As the Blood Drains from My Face

I walked my son to school just now. It's a brisk dewy morning. I looked around my yard. The gardens are neglected. The grass over grown. There's stuff strewn about. It's all too much for me to care for. I look away. If I don't see it, maybe it's not there.

We saunter down the alley. Oliver has two lego guys in hand and he's pretend fighting and playing, acting out scenarios not uncommon for 5 year old imaginations.

I want to rush him along. We'll be late if not. I feel guilty for interrupting his play. He's only 5. He's in his world, creating it and living it, and I should just let him be. At the same time, today, I feel such anger that we have to leave our home that I have no patience for my son. My emotions are overwhelming and powerful. I try to exert control over them. When I do, little tears slip out of the sides of my eyes, escapees from a burning building. I look out. Deep breaths. Think of something else Andrea. Tuck it away. Function. Let go. Accept. You can be sad later, after you get home. Just get this little guy to school and try to enjoy the walk and the experience.

I worry some day he will be too old to want me near, that he will be a 13-year-old ... and I don't want to lose this little guy. I love him so so much. So I fight back emotion in order to enjoy this moment, a moment that will not be here forever.

It's hard. I'm so so sad. I don't feel rage for Matt. I feel he doesn't deserve any happiness or good things in his life. But I have no power, no energy, no streak of evil in me to take anything away from him. He has no remorse. He will never understand my side. He will never look past himself. He's completely incapable of being honest with himself. He will never, not ever, understand. It's too painful for him. Plus, the other side of this is quite enjoyable for him. His life is too good to have any remorse. The girl is a distraction. His business. His jeep. His cigars. Every little toy that he purchased to make himself better, all those things keep him from being honest with himself.

Those who do not recover are [...] usually men and women who are constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves. There are such unfortunates. They are not at fault; they seem to have been born that way. There are naturally incapable of grasping and developing a manner of living which demands rigorous honesty.
Alcoholics Anonymous

It's hard for me to imagine that people surround this man, love him, care for him. I only think that  they do not know the truth. His mother. His sister. His girlfriend. His spiritual guide (who is failing miserably). I can't believe these people think that what he's done is OK. He sure must have twisted up a good tale. He blames me for the loss of our home. He told me, "It's on you Andrea. This is on you." He explains it all away so that it actually sounds like a good deal, like he's doing the right thing for everyone. I want to call his mother, his girlfriend. But what's the use?

I no longer see the good in him. I only know that I have to treat him with respect because it is easier to do that than to live with hatred in my heart. For me this is a cop-out. Truly. I do not have it in me to live with hatred. I hate him. But I cannot focus on it, nor feed it. Sometimes, as I did today on my walk back home in silence, I think to myself, How the heck can you give this man the time of day after all he's done to you? This situation sickens me. This is the second time that Matt has slugged me in the face. Slugged? That's putting it mildly. When he left, I was inside-out. I know what it feels like when someone you love dies. When my mother died, it felt like that. Huge, overwhelming grief. Like I was hit by a truck. When Matt left I felt the same. The difference is, death is to be expected. It's natural. And the Mack truck that slams into your body, your face? It heals, somewhat quickly. It's a progression toward healing that is natural. It was not easy. There were several days I awoke after my mother had died and I could hear the Mack truck in the distance, driving away. When Matt left, that Mack truck never drove away. It felt, each and every morning, that I was hit again. And again. And again. It was tough stuff for me. I don't need to go on that I had a 2 year old to tend to each morning, a job to function at. Matt leaving was hell. Pure. Hell.

And this, this has echos of that time. This is not as bad, but it's there. That damn truck. Most mornings I awake and reality is awful. I pray that this time moves quickly. I am functioning 100% better than when Matt left. But I am certain I am dealing with grief again. The loss of my home, our home, is immeasurable. There is no one that can change this, nothing I can do. It's going away, and I'm watching it slip away. It's just a home, but it's our safe place. It's where we sleep, live, laugh, eat. We have memories here. And it's nice. It's a nice nice home. There is no apartment as nice as this. The apartments cost more than it does to live here, and they are just dives.

I'm so so sad.

Matt, how could you do this to us?


  1. This was the daily verse today on "Listen to advice and accept discipline, and at the end you will be counted among the wise. Many are the plans in a person’s heart, but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails." Proverbs 19:20-21 NIV

    Look on this as a new adventure. Think of all that you CAN control ... one foot in front of the other is just a start. Next time you visualize that Mack Truck think about the facts that it is hugh, ugly, slow to get moving and slow to stop, little maneuverability. You on the other hand are like a tiny piece of gravel on the road that fits right in the tread of its tires and doesn't get harmed when they roll over you... or you are like a beautiful butterfly that can dart out of the way and not be crushed ... it's not quiet as it heads your way and you can surround yourself with "HIS" arms as you wait for the Mack Truck to pass ... the truck will eventually run out of gas ... you will be continually filled with Love and Hope and Faith.

    CLL in STL


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