It’s really not fair. For weeks and months you’ve been listening to me bitch about how rotten Josh is. What a terrible man, what a terrible husband, what a worthless father.
Maybe these things are true, but you’re not getting the complete picture.
I’m terrible to him sometimes. I have mood swings that are just unbelievable in their depravity. I’ve said things to him and about him that no self-respecting woman should ever say about her husband. And he’s stood there and taken all of it. He hasn’t yelled at me, or tried to correct me, or tried to defend himself at all.
I realized these things last night during a conversation with my mother. I have well and truly broken him, broken his spirit. This is just beyond terrible.
There are no words to adequately describe the depths of my depravity lately. I’ve been the very worst example of what mental illness can do to an otherwise decent human being.
But I refuse to use that as an excuse.
In some way, in some locked tight part of my brain, I’ve known exactly what I was doing. I very literally pushed – on purpose – almost every button that man has. There are 2 left, and pushing them would be fatal.
I’ve been telling myself that I needed some kind of sign from the universe to help me make up my mind about this whole situation. I wasn’t strong enough to do it myself so I’ve been waiting. And while I’ve been waiting I’ve been trying to force his hand and make him leave me. Any other man would have bolted by now. Not Josh.
So there it is, the very definite, ultimate proof that he really and truly loves me. There simply is no other explanation for why he would subject himself to routine torture like this.
Don’t get me wrong kids – this entire mess has not been solely my fault. All I’m saying is that I’ve done more than my fair share of rotten lately and now I’m going to try to make amends.
At heart he’s a good guy. He’s got oodles of potential. He’s got a mean streak, to be sure, but he’s also a pretty gentle soul. He’s patient with me most of the time, even when he probably shouldn’t be.
He’s got faults – but so do I. He’s working on his, now it’s my turn to work on mine.
I did fall off the wagon with the smoking yesterday. Nothing has tasted quite so good lately as that first drag. I’m still going to try to quit again, and stay quit this time, but not right now. The time simply isn’t right.
It was about this time last year that my dad got sick. He went into the hospital right after Thanksgiving and died in February. It was a rare, aggressive form of cancer. Watching someone you love die is an utterly terrible thing, and it changes you. The winter holidays will never be the same for me. I miss my daddy, a lot.
Bear with me kids, it may get rough for a bit, but I’m fairly sure it’s going to get better.
I took the Lamictal last night at the same time I took my Melatonin and I slept pretty good. I feel more rested this morning and like I actually have some energy for a change. The sun lamp is on, the coffee cup is full, and I’m about to go smoke. I’m not going to be so brazen as to say that life is good right now – I fucked things up pretty good and it’s going to take time. But I feel like now I have a better sense of the direction I need to go and what I need to do.
The theme this week is Pain. I had quite a few ideas for this one, actually. It seems like I’ve packed a fair amount of pain into my years. But some of the pictures I found, even though they were older, much older, were still too fresh to take out and tell their stories. So I’m going with this one…
Believe it or not, that was Evie Cat’s dad. His name was Galahad and he was an amazing little guy. We rescued him the old fashioned way – the downstairs neighbors had kittens, he kept escaping from their apartment, we lived in a terrible part of town, so I took him in. He and I became fast friends. (and the horny little bastard sired two litters of kittens)