Isolation

We separated after that - and having just written that, I'd meant to reiterate, that we both went our separate ways to grieve.  However, I can see that we did, in actuality, separate for a good week.  Have a literal "marital separation".  We just continued to live in the same house together.

He kept wondering "How could I?", reinforcing that I needed major help.  I'd been right in his anger about Mary - "No wonder you tried to get me to like her - she was your supplier!  And you allowed me to help her out (monetarily)!  He just "didn't get it", he's said.  How would my dissatisfaction and anger lead to drugs?

I suggested again that we go together for therapy so that the doc could help him understand that connection and help him with these feelings of hurt and betrayal, he focused once again on my being the bad one.  The person that needed help was me.  And if I thought for one instant that after working 60 hours a week that he'd be coming home to do housework, I was sadly mistaken.  Again, he reassured me that if it weren't for the kids, he wouldn't stick around.

I told him to go.  Leave now.  Go to the lake house.  He wasn't leaving the kids, he said.  (Not with a sicko.)  I suggested I could leave.  Stay somewhere else.

"I couldn't care less what you do."

For the following week, we lived together - but around each other.  Not speaking.  I'd come to bed and find the pillows stacked down the middle of the bed.  No possible opportunity for skin contact during our sleeping hours.   He'd talk to the kids while I stood next to them, doing his best to ignore me.  I was really unsure where we were.  Where this would go.  How long we'd keep this charade up.

If like any other blowout - though of course, none nearly as serious as this one - it would go unresolved or undiscussed.  It was typical for him to either do a complete 180 and say he was sorry, he was a "bad husband", buy me flowers OR we'd just never revisit the argument again.  I wouldn't bring it up later because it was such a big deal for me to confront it in the first place; we'd just keep on keeping on.

In pure co-dependent style, if I wasn't complaining, our marriage was great.  No arguments.  Living life "in harmony".  It was easiest not to confront any issues and just make myself happy in what ever way I could.  Sidestep the roadblocks.  And Jim, he never had many complaints.  Either I was good at guessing his needs and melding to them or with the slightest hint of perceived criticism, I'd be on my feet to guess, assume, and do more.  Maybe he was truly happy with me - with everything that I did.  Understanding what I do now, though, I don't think that's rational.  No one, even the best of couples or friends, lives in complete harmony with each other.  We're two separate people with different backgrounds, philosophies in life, perceptions about the world around us - there's no way two people can be without conflict for 18 years. (the length of our marriage by that time)  There's going to be conflict, differences of opinion, needs that go unmet, compromises that need to occur on both sides - what matters more is how you voice it and come to resolution.  Voicing it, though, before it becomes some perceived catastrophe of misunderstood (non)communication.

I think part of the reason I kept my feelings/thoughts hidden was because I'd felt that his love/our marriage was very conditional.  Though, now, I can see that I'd just replaced my mother and my fear of her displeasure with my husband.  That substitution was simple; he, like my mom, holds himself and others to such high standards.  When he's wronged, the majority of his immediate reaction is in response to the confirmation that people are bound to hurt or take advantage of him, wanting at first to retaliate.  Then rid them from his life.  On more occasions than not,  he'd rather cut off the diseased part than fix the problem. There had been many references, especially the more successful he'd gotten, though admittedly said in jest, about alimony (he'd fight giving me half) or that he'd find a newer prettier model.  I'd always treated them with humor, responding with a joke right back (that I'd have no difficulty finding the newer prettier stud myself).  I truly believe however, that many threatening jokes have a subtle hint of honesty.  There was no doubt in my mind that he could just sever the diseased limb, cauterize and move on.  He'd hurt, certainly, but that would be the preferred solution.

Isolation.....it seems like a simple "punishment".  Each of you merely stay clear of the other.  How can a NON action be that painful, really?  Worse in many ways than the opposite, though.  There's no way to know where the other person stands.  The fear and anxiety of the unknown was worse than hearing his anger.  The ache was more than just emotional, it hurt deep within the smallest bone of my body.  Looking at him, I know he felt the same way.  For me, there was guilt for my silence that allowed our marriage to get this far down into the pit, an intense sadness for what we'd become, disappointment in myself and surely, him, for not being the compassionate, understanding, supportive husband I needed.   Even anger, seeing his actions as immature in his inability to understand how my state of mind could lead to drugs, refusing to seek professional help to save our marriage.  I was uneasy and anxious for what would happen, but surprised too that our marriage wouldn't be able to survive this.  Maybe another form of denial, but I thought our marriage was stronger than that.

Underneath it all, if I allowed myself a moment's thought in health,  I recognized a growing bud of hope.  For me, at least.  That no matter what, I was becoming stronger, every day a better version of myself the day before.  That this awful thing that I'd done to myself and our family would be painful, yes - but no matter what happened, good or bad - it'd be the major turning point in my life.  I was ready to dig in and learn - with him or without him.  It would be a lesson of all lessons that gave me opportunity to open my eyes and grow.  Like God's metaphorical sledge hammer to the head that I apparently needed to wake up out of my co-dependent slumber.  I was 41.  It was time.