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.

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.