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.

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.