He told me he’d phone everyday to see that I was okay. He assured me, promised me that his resolve to stop drinking and turn his life around was stronger than ever. So when I got no call on Sunday, I knew. I just knew.
To put me out of my anxious misery I phoned him. He was drunk, barely coherent, still denied it. Talking was pointless and I disconnected the call. Like two cogs fitting together I got it. He didn’t love alcohol more than he loved me. He wasn’t rejecting me everytime he drank. He is simply an alcoholic who is as powerless over alcohol as I am over bipolar.
I felt a surge of relief. It felt so strange and unbecoming; yet so comforting. Relief that this wasn’t happening here at home, in my personal space. Relief that I no longer had to worry about the very real and looming prospect of him losing his job. He’s not part of my world; he’s not my responsibility, not mine to worry about.
He’s gone and I will deal with the imprint of him left as memories in the home. The good memories in the beginning. But really? Those hopes and dreams I had were based on a person that never actually existed.
I feel like an ignorant fool. Married to an alcoholic for 17 years. Then my first real relationship four years later? Another fucking alcoholic! If I can’t trust myself and my own judgments, how do I trust other people? So for now, I feel a desperate need to shroud myself in isolation. I find this world far too cruel a place for me. As a bipolar with amplified emotions and no appropriate filters, I feel like a lamb to the slaughter.