Alcoholism, Drug Addiction and Other Such Remembrances

He was quiet and sweaty like a New York sewer rat caught scrambling through the trash at a five-star restaurant. Shying away from the hideous marks on his arm I slumped to the ground. All other things seemed to fade away into the moment and all I could think of was my two year old, the house I bought a week prior and the inklings that I might be pregnant again.

"It's nothing Laura. I got bit earlier by, um, some ants and I just, I scratched them, and so they look bad." His lips were quivering as he spoke those words, still trying to cover up the money he'd stolen from my wallet and the needle he'd driven into his arm while he was watching our son.

"No it isn't David! Stop lying! I'm not stupid!. Oh my God." Tears of confusion and betrayal streamed down my cheek as I contemplated the position he had left me in. I was flooded with memories of all of the things he had ever done to me. With the scene unfolding before me, I wondered how long this had been going on and how many times he'd shot up when I thought he was just drinking.

Back when we had only been together for a year, and I was just eighteen years old, I remember waiting up for him to come home after his workday had long been over. Some nights he wouldn't return until four in the morning. On those nights, I'd smoke until I'd finished off a pack of cigarettes and then I'd walk to the corner store and buy another. Once my eyes could no longer be kept open without a fight, I'd get up off of the front porch and recede into the house where, lightheaded and reeking of tobacco, I'd cry myself to sleep. In a drunken daze, David would stumble sloppily into bed believing he was quietly slipping in unnoticed. Curled tightly into a ball I'd take comfort pressed up against the cold stucco wall until I'd feel his rough clammy hands touching my back and shoulders. I'd let him have his way with me and when he'd finish, I'd sob and rock myself back to sleep while he passed out dead drunk.

It had been such a long time since and not much about him had changed. I had already come to realize that our relationship would never be normal and just when I was beginning to accept the fact that the man I loved was an alcoholic, the mess of my life seemed to pour out in front of me as the beads of sweat on his forehead trickled down past his wide-open eyes. I'd never dealt with drug addiction before in my life. I imagined the desperation he must have felt that lead him to steal out of my wallet and the sickening bliss brought on by the fluid running through his veins. With every ounce of my being, I fought to suppress the images of all the drug abusers I'd seen on TV before. Tightening anything around his arm that was available, a quick flick of the syringe, and his head falling back against a wall in a dark dilapidated house. Typical junkie. I wondered if that's how he had done it, and when, and where, and who he got it from, and why he did it when he was with our little one, but none of these questions could be asked. Staring at him in the bright light of our new home, I realized that if I asked, the answers would most definitely be lies.

My chest felt like it was going to collapse and I came to the conclusion that heart-break was the feeling overwhelming me. No matter how many times he slapped my hands away, I'd grab his arms and stare at the marks. They teased me like a mistress would've teased about stealing his attention away from me. He was shaky and his speech was broken and slurred, but not slurred in the way that beer usually made his words melt into each other. His mouth was begging to be moistened, like he'd been lost in the desert for days and lack of water was causing him to trip up on his words. Sobbing heavily, but quietly, I picked myself up. When I looked into his eyes I saw nothing, as though the cocaine had ran circles through his body and drank his soul to keep hydrated. It was the scariest thing seeing him that way. He was helpless but deceitful, alone but deserving of such solitude, anxious yet calmly accepting the blurred reality in front of him, and regretful but destined to continue that path. Most of our things were still in boxes and bags and my mother and father were in the dining room oblivious to the drama playing out down the hall from them. I owed them money and David had stolen it. When I asked about it again, he told me he had planned on cashing his check that same morning and replacing it before I noticed. Somehow, I had already known before I even asked him. Oddly enough, that didn't disturb me as much as the fact that he had all morning to replace the money and never found the strength to get up and do it because he was so gone off the drugs.

After I sobbingly confessed what had happened to my parents, they told me not to worry about paying them back. My mother was furious with David. Her hazel eyes were bright with anger when she barged into the room where he remained fearful of more confrontation.

"Don't you think about anyone but yourself?!," she screamed at him. "He's never gonna change Laura. Why don't you and Matt come stay the night with us?" Then it hit me. The hesitation was so unexpected I almost didn't know what to say. Deep in my mind I knew I should leave and never look back, but my heart was determined to stay. I had just bought that home and I didn't want to let go of the idea that we could make a happy family.

That night was the most restless night I've ever had. An hour after my parents left David fell asleep while I was talking to him. I shook him frantically scared that he might die in his sleep but his body was heavy with fatigue. When I stopped moving him I saw he was breathing. It was broken, unstable breathing like a muffler on a car from the late twenties turned on after years of sitting in the backyard waiting for repair. He was breathing none the less. For fear of overdose or death, I stayed up to make sure he kept on breathing. Most of my early morning hours were spent crying uncontrollably trying to understand something I had never been exposed to, but some were spent right at his side so I could hold his hand and trace the outline of his face with my fingertips. I stared at those marks on both of his arms; right on the vein, right where they could not hide, right in front of my face. Countless times I stroked them with my thumb as though they might disappear with the love coming out of my hands. I didn't sleep a wink that night.

When seven a.m. came around, I dressed myself and my son and made my way to drop off my little one so I could go to work. I kissed David before we left the house. David finally called me late in the afternoon after I had researched some information on drug addiction. Over the phone he was humble and apologetic and even close to tears. He kept choking up on his words and was, what seemed like, very sorry for what he had done and ready to change. The story shifted when I got home. The confessions he made about being addicted were changed to merely saying he wasn't addicted, it was just a bad habit. I was once again confused out of my mind.

Quietly I reminisced about the second night he attacked me. The static in the air was like a premonition that something was going to occur. When he was too drunk to make any sense he shouted nonsense about going to kick my dad's ass (who had been at home asleep and knew nothing of our argument at all). I ran into the street after him and he stopped short to push me down to the asphalt where I scrapped my knees. With new found strength I had dusted myself off and shoved him as hard as I could almost causing him to fall down as well. Terror struck me when he managed to get his hands around my neck. His grip was so strong I thought he might kill me. I'm not sure why he let go but he stormed into my parent's house and the cops were called to take him in. When they arrived, he had hidden on top of the washer in my mom's washer/dryer appliance closet. The cops appeared to be just as bewildered as the rest of us. He had broken the skin on my neck from his grasp and it healed about three weeks after the incident.

By this time I should've known his intentions, but he was feeding off of my love for him; draining me until there would ultimately be nothing left. The research I had done was of no interest to him and when I questioned the things he was saying he became angered at the thought of me not believing him.

"This website says that when you have a drug problem, you lie. So how do I know if what you're telling me is the truth?" He had no comment to this.

I think back on these times now with more regret than ever. I don't understand how I could've been so gullible and trusting. David is still the same person he used to be. Nothing has changed him. I can count at least fifteen times in the past few years that he's been to jail because of moronic things he's done while under the influence. If you ever find yourself in a position like mine, don't believe a word that you hear. Make your loved one get help. There are so many programs out there that I was willing to pay for, but he refused saying again he wasn't addicted. It's the same as smoking, you don't see it as a nicotine addiction, you see it has something that helps you get by or merely something you like to do. Alcoholism is just as bad. Don't let yourself be lied to as I was.