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.