I was having a fantastic day yesterday. One of those days where you think "wow, how did I get so lucky?" I had fun with a friend, then got tattooed by my adorable and talented tattoo artist who is doing the butterfly sleeve on my right arm. I didn't break anything when I fell off my platform sandals. Life was golden and wonderful. I was sitting on my back deck (not nearly as luxurious as you think, small, old and splintery, but comfortable), having a Guinness and listening to music and the sounds of birds and my small waterfall while playing on my tablet when the music stuttered on my phone. I looked at it and saw "Missed Call from (Hubby)."
I called back and it wasn't my husband who answered. It was Officer Ididn'tcatchhisname. My husband had been arrested on suspicion of DUI and I had to go pick him up from the processing center.
It took a ridiculously long time for me to get the directions from the pleasant sounding officer because my brain was broken. You may feel that since I am just a stone's throw away from being clear of my ARD for my DUI last year, that it is hypocritical of me to feel deeply betrayed and terrified. But my husband and I have vastly different histories. For instance, I never spent hours hiding in bars getting drunk and lying to him about where I was. I have never brought us to the brink of financial ruin over and over by hiding the realities of our situation from him. I have never lied consistently and with alacrity about almost every facet of my existence. Including at least one, possibly two court matters in the last few years. I am not an alcoholic. He is.
He said he went out for a burger and had a beer because he was, "angry" and felt "abandoned by (his) family." His grandmother just died this week in a southern state and he had no interest in going to the funeral. I supported that decision because we can't afford it, I wouldn't go, and the family that would be there is batshit crazy.
If he had wanted to go, I would have figured out a way to send him. But he didn't, so I supported his struggle to tell his father that he wasn't going.
What family abandoned him?
The father that got into a screaming match with him in a parking lot over what thing he would give my son after my mother-in-law died?
The grandmother that was so old and back country no one knows how old she was, and was a raging racist?
The uncle that I can't be around because in 16 years he has never once treated me with the respect and civility I have always shown him.
The cousins that bitch about how the world is ending because the Boy Scouts won't descriminate agains (minor) gays?
Or the wife who sometimes worries about our stability and future, but has never lied, has controlled my temper, adjusted my way of speaking too him, made myself sexually available, taken jobs that allow us to keep our daughter out of daycare, and in general supported him every fucking step of the way.
So what does "family" mean anyway?
I can't even talk about him calling me "bitch" last night.
What more can I do?
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