Some days are better than others. My worst day sober is
better than my best day on meth, and I’ve found that time heals all ails. I’ve
portrayed my relationship as flawless over the entirety, but it has its ups and
downs. Today we are in a down, and it is likely to continue until both of us
are in the right mood to sort it out, but it will be sorted out.
From my side, I know I can be difficult to deal with, which
is why they invented Alanon. Unfortunately, my recovery dictates that I am only
allowed to see things from the perspective of other people when it comes to fear,
resentment, selfishness, and dishonesty, and I don’t always do that in real
time. Sometimes it takes me a few days to realize what’s going on and by that
time the air is acrid with acrimony, and I’m not willing to concede my position
on whatever the issue might be.
Sitting here at the kitchen table, I realize what’s
important: my ladies. In front of me, sitting in the living room watching her
favorite T.V. show is a three-year-old who doesn’t understand animosity, and
doesn’t care that I’m being selfish. She is trying to plug an unplugged phone
charger into a plastic lemon that is connected to itself by Velcro at the middle.
It’s Velcroed so that when you cut it with a plastic knife, it appears as if
you’ve cut a lemon. There are roughly 100 plastic pieces on the floor right now
all relating to kitchen work. Saucepans, carrots, canned tuna, a spatula,
spoons—both slotted and not—and various other fruits. I will pick them up
before dinner, and I will probably pick them up again before bedtime. She is three.
She turned three on Sunday, and she handed me a poop.
We were busy getting the house ready for the party on Sunday
and the girls had both just taken showers. There’s usually a grace period
between the end of a shower and when a diaper goes on, and when we’re busy,
that period can extend. I was in the bathroom when she rounded the corner and
pointed her finger at me. On the tip was a marble-sized piece of poop. I know
it was poop because she told me. I asked her where she pooped and she said
excitedly, “Mommy floor!” That meant the bedroom floor. She was correct. She’s
potty training so anytime she doesn’t go in a diaper; she thinks she’s been
good. I can’t really be mad at her.
The older sibling is in her room dressing boy dolls in girl’s
clothing. I know this because she showed me. At least poop wasn’t involved.
These girls are who I’ve invested my life in, and sometimes
it’s tougher than I expected. Their mother is the woman that I know I want to
be with forever, but sometimes things don’t go our respective ways and friction
grows and we go our separate ways and vent the way we vent best for ourselves.
My sponsor once told me that it’s more important to be happy
than right. And I know that sometimes I say things that are true, but hurtful.
And sometimes I don’t know how to properly communicate my needs and
frustrations. And even though I don’t show it in a way you’re familiar with,
sometimes I can be hurt by action or inaction. Sometimes I need to be told I’m
doing well, that my actions are helping, and that I’m a good role model for the
girls. But I can’t control what you do or don’t say.
Either way, I love you, and I’m here for you and the girls. It’s
dinner time. I wish you were here.
