk, already?  We're we just using power tools?  Shit.  You are drunk.  

I'm so worried about my grandmother. I need to see her. Why am I here, and not there... with her? What's important? What really is? Do you even fucking know? Do you care? You say, "You can't leave me or I'll die."
And you smile. And I say. "Oh."

"I love you," you say.
I say, "Oh... Yes."

I don't know who's talking anymore.  Voices come from my mouth that are so unfamiliar and strange and frightening.  "Oh... yes." 

I'll be the best wife my nanny always thought I would be, in the best marriage, and the best life she wanted me to experience.  I'll do that for her.

I imagine she wants to love who she knows I am, and who I am as a mother...  not just as a wife... but I worry she needs to see a Joanna wife, and a happy family, and I will let her see that until it just fucking kills me... which will be way after she is gone.  In Heaven.

I can do it.  I know it.  I know it.  I'm strong when I need to be, in the most fucked up and warped ways. You know it.  

Ha, you know it.  



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