Detaching with love

Last night I got to thinking about my silent treatment post. I felt confused and conflicted because he’s my father and I love him, despite his mistreatment. I then thought back to the days when I was married to my alcoholic ex and I attended Alanon meetings. They constantly talked about detaching with love. They would say – tell the alcoholic ‘I love you, I just don’t like your behaviour right now’ .

I never understood the concept at the time, but as of late, I have. And I realised that’s exactly what I can do with my father. I don’t have to oust him from life or go no contact. I can still love him, yet not accept his damaging behaviour. I can still see him and talk to him as long as I have healthy boundaries in place to protect my well being. I need to strategize now, think what my boundaries will be and how and when I will enforce them. I feel at peace now. I love him, I just don’t like his behaviour. I won’t allow him to break me down anymore.

South African band, Seether and their song ‘Breakdown’ wraps it up nicely for me




Dial 0800-DRUNK

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.

In a pickle

In my previous post, I made the statement:
I also believe everything in life comes to me as a lesson to be embraced, not run from. And in this instance, maybe I need to unlearn the conditioning from my abusive marriage and be open to discover that possibly not everyone who occassionally (recently discovered regularly) drinks to excess is an alcoholic.

But on the other hand, could my lesson not be:
When an alcoholic shows his true colours, don’t wait 17 years to leave him. Granted, don’t kick a dog when he’s down. Give one chance, two chances, four chances. Determine boundaries, give ultimatums, consequences, try to trust the promises. That’s fair enough, right?

liar_by_xheresyourletterx on deviantart-com

Source – liar by xheresyourletterx on

But when the betrayal begins, it’s time to be ruthless. Cut my losses. I don’t want to endure another life at the whim of a selfish alcoholic. I will have to be ruthless. But I can’t….. Tell me, why am I able to be so ruthless with myself, but not with someone else who is hurting me? It’s a great mystery to me.

blood_on_my_hands_by_theanimalparade on www-deviantart-com

Source – Blood on my hands by theanimalparade on

The number of times he’s threatened and tried to commit suicide frightens me. I know he’s manipulating me. But I don’t want to kick him out and have his blood on my hands.  I have put myself in this predicament.  So only I will know the way out

Mr Ex, the post office and tennis shoe resolutions

. paid a small fortune for my vehicle license today. It’s six months late. I say better late than never (shrugs). Also started the drawnout process of cancelling my landline back at the house I no longer own. Was supposed to meet Mr Ex, hmmm about 2 years ago, to just change the telephone account into his name (yawn). He never pitched. That’s an untrustworthy alcoholic for you – some say ‘if you can’t beat ’em join ’em’. I’d prefer to just beat him….

..queuing in the post office for over an hour in the unrelenting heat, I noticed a company mail box to my left. The long wait was well worth it as I read the company name “PANCHA ASS”. To be honest, there were so many ring tones, alert buzzes and message sonar pings going on all around me, I was getting to the hot and slightly insane point of PANCHA SOMEONE’S ASS…..

SONS boots

.. I caught up on the final episodes of Sons. Keep your panties on, no spoilers. You may not recall my compulsive frustration with Jax’s pristine white tennis shoes. Come what may – shoot-outs, bomb blasts, beatings, his white tennis shoes were always, always clean. Never a blood stain in sight. But I get it now Kurt Sutter. My mind has been put at ease by metaphors of idealism and a gritty reality. Uh well, totally just presuming, or delusional. Pick one, but Kurt Sutter, you are one clever Son of a gun…..

Bottoms up

all that you have consumed has turned to vapours
and as you sleep, the steam of yeast and inhibition
blows through the pores of your skin like a slow puncture
and a liquor mist clouds the ceiling and enslaves me
it scratches my throat and chokes me with your neglect
every night the same ritual to varying degrees of abuse
until it is your maiden and I am forsaken for it’s sake
so take your bottle and drown in its nectar again and again
as I close the door behind me and walk away walk away