There’s a lot to uncover, but this is the beginning of my final healing. This is probably going to be a series, but here’s the first installation.
I’ve been waking up at 4AM consistently for the last couple of weeks. I’m a huge believer of the Chinese health clock ever since it lined up with my gallbladder being an asshole and trying to kill me at midnight.
4AM, according to the Chinese health/body clock is linked with the lungs. Makes sense because of COVID. That specific time is also lined up with sorrow which makes sense because the loss of my friend to addiction has been festering.
I realized I hadn’t written about it, and writing is how I process my emotions.
Welcome to my first therapy session about my Ex.
As some of you know, my ex is an active addict. I won’t mention names.
His DOC (drug of choice) is methamphetamine. I’m a stimulant girl.
I knew him for 3 or 4 years before we got together, and we were together for a year before his addiction exploded like a semi-truck full of Lisa Frank stickers being plowed into by a freight train with Michael’s and Joann’s newest inventory of crafting glitter.
Initial reaction is to blame him for everything that happened, but I’ve gotten to a place that I can say:
I allowed all of this to happen.
I’m not a terrible person.
I made bad choices.
Anyway, his usage started jumping off after the first round of COVID stimulus and still hasn’t stopped.
The entire time he was working on his car, he was using.
The entire time he was sleeping around and cheating on me, he was using.
Every time we fought, screamed, punched, kicked, body slammed, smashed each other’s most beloved belongings, called the police, damaged the other’s car, we were using.
I am not innocent in this. Thankfully, my brain chemistry is different for some reason and addiction isn’t my thing. After 4-6 weeks, I noticed that all the extra concentration and motivation was requiring more and lasting shorter periods of time. The pay-off wasn’t nearly enough for the drawbacks, so I quit. It took a while to completely cut it off, but that’s because I was so sleep deprived and unable to sleep for chunks of time to recuperate due to kids and work. At least, those were the reasons I gave myself until I finally just said,
FUCK IT, I’M DONE… NO MORE
I still don’t understand what gave me that ability, but I thank the Universe I have it.
Anyway, so the ex and I split up I don’t even know how many times.
I attempted an eviction in November, but filed the wrong one because he wasn’t a tenant at that point. He was a squatter in the eyes of the court which is a different eviction process.
He’d leave for a week; I’d be good thinking he finally found a new caretaker.
He’d show up seemingly sober only to find out, uh, nope.
He’d leave for two weeks, and I’d get messages from one chick or another.
“Have you seen him?” uh…
He’d leave for longer and longer periods of time.
I’d be happier and happier every time he was gone for longer and longer.
I let him come back to the house though.
I let it happen until I was done.
The landlord threatened to terminate my residence if I didn’t clean up the yard of all the car junk, mechanic tools, and general debris. Terminating my residence would have left me and my little ones hotel hopping during the week and me couch surfing on the weekends.
I may be a lot of things, but a complete fuck up is not one of those things.
Being the sober one, I kicked my ass into gear. I put out that I need a dumpster and help making the phone calls. My anxiety is dumb and makes me think phone calls are the Devil. I have the dumpster scheduled to show up in a week, and it’ll be in my yard for a week. That gives Ex TWO WEEKS to come get his stuff.
At this point, Ex is with some new chick that he refuses to admit to me is the new chick.
Unless it’s on his terms, Ex and I aren’t communicating.
I’m trying to get ahold of him because I’m going to dump this shit in the dumpster.
The messages are being delivered.
I see the messages are being read.
No response though. Okay…
I had no idea how I was going to pick up a car engine and get it in the dumpster, but I knew it was gonna happen. When I decide something is going to happen, it happens one way or another.
The Monday that all the stuff gets dumped and/or taken off by scrappers (they showed up right as I was starting my dumping day), he contacts me after everything is gone.
He wants to come get his stuff.
Six+ months of free storage. Two weeks of me trying to get him to communicate.
He claims he never saw the messages. Maybe his new girl was reading and deleting them?
All his stuff is gone except what I could pack in his car. According to him, that means he’ll never be able to fix his car. I’ve ruined his life. I’m the worst, most cold-hearted person he’s ever met. He hates me. I’m selfish.
My response: “Okay, but I’m going to do what I need to do to get my life back together after what I’ve allowed to go on.”
His response? He cuts off his pinky.
To Be Continued…