Life in Hell

What I know about the situation is that I placed myself in it, for starters, so I have no business complaining about it or being so butt-hurt. I also know how to solve the problem of wallowing in self-pity and resentment. I know how to mend the pain of being sore at myself. But apparantly, at the moment anyway, I am unwilling or unable to pick up those tools and put them to work. I imagine that tells me that I'm getting some sort of reward out of this being miserable which is a perverse idea so it shouldn't surprise me.

I went to court yesterday to be sentenced for a probation violation. If I had not violated I would have been off probation in like 10 more months.

Now I have 5 more years.

200 hours of community service to do within a year and 5 more years of being on probation in a state that doesn't allow me to leave except by special permission and only to go be with immediate family. Which means I'm here, in this state I can't stand, where I don't believe I'll ever have a boyfriend, where there are no opportunities unless you really like hunting or fishing or are a Mormon or a Republican, for five more M*$#er F@&$(*g years.

I seriously, at least at the moment, think I'd rather die. And unfortunately, because I placed myself in this position, it validates every rotten thing I already think about myself and every reason I think carrying on is not worth it. I know that is my disease talking. I know this too shall pass. But it won't pass till I'm fourty f-ing eight years old. Till then I'm trapped in a mean, nasty republican cultural wasteland trying to protect myself from my past and from my drunken mother.

What is stupider is that if they hadn't made it a requirement I probably wouldn't feel this way. I'd probably end up here for five more years anyway. And this feeling is so overwhelming, particularly on my 11th consecutive Valentine's Day without a companion or any prospect of one, that I'm afraid if I said what was really going on in my head I'd be locked up for my own good. In case anyone needs me I'll be hiding in my room, crying, praying for the willingness to do the work.

home

This is also posted at my personal blog, but I wanted to post something here with you guys. Why isn't there much going on here lately? Where are all of you?

One thing I learned more than anything else while I was at the World Convention is that I am an addict.
And I learned it in both beautiful, meaningful, and ugly, gut wrenching ways....
In ways that made me cry with gratitude and sob from the depths of my being;
In ways that made me want to break shit and pull my eyeballs out.
If I ever had any doubts (and I didn't really) that I belong in Narcotics Anonymous, they are no longer after the last four days at that convention.
Oh, yes, I belong here -- thank G-d and G-d dammit -- I definitely belong here.
It was a interesting and fabulous trip. I lack words for my experience there. It is one of the coolest things I have ever done in my entire lifetime, to be totally honest. But it wasn't without it's own brand of weirdness. Don't make the mistake of thinking everyone at this convention is actually clean -- and, for some reason unbeknown to me, I have always attracted sick, straight junkys of the male persuasion to my side. Like the proverbial moth to the flame these men, my heroin brothers, are drawn to me and can find me anyfuckingwhere -- even at a world convention of Narcotics Anonymous where there are over 10,000 other women to pick from.....
And they have a way of making it look so good -- so, so lovely; that old fucking lifestyle I left behind some 22 months ago. Ya, they make it look attractive in a poor tortured soul kind of way.
Fuck.
I hate obsessing.

Drug Tests.

For some reason, I balk at the idea of drug testing my husband. I'd like to know what you guys think about it...other than the obvious, cut and dry answer that it provides, I want to know what you think of all the reasons I don't do it.

1. I feel like it's very parent-child, and we have enough of that going on around here.
   
2. To me, it feels like searching through his things or going through his phone and all that crazy shit that I've learned I'm better off not doing. The problem with doing psycho detective work, for me, is that it never ends. Even if I don't find anything, I don't feel better. I feel like I'm not looking in the right place. Since I've gotten control of my urge (mostly) to go through his stuff and learned to mind my own business, I am in a much healthier place.
   
3. I've seen him pass drug tests before when he knew he'd piss dirty. He's perfectly able to pass one I'd give him.
4. My business, ideally, is not to know whether or not he's using. My business is the kind of partner he's being. If he's meeting my needs, then it doesn't matter what he's doing. I say this, and I mean it...but it's just some silly bitch shit in many ways, as he's not meeting a single fucking need that I have right now, and we're still here, doing this dumb shit. Fuck.
5. I don't want to be "against" him. If he's using, I want him to tell me, out of his face, and not through his secretions. I want to be his partner in recovery, not some kind of cop who's watching what he puts in and out of his body.
6. I'm better off worrying less about whether or not he's on drugs and worrying more about myself. As long as I keep my stuff and my self safe, then I'm always going to be ok.

Do I make sense? Is this a long and winding way of saying, "I KNOW HE'S USING AND I DON'T WANT TO KNOW HE'S USING?"

I am very, very moved by signs of using, those definitive signs like a needle in the bathroom or a burned spoon...those images and objects HURT me like few things. The very scientific nature of asking him to go in the bathroom and piss in a cup and then do a little test feels like needles and spoons and all that shit...I don't like all that shit.

Three steps forward...

You know the old song...three steps forward, two steps back.

My husband is batshit insane. Before I left to go to this funeral for my friend, he told me how wonderfully it had worked for him to make a gratitude list, how he knew that he needed to go to meetings, how he felt like a fool for having such a big fit a few nights ago, how he wished that he had a sponsor, how he was going to clean the house while I was gone to the funeral, how he's so grateful that we have each other, how he knows that I have every right in the world to be hurt and angry and how it's unfair for him to blow up at me if I express my feelings...he was sane, rational, sensible...he was sorry for taking my five fucking dollars the night of the wall-punching...

I kissed him, and left for the funeral, feeling satisfied that he was FIXED. Finally, sigh, he was better, he'd gotten good sense, and Heroin Crisis 2007 was done. I could take the blog down, and go on with my fucking life.

But when I got home from the funeral, he was back to feeling sorry for himself, to feeling wronged by me, and to acting like a great big old handsome spoiled child.

I try to remember that every time he talks about going to meetings or getting a sponsor or forgiving himself or understanding me, he's moving closer and closer to being able to do these things, actually, in real life. And I know that I can't expect everything from him. He is doing the best he can, and he's doing as much as he's ready for.

But goddamn it, I get so happy when he makes sense, all of a sudden.