The Child of an Addict

Often times, we hear stories of children living with parents who are addicts. Stories of abuse and neglect are plastered in headlines and we hear how the parents treated their children while chasing that high. However, we rarely hear the child's side of the story. One reader shared her story about growing up with parents who chose drugs and alcohol over the well-being of their children.

Hard Lessons Learned Too Early

Some of these are memories, some are stories that my parents have told us, and think are cute or funny- like the earliest ones..Being a mother myself, I dont find them cute or funny. Names have been changed to protect everyone. My intent is not to drag my parents through the mud- but to write this all down for my own release.

I was born to 2 hard partying hippies, who should not have had children. They were married at 18 & 21, and had me at 24 & 27. You would think they had plenty of time to get it out of their system-right? Not so much.

We lived in a big apartment complex when I was very small. My parents had many, many parties at our apartment- and I attended most of them. One night when I was about a year old my mother bathed me, put me into pj's and into bed, then proceeded to party with friends. At some point one of them came out of the bathroom and asked her if I was supposed to be in the tub. I had gotten out of my crib and back into a bathtub of water, fully dressed. Nobody knows how. Nobody knows how long I was in the water unattended. Seems odd hearing the story, that a baby that young could even manage such a feat.

Another time before I could walk, I flipped my walker over into a laundry basket in the closet. I lay face down in the laundry, legs still stuck in the walker until someone found me. Again, nobody knew how long I had been like that. Sad when I think about it. I  remember just hugging my Baby doll. I loved her so much, and was so grateful to have her.

My parents were the go-to guys for rolling joints. My mother kept a kiddie wading pool in our living room. Not for me or my toys, but for people to drop off their bags of weed, she'd dump it in and start rolling. After it was all rolled up, she would load me into my little red wagon, put all the pot on my lap, and off we'd go to make our deliveries.

Everyone in my building knew me, because I was the only little girl. My mother felt safe putting me on the elevator, reaching in and pushing the button but not joining me, to let me go down 4 flights by myself, out into the lobby to wait for my father to get home. I was 2 years old, what if the elevator stopped at a floor on the way down? Did she trust EVERY person in the building? What about visitors? Wasn't I terrified? I don't know. I don't remember.

Around that time, my mother and I had a terrible car accident. She drove a red VW bug, and I was standing up on the front passenger seat. We were hit head on and I went into the windshield. I remember being in a lot of pain, and seeing alot of blood. We were rushed into a nearby family members home- we had been on our way to visit the woman- and I was laid on the couch and attended to but that was it. No doctor, no ambulance. I was too young to wonder why, and a Popsicle helped. Thinking back I wonder if it was because my mother was under the influence of something.

I remember my mother being pregnant with my sister, I was about 3 years old. We moved into a shithole, but my mother tried to make it nice with what we had. It was a 2 bedroom apartment over a 3 car garage on a quiet street, with a great paved driveway, but very little yard or grass.

Looking back at photos, I see it was classic 70's. Tacky wallpaper, pink tile in the bathroom. My mother decorated our bedroom with an animal theme, cute at the time I guess. I had 3 imaginary friends, and they meant the world to me. I have no idea why I would have imaginary friends, or where I came up with their names, but I loved them.  I remember telling my mother to let them out at night so they could go home. I don't remember thinking they looked like anything in particular, but they were my friends, they were always with me and they listened.

I suffered a fractured wrist and concussion shortly before the birth of my sister, during a fall from a boat. I was in a cast for a while, we got a new baby, life was okay I guess. I remember very little of my sisters toddler years. I know we shared a big bed. I remember her sleeping in a knit jumper. I remember her having a pacifier forever. She was my buddy, but she was a little bit wild. She had a raspy little voice and a scrappy little attitude right from the start. She was always covered in bandaids and bruises.

We had babysitters- alot of them. My parents liked to go out, and they liked to have people over to our house. When they didn't have a babysitter, they'd bring us along. I remember laying with my pillow in a booth at a local bar, me on one seat, my little sister on the other, dozing, waiting for my parents to finish whatever it was that was so important.

I remember this one lady we had watching us. Her name was Daisy, and she was mean. She obviously did this for the money, not because of her love for children. On the days I was to go to Daisy's I would leave my kindergarten and walk the 2 blocks to her house. On the days I was to go home, I would take the bus. I cant remember how, at 5, I could keep track of this. I guess someone would tell me each day, but one day I took the bus home to an empty house. I remember this particular memory vividly because I was wandering around the neighborhood locked out, and Mr Cole, a very friendly elderly neighbor let me sit on his porch while he called around and sorted it out for me. He was the first person I ever knew who died.

We attended many parties, and we were often the only kids. I remember being a house of their friends, at a big party one night. The house had a pool and the adults were skinny dipping. Its funny thinking back now, that I didn't find this odd at all. This was normal, to be 8 yrs old and amidst drunk, nude adults. I have an entry in my diary from this time, referencing something I overheard at one of these pool parties about my mother, another man and oral sex. My diary entry, in such young handwriting, is bizarre to me now, but back then I accepted it as normal.

My grandparents would often rescue us, and keep us overnight. Oh how we loved Grammy & Grandpa's house. They were wonderful, all hugs and kisses all the time. We'd watch the Love Boat and Fantasy Island and get to stay up late. They were the best grandparents ever.

One night we were left with a babysitter, who sent us to bed. I remember being woken up by voices. My mother, my father, and someone else. I knew the voice but couldn't place it.. by then we had purchased and renovated the house, so the apartment was now our upstairs, and the 3 car garage converted into our ground floor. My fathers voice was closer, so I got out of bed and peered around the corner to see him sitting on the stairs. I could hear him telling my mother she could 'bring him upstairs' because we were asleep. She didn't (thankfully) but I heard every single pant, moan and groan from that session beneath my bedroom, in our living room, while my father sat on the stairs and watched.

The fact that I knew what the sounds were baffles me now. I guess I'd heard my parents enough times to know what was going on. I honestly can't be sure how I knew though. I would often go into my still sleeping parents bedroom on a Saturday or Sunday morning and see used condoms or random sex toys on the night stand. I thought nothing of this.

Both my sister and I ran away when we were pretty young. Just packed a bag and took off. We didn't get far, but I think about how I felt back then, wanting out, its really sad. My children have never wanted to run away, and I think it would break my heart if I thought they were hurting. My daughter and I have such a close relationship. I don't remember EVER feeling like I could confide anything in my mother. She was always willing to buy us something, but never willing to be there emotionally. She was far too caught up in partying.

At 8 I had broken arm #2, when I fell from a bunkbed my parents purchased from Sears, and then allowed me to sleep in without a railing. I fell onto a hardwood floor. My parents sued and won, and spent all the money. I broke my arm again later, and DSS looked into it.

My sister had her share of injuries and illnesses as well, Pneumonia requiring a hospital stay, fractured skull, cheek and nose, but that's her story.

When we got a bit older, it got alot harder, because we were so aware of things. My father got hurt and couldn't work, leaving my mother to bring home the bacon. She climbed the corporate ladder, and we were doing great financially. Dad stayed home with us, responsible for all of our meals, doing our hair, helping with homework. All I really remember about those days was all he could cook was chicken pot pies. When he finally got back to work, we were ready to build a new house, and we did.

I was 11 when we moved into our new house. My sister was 8 and sooo off the wall. She fought tooth and nail every single day about going to school. She'd scream, kick, punch. They would physically drag her into the school. She had colitis from worrying about things. She never took care of herself, and my parents would have to force her to shower and wash her hair. I was starting to do more of my own thing so I never paid much attention to what was going on with her. I would have friends over, or be at a friends house. I'm not sure what she was doing.

At 12 I had my bags packed to sleep at my friend Ali's house. She'd been a lifelong friend, and she had moved out of town, so I was going for the weekend. The bag sat by the door, eager to get away for a couple of days. The phone rang. Ali was dead. My world was spinning, kids don't die! but she did. She died of an asthma attack, and that was my first real experience with someone my age dying. It was horrible, but I don't remember anyone ever trying to talk to me about it. I internalized everything and poured my heart out to my diary. To this day I cry reading the entries about Ali. I found every obituary or story about her in our local paper, cut it out and saved it. 12 years old, 7th grade. It still blows my mind.

I started smoking pot, and then drinking. In 8th grade a teacher started showing an interest in me. A male teacher. I wasn't even in his class, and it was kinda weird. He would make up reasons for me to be in his classroom, like during a studyhall or lunch. He would send other students to get me from wherever I was. 

The switch from 8th to 9th grade requires a school change- middle to high school. When I went to the highschool- so did he. He asked to be transferred. He started asking my opinion on what to wear. Since I was spoiled, I always had the best clothes, and he claimed to want my opinion. He would bring in catalogs of men's clothing, and tell me to circle what I liked. After doing this for a couple of weeks, he would tell me to pick out things for myself. I got thousands of dollars worth of stuff from this guy. He would call me at night on my private bedroom phone line. We'd talk like teenagers, and he never really crossed the line. We'd joke, and he was pretty immature. He got me out of so many classes, and when I enrolled into his Algebra class - he never made me show up. I got straight A's in Algebra, and I never attended the class, wrote my name on a paper or took an exam. When I turned 17 senior year, he gave me a gift. it was a sandcastle in a box, with a heart shaped tag that said I love you. That was November- I walked out of his class and never spoke to him again until years later.

Now, where my parents thought I was coming up with all of these fancy, expensive new things, I have no idea. I had Zodiak boots, snakeskin sneakers, fringe suede jackets- totally 80s ha! but worth alot of money.

From 7th grade til 9th grade I had the same boyfriend. the boy I lost my virginity to freshman year. We were more like buddies, and I don't regret it, but something happened to me that changed the course of that relationship, and it ended. I was at a party, just turned 14. I drank way too much, and ended up being assaulted by two 18 yr old 'men'. I never told a soul, but the guys did, and my boyfriend found out. Rumors flew, and of course people assumed I was a willing participant. Drink too much- you get what you deserve. A stupid little girl, drinking straight vodka from a bottle, passing out - earns you some pretty mean comments.

Around this time, I had 3 more friends killed. 2 were together on a scooter, and hit by a truck. the 3rd was walking and hit. I attended the funerals, but never talked about these deaths with my family. Again, I obsessed over the clippings and saved them all.

When a senior asked me out a few months later, I was thrilled to go out on a date. I was quickly sucked into his web of threats, violence, and control, and it took me 18 months to break free.

The beginning of the end came when I went into the city with him and 2 friends. We got extremely drunk and ended up in jail. I was 15, so they called my house and my sister answered. She thought it was someone messing with her so she hung up on them. When she realized it was legit, she had to call the bar to tell my parents, and they had to come pick me up.

I was supposed to be "grounded", but the following weekend was Halloween and my parents couldn't possibly stay in for a night, and didn't trust me to stay home, so they took me, at 15 and dressed in a leopard cat suit, to a bar Halloween party. Great plan. I walked to the store near the bar and the guy who I would end up marrying- saw me. He was sitting in a car full of guys, hanging out downtown. The following Monday at school, he asked me out.

My saving grace was my husband. The other guy was scared of him, and he left me alone. I started dating my husband when I was 15, and fell instantly in love with his family. His mother was everything I wanted in a mom. Loving, stay at home, making brownies, always there. His dad was involved, teaching his sons how to fish, where to go on hikes, how to do all kinds of stuff. I started spending more and more time over there, and my sister starting going downhill.

When I was home, my sister and I would steal my moms car and stay out cruising around all night. I had no license, but didn't care. We're lucky we didn't hurt someone. We were both getting into all kinds of trouble at school. We both lived in the in-school suspension room. I got kicked out of school for telling a teacher to Fuck off, and then again for fighting. We sold pot from my parents stash. We skipped school. I went to school drunk.

I was torn between wanting to be there for her, and wanting my own sanity. At 17 my sanity won out, and I left. My poor little sister felt abandoned and spiraled out of control. She quit school. She took off for days at a time. She ended up arrested, and then on probation. She destroyed someone's car with a baseball bat. She poured bleach all over the interior of another vehicle. The cops were a normal site in my driveway. Later she crashed my mothers car, shitfaced, hitting a tree and fence, then driving up through the center of town, past the police station on just a rim- no tire! By then I was pregnant and couldn't do anything to help her. She was on her own, and I felt bad.

I guess I could go on and on, there were 20 years after this point, but I was my own person by this time, and living on my own. I had my daughter, and my world changed. I got married, and my wedding day was the first, and the last time, that my father ever told me he loves me. I decided to be the best mother I could be, and I think I have been. I'm extremely happy that the cycle has not- and will never- repeat itself.

Part III: Reflection

When I look back on my life, it's really no surprise I ended up in love with an addict. I am drawn to those who are misunderstood, standing outside the circle of normalcy. The outsiders. It's often as though there is some incredibly strong magnet pulling me into the lives of those who are hurt and lost. The weirdos. I often find myself in conversations with the homeless man on the corner asking how his day was or if he needs a cup of coffee.

That's me. The bottomless pit of emotion and empathy. It's never ending, cavernous. There are days I feel on top of the world as though I will explode from the joy I feel knowing I truly care for others. Then, there are the days I feel the empathy crawling under my skin slowly making it's way to my soul. It hurts.

Once my husband finally showed his hand, poker face diminished I sat idly wondering what to say next. I was in a fog, lulling through my thoughts as I watched him remove a pipe from his pocket. My eyes bore witness to his intent, yet I couldn't comprehend what he was doing.

"This is the last time," he said while he placed his lips on the pipe, inhaling. That was the first time I'd even seen meth anywhere outside of television, but not the first time I heard the words, "This is the last time..." It's the addict's false promise. They stand upon those words with strong conviction, but you can always feel the faltering foundation as they say it. Testify.

Quietly, I walked back inside the house. The flesh-eating emotion making its way to my heart as I wandered about the house finding arbitrary tasks to occupy my brain. Checking my email, washing the dishes, picking up clothes. Back and forth I went. Yet, the parasitic bastard would not leave, eating away at the vital parts within me.

The days following the discovery, I found myself in my bed more often trying to shut out the noise of the kids. I tried in vain to avoid  seeing his face as I came home, bee-lining to my bedroom, shutting the door and crawling under the covers. Sometimes I cried. Other times I simply lay in the dark wondering, "What the fuck is happening?"

Moreover, I wondered how the hell I didn't even know this was happening under my own roof. The only example I had of an addict was my brother and my husband wasn't following the same pattern. (We'll discuss my brother more in future posts.) My mind raced with questions, "Were there signs? What were they? How did I miss them? Why in the fuck am I so stupid?"

I missed it because that damn pit of empathy. Six months prior to my husband's admission, he'd been having trouble at work. He is a very hard worker and busted his ass everyday only to be passed up for a promotion. Throw in some other workplace political bullshit and he was unhappy with his job. Coupled with his history of depression, I assumed he was falling into a cycle of depressive moods.

I gave him space. I let him breathe. Little did I know he was breathing in drug-infested fumes. Nearly two years later and I still don't know what he's like when he's high. There are no red flags. Like seriously, how in the hell is that possible? I cared for his mental state, so we saw a wonderful counselor to help talk us through what I thought of at the time as a little bump in the road. He willingly went to therapy alone to help him figure out how to overcome his addiction.

Still, I realize my attitude towards those who are lost was fueled by a mother who held the same beliefs: Those who need help, must be helped regardless of my well being. For 15 years, my mother continually put her all into helping my two brothers overcome addiction. When she was married to my father, she always put him first and fought like hell to save her marriage in the wake of infidelity. She is me and I am her.

My inherited learned behavior is at times my strongest attribute. At other times, it is my weakness. Compassion is the enemy of the enabler. At least it is for me. When you are given the insight into someone else's feelings, you suddenly become overwhelmed with their pain and suffering. You want to help even when you know you can't. Somehow, you want to ingest their pain so they can feel better. Maybe then they will stop using.

It defies logic, but how do I/we get through this cycle of enabling? I wish I had a one-size-fits-all answer, but there will never be answer like that. Instead, I finally dragged my ass out of bed and put on my big girl panties. I lived my life for the kids and I while trying to maintain a sense of stability. I told myself everything is okay and reminded myself that he's in therapy so he's got to get better. Oh the naivete of it all. I wish that was the end of my story, but there is so much more to tell.

Part II: A Confession

If you haven't read the first part of this series, you can find it here. I often reflect on this day. I remember every detail. I remember telling my husband that this day is forever seared into my memory the same way the day my dad died is embedded, even the tiniest detail. I remember the day my dad died being gorgeous with the sun shining, no clouds to hide it. I can still feel the warmth on my face as I walked to church that day. It felt almost surreal as if I existed in some alternate universe where the Earth remained in the same state Adam and Eve were born into. Then, the news: My dad died the night before. The day my husband confessed his indiscretions follows the same pattern. Beautiful day, peaceful day, happy day. Until...

As I sat across from my dear husband, I thought about all we’d done together in our short, four-year marriage. Memories of our whirlwind romance tap danced atop my brain at a furious pace. It was a wonderful time in my life when I felt certain of my future. I felt at ease, peaceful. I knew I loved him the first time he took me out. He was honest, witty, intriguing and his moral standing was high. He had a sense of integrity, was a hard worker and a man’s man who knew how to fix cars and build houses. He had me.

We’d dated for nine months when we decided we wanted to be life-long partners. Shortly after we proclaimed our devotion to each other, we were pregnant with our daughter. Two months after her birth we married and moved into a new home. A new baby and our first home. Joy.

“You’re not going to like what I have to tell you,” he hesitated as he glanced down at the paper in his hands.

I remained silent, eager, yet worried to hear his words. My hands twisted together in my lap as they find themselves while in a state of uncertainty and strain. I nodded, urging his confession and waited for him to speak. His bright, blue eyes held a sense of apprehension, possibly despair.

His mouth opened, closed for a moment and opened again like a surprised fish realizing it’s been caught by a determined fisherman. Finally the words spilled out. “I’ve been doing drugs,” he shamefully admitted.

I continued to sit and stare, hands tightly folded in my lap, twisting and turning. Eyes closed, I attempted to conjure a response, but words became unrecognizable, terror-filled emotions as I ingested his words. After a momentary silence I simply asked, “What?” The answer was clear, but I wanted to hear him say it.

“Meth,” he replied, his voice quiet and reluctant.

Immediately, I panicked the inward way people do when someone gives them bad news.  The brain just shuts down then fires back up 1,000 times in two seconds. Anger turns into tears, which turn into nervous grins, but it’s not visible on the bad news recipient’s face.  When people receive unexpected news, they feel like flailing their arms around as though they’re trying to manage an imaginary beach ball floating through the air. I was beach balling. Fast. The proverbial shit had not only hit, but destroyed the fucking fan.

Of all the things I thought he’d say, the man I devoted my life to telling me he was abusing crystal fucking meth, was not even on the short list of possibilities. While I wasn’t expecting this treachery, I suppose I should have known this day would come. Everyone lies, especially addicts.

Addicts can be clean for years and one day, BAM! They relapse with little indication. I knew my husband used drugs in his late teen years, but he never indicated it was ever a real problem. Certainly he never told me, “I was addicted to meth,” during our time together. He made it seem he’d recreationally used drugs at a time in his life when many others do the same. Many people experiment and make mistakes in young adulthood. It’s an accepted part of life. Because I knew him as an honest man, I never questioned his story about past drug use. I simply accepted it and moved on.

Philip Seymour Hoffman

I'm not writing this post to talk about how sad it is Philip Seymour Hoffman died of an apparent drug overdose. Yes, it is tragic Hoffman died in this manner while the world discusses his demise over coffee and macaroons. (Do people still eat macaroons?) Instead, I want to focus on the conversations I've had/heard concerning the actor's death.

For those not affected by addiction, the discussions about death by overdose are often the same. It goes a little something like this:

Person A: "Did you hear about Philip Seymour Hoffman?"

Person B: "Yeah. Crazy huh?"

Person A: "Yeah, but I don't feel sorry for him. He was shooting up heroin. What does anyone expect?"

I heard similar dialogue from two people the morning after Hoffman's body was discovered. One of these people knows I'm married to a meth addict. What I don't understand about people is their lack of empathy. Do people really feel addicts want to be addicts? That they intentionally destroy their lives by snorting, shooting, smoking, drinking their drug of choice?

On the surface, I'm sure this seems like the logical explanation for the people who feel addicts choose to be addicts. Yet, it isn't logical. Hell, it isn't even remotely rational. We can examine Hoffman's life to explain illogical nature of the drug-addicts-are-idiots-who-deserve-to-die theory:

Hoffman was an inspiring actor with the ability to make us love the lost, confused often dark characters he played onscreen. He reached a level of success rarely seen by many character actors. We loved seeing him turn these complicated characters into simple beings. We empathized with his onscreen personae. We rooted for him no matter what side he was on. Essentially, his professional life was excelling and didn't seem to stop.

Personally, Hoffman was the father of three children. Three little ones who loved their dad I'm sure. It's reported he often walked his babes to school and was very involved in their lives. He had a partner, Mimi O'Donnell, by his side for 15 years. He had it all. The American fucking dream.

Did Hoffman wake up one day and say, "You know what? I think today's the day to go start using heroin." I highly doubt that anyone does. Instead, he found himself chasing a high after a short addiction to pain medication and battling bouts of depression. He recovered from that, but all it took was one misstep to turn his life into what it became; a dead celebrity on a bathroom floor with a needle in his arm.

To those who feel he made the choice to die, I won't accept that. Neither should you. What addiction really boils down to is mental illness. No one chooses to be mentally ill. Addiction kills that mental illness if only for a short while. It masks the pain and chaos that surrounds you in life. Some of us are born ill equipped to go about life living through the heartache, frustrations and pain. Other times, our circumstances in childhood lead us down a path of self-destruction. It's hard to live life when you hate yourself. You know life is worth living, but your brain just won't let you remember that.

Hoffman and other celebrities who died as he did prove to us you can have everything and nothing at the same time. When your soul feels dead, it's hard to live. Let's use this event to educate those who say Hoffman and others like him deserve to die because really, no one deserves to suffer this way.

Your Life is Your Message

I make a concerted effort to live my life the way I'd want my children to live their lives. There is nothing more important than that. It's not even about me wanting to be inspiring. Rather, it's about me showing my children how to treat others with dignity and respect regardless of the person's circumstances. Just as average functioning people have feelings, addicts do as well. Let's help them become inspirations in their own way.

Part I: Coming Out

A few years ago, I started a blog to share humorous observations or rants. There were things I witnessed that made me guffaw or scowl and I wanted to share that with others. It’s what I do. That is the genuine me online and in my like for reals life. I’m rarely serious and to a degree it is my biggest flaw. I’ve never found a time where I took shit seriously because really, life is too short to get so wound up about things like work, household duties, parenting, exercise, diet, etc. Just think about anything you do and that shit is not that serious. Only one thing is that serious. People.

The people in your life are the only thing that should be taken seriously 100% of the time. That is why I’ve started this blog. My family. They have needed me. Shit got serious.  As a result, I have changed. Evolved if you will.

I don’t want to say my humor was brutally murdered, but I’ll be honest, it is in a comatose state. I’ve simply changed. Rather I’ve evolved into a person who is a little more jaded. I’m still silly and all that positive bullshit, but that part of me is quiet at the moment. I’ve often sat at my desk, staring at a blinking cursor trying to conjure up humorous blog post only to leave defeated. The only thing on my mind was/is the issues my family and I face.

I kept asking myself why I continue to skirt around the issues my family faces.  It’s silly. I want to open up a dialogue so others can see they are not alone in their struggles. Let’s call this blog post my coming out party. Go pour yourself a drink, pull up a chair and get comfy. Go ahead I’ll wait.

Ready? Here we go.

Twenty-two months ago, I was at work on a typical day. I received a phone call from my beloved spouse which was nothing out of the ordinary. He asked me to come home because he wanted to talk to me. Initially, this worried me, but I figured it must be important so I left work early at his request. The only thing I thought he wanted to tell me was he’d quit his job since he’d been experiencing a lot of stress and dissatisfaction at work.

I drove home nervous because we could not afford for his employment status to change to un.  “Why would he do this without telling me,” ran through my mind the entire drive home. I finally arrived home, put on my brave face and entered the house.

He was sitting on the back patio when I arrived home. Our home is diminutive and quaint, so as I entered the house from the garage, I could see him sitting, waiting for me. I traversed through the tiny kitchen he recently spent the last few months remodeling. In spite of how afraid I was to hear what he had to say, I smiled briefly reflecting on how much I enjoyed my unique, new kitchen.

He and I spent months deciding how to make our kitchen something incredible while using the least amount of money possible. Although taxing and time consuming, the venture of remodeling was fun and brought us closer. I was determined to paint that kitchen orange. He vehemently protested, but ultimately gave in to my color choice in an effort to please his amazing wife. We laughed when the ever-so-sought-after color turned out to be the most atrocious shade of orange that fell somewhere between pumpkin guts and pureed carrots. Antique lace, a light shade of yellow, finally became the color we settled on. It was lovely.

The happiness slowly melted away and my heart began to race as I approached the patio door, pausing for a moment. My husband held a few sheets of paper casually in his hand. “Shit,” the word inserted itself into my mind with little protest. “He actually wrote shit down. This must be serious.” I was certain he’d quit his job and neglected to consult me on the matter. The actual truth never even occurred to me as I pulled up a chair to hear what he had to say.

That’s the thing about life. It never is what anyone expects. One minute you travel through life at an exhilarating, thrilling pace and things are effortless and nearly perfect. You look around your home, into the eyes of your children, at the person lying in bed next to you, never suspecting the monster around the corner, lurking in the dark waiting to consume you and your family.