Inward & Upward

“You know,” my aftercare counselor says casually, “Sobriety changes things. And people. It's possible that you might not like who he becomes if he gets sober.”

“I don't think that's a bridge that's ever going to need crossing,” I tell him shortly.

Calvin shrugs and reminds me that when there's life, there's hope.

“This is his 4^th rehab, Cal,” I remind him, “I'm fresh out.”

He glances at the file, flips a page or two, frowns. Even with the windows opened, it's stuffy in the small office and the street noises are annoying. Everything annoys me these days, I think dismally, everything seems to be getting between me and peace of mind. This recovery thing isn't all it's cracked up to be.

“How long has been out,” Calvin asks, “Is he going to meetings?”

“Two weeks,” I say and pause to consider the second question. What I suspect, what I know, and what I can prove are all distinctly different things. “He says he is,” I say finally.

“You don't believe him?” my counselor persists.

Cal has kind eyes and he cares deeply about his clients and their troubled lives but he's not much for finesse. He likes to remind me that it's not my job to cure the man I married, that it's not within my control to change him, that caretaking has it's downside and it can be perilously close to enabling. I still remember our first session and how he listened to me cry and moan about living with a drunk, how long suffering and under-appreciated I felt, how I was at my wits end, how nothing I tried was working. His answer was to hand me a box of kleenex and ask where had I tied my white horse. The suggestion that I might be in the wrong had offended me then and now I was realizing that the old feelings of defeat, betrayal, and anger were back with a vengeance.

“No,” I confess, “Not for a second.”

He sighs, gives me his best professionally resigned look, but at least has the grace not to tell me that he warned me. Not that I needed warning, I think bitterly, after the third failed rehab, I'd learned the drill.

“You think he's still drinking,” he says flatly.

“I do,” I say tiredly, “And lying about it. Every day. Just like he always has.”

Saying it outloud ignites something in me and I can feel acid knots of rage beginning a slow crawl up my throat. I have an urge - a need - to scream, to fight, to break something or hurt someone. I swallow hard and beat back the desire to give way to helplessness and and the hysteria that will inevitably follow. I can't think of how to tell Calvin that I don't want to do this anymore, that I'm tired and defeated, worn out and worn down. I feel broken beyond repair and find myself wishing my husband dead.

How Calvin sees through this wall of self pity and stagnation is a mystery.

“Jeee-sus!” he says mildly, “That's pretty good. No Sarah Bernardt, but pretty good. Now, how about we skip the histrionics and self-pity and get back to basics. What are you doing about you?”

“You self righteous son of a bitch!” I snap, “Save your know-it-all, holier than thou lectures for the drunks upstairs! I don't need them!”

“No?” he snaps right back, “Because you're doing such a bang up job on your own? Or because you've gotten to like drowning in your own misery and playing the misunderstood heroine? You came to me for help, for Christ's sake, either take it or don't, but spare me the poor, pitiful me act! I don't need another victim! I've got a whole floor of them upstairs! Now for the last time,

what are you doing to help you?”

Every word he'd said was accurate and the urge to claw his eyes out fades. I sit back down and concentrate on breathing until I feel calm and ashamed enough to apologize. He waves it away and offers one of his own.

“This shit is hard,” he tells me.

“On all of us,” I agree.