Off to the races, I’m goin’ places..

This is my current earworm as I count the minutes till I can leave for my meeting tonight. In my head though, I’m saying all those lyrics sarcastically because nothing is “so great” right now.


I went out for a while this afternoon, by myself just to get the skin crawly, cooped up, antsy feeling away and it worked.. for a while. Being back at home the antsy feeling came back. I think it’s cause I am still pissed at Husband.. we got a lot of stuff unresolved at the moment but even though it has me pissed and antsy I don’t quite have the energy to invest in working it out. Not right now anyway. Mostly because I know he’s never going to respond the way I need him to. And I’m not 100% sure he isn’t lying to me right now about his own medical crap which makes me question every statement he makes and feel furious at every accusation he utters. So it all remains unspoken. It’s tense but functional. Notice I didn’t say healthy.

Husband needs triple bypass surgery. His dire health situation is pretty much the only thing that’s keeping me from walking or “rolling” out on his angry, controlling ass with Son.. because God forbid he dies.. I don’t want to be what came between Son and his dad at the end of his dad’s life. But his necessary surgery had been postponed three times now and I’m halfway convinced that Husband is sabotaging his surgical dates on purpose and telling me the hospital is bumping him. I mean, what freaking hospital moves a triple bypass 3 times?!

So I am waiting for his next surgical date and if somehow, magically, the operation doesn’t happen AGAIN, I will be calling his doctors, his visiting nurses, his whoever, to see if I have any rights or abilities to get him medically compliant. Son is off to camp in the Berkshires for a week 7/16. Hubs is supposed to have his operation 7/18. Right now, having the house to myself for at least 5 days both thrills and terrifies me.

Continuing to binge Nurse Jackie and wonder what it would be like to not be with Hubs. We’ve been married for 16 years. I wonder what it would be like for either one of us to not be together.

Attitude of gratitude: I am glad for the meeting I’m going to tonight. This one is like home.

And since I started with Demi Lovato, I’ll finish with her as well. this is her in her brief but adorable role on Glee when she was with Santana.


Day 1 of 90.. again.


Sorry about the glare on the screen. It was the only clip I could find of the scene showing how I feel being back at the beginning. I need to do what works. I need to get myself right, to be able to take care of me and my family. Before, when I was actually in recovery instead of cheating and sneaking every possible way  could, writing here helped. So I am TRYING for 90 meetings in as many days as well as 90 posts. I am not going to beat myself up if life gets in the way but I am going to keep trying.

Husband is still being a total prick about this. He is being his exceedingly unforgiving, uncompassionate self. He’s saying that I stabbed our family in the back, by relapsing. As if I deliberately chose to hurt him and son by giving in. I asked him repeatedly to talk to me and he’s refused.

So I am working on me. I am trying to have compassion for him as he is very sick right now and facing major surgery.

Daughter is struggling now, as an adult, and it hurts me to know that part of why she struggles is because I didn’t do more to keep Husband’s controlling, angry behavior from wrecking her childhood. I thought things were different after the separation and the counseling and they were but lately we’ve been back to the bad old days. I’m using secretly and he is being a controlling, narcissistic judgemental asswipe.

Daughter is safe now of course, she’s been away from him for years but I worry about Son. He worships his dad and I don’t want him to turn out like Husband.

We are going to look at an apartment tomorrow.

I went back to a meeting today with PCA. She was amazing and there for me as always. She let me vent and cry and told me the truth about what I had to say. I planned to speak and raised my hand but then proceeded to choke and cry and barely get out the words, “I’m back at the beginning, thank you for being here.” It was embarrassing  but I know that they have all seen it before. The good thing about good meetings.. when you can know nobody in that room but know you’re with your people.

I got home and opened a package with 400 pills in it. Oops! I had ordered them before I stopped. I gave them directly to Husband bottle unopened. I don’t know if that made him more angry or distrustful of me but he’s already not speaking to me so how much worse could it really get?

So.. hmm.. Oh! Attitude of gratitude. That always helps me get out of my own head.  Today I am most thankful for PCA. She has been so intuitive with me as always. She can tell what I need when I need it and is always there to give it.

How I feel about Hubs at the moment:

Good recovery songs:

Does this stigma ever wash off?

I admit I fucked up. I did. I found a loophole in my tightly regimented meds and was abusing it. Actually, I was abusing some otc meds which potentiate my meds that are kept in a lockbox and distributed to me by a nurse 3 times per week. I burned through a new bottle of pills without realizing it, panicked and ordered more before hubs could realize it and then today, before they came, he needed a dose of one of the meds. So even though I’ve been in recovery for 4 years he is back to square one with trusting me.

Now he just stormed out of the house with our son at 10 pm at night refusing to tell me where he was going. And to make matters worse, I think he may use this as an excuse to yet again postpone his much needed triple bypass surgery! More on that later..

I know this post is all over the place. I am posting it because blogging helped me get my shit together before and I’m hoping to do it again.


Serenity before insanity?

So the med nurse, as mentioned in the previous post, is coming in the am. I am short a good number of the narcotic pills I am supposed to have and I don’t know what that means at this point.

Will she count them on intake, do the math and immediately report me to my pain doc, thus getting me kicked out of the clinic?

When I woke up this am I planned to solve this dilemma by simply avoiding their calls.. a visiting nurse, even though they are doctor ordered, cannot come by without my permission.  Though they can be quite pushy, it’s still my choice.  But when I came out of Walmart, last night, at about 6:45, I saw that the nurse had called and left a message about  coming by.. Instead of just ignoring the message that I legitimately missed, I called back and scheduled her for this am. It is now about 2:45 am and she will be here about 10 am.

I don’t even know what to feel at this point. When I got home with Hubs and Son after being out running errands all day, I burst into hysterical tears and was inconsolable for several minutes. When hubs asked what was wrong I told him I was tired and discouraged. Ths was no lie.. being out today was a drain. Transferring in and out of the car, particularly transferring back in was an incredible struggle physically and whenever that happens it is an emotional drain as well. I am so freaking tired of my very existence being exhausting.. Why aren’t we already in an accessible unit, that I can just roll in and out of? Why is my own family vehicle something that is SUCH a physical strain for me to use?

A lot of other things in my life are causing me to feel like things are happening for a reason, like God is working in my life for the better.. but does that, or my behavior mean ultimately that I am going to have to go without pain medication?  Am I just that much of a screw up that I burned my last bridge in the medical community for getting the only med that touches my pain?

I don’t know any of these answers. And this is out of my hands. I have to surrender. Right here and now, that’s easier than I thought. It may feel like quite a different story if I am withdrawing a few days from now.




Terror of wish fulfillment and fear of self sabotage..

I have a date for double knee replacement.

This is exactly what I wanted.. what I’ve needed for over 10 years now and have been actively striving and hoping for since a particularly terrible Christmas vacation in VA, Christmas 2014, just before I got my wheelchair, and I was moving so poorly that I only left the hotel room twice.. the whole trip.. and as I lay in the the uncomfortable bed I swore that no matter how scary it got I had to do something to make things different..

But I’m complicated.. so hearing all the risks that go along with the operation, some of the scariest being that I’ll need a blood transfusion after, that he’ll need to shorten my legs to compensate for the contractures because if he doesn’t the nerves won’t be long enough and my legs will get gangrenous and maybe even need to be amputated, that I will need to be rigorous with extremely painful stretching and PT or I could end up right back where I started 6 months post op as the contractures are going to want to reassert themselves immediately postop.. etc.. scary af.. but what’s the alternative?

Choosing at just turned 40 years old that I want to stay trapped and increasingly dependent on an at turns indifferent or disdainfully angry spouse?  After my fall in the spring I spent about 45 days inpatient rehab, and Husband often sneers at me about how much I loved it there because I was “waited on hand and foot”.

Is it so wrong to want 3 meals a day? Help with showers? Assurance that I would have my meds on time every day, and never have to wait because Husband didn’t see pain relief or whatever other med as important as I felt it? Added bonus, I did PT 5 days a week there, did therapy for my psych stuff weekly, could have visitors with no need to race around cleaning up or making excuses cause I was too exhausted, round the clock nurses meant that I couldn’t take too much or little of any med and that was an indescribable relief as that is always a struggle for me in times of stress..

I am scared.. but now Husband.. after stressing how important this is for me and for us is all fixating on the risks and not even willing to have the smallest crumb of faith that this might change our lives for the better..

Part of me wonders if he’s acting like this because he’s afraid of me being healthier, more mobile, less dependent on him.. anytime weight loss, fixing my teeth and now my knees actually seems like it might happen he always gets all, “what about this scary thing or that possible complication?” “What about if you screw it up by falling into your old ways?”

Always playing on my worst fears.. always pointing out the things I hate most about myself..

Also feeling like a crappy mom today cause I woke up anxious and headache-y which really makes me want to be by myself, and for some reason Son was clingier today.. I love my kids.. one of the only times anymore I feel like I have a purpose is being a mom so when doing mom stuff feels like something I wanna get away from it kinda makes me hate myself a little..

All of these unknowns, pain and complicated emotion make me reach for something, anything to numb.. to feel other.. and I’m fresh  out of stuff like that..

I’ll end with a couple of songs..

For my kids.. full grown Daughter and growing all too fast Son..


and to Husband..and myself..


new start to the 90 in 90 count… thanks for reading my bubbled corruptions.. for being down with my sickness.. ❤



Throwback Thursday 3 or “Call Your Girlfriend”

Lucy Wainwright– Call Your Girlfriend (Robyn Cover)

Lucy Wainwright is one of my favorite musical people.

I actually feel like there is some sort of spiritual tether between her family as musicians and my family as fans, but there is too complicated an explanation to that crazy thought for this post because this is Throwback Thursday 3, in which I will reveal the many ways that it sucked to be a mandated reporter, or actually to report to a mandated reporter, how someone can be simultaneously delighted with and disgusted with oneself, and how someone can find themselves conducting the express train toward losing everything they’ve ever worked for and somehow choosing to step on the gas. Because my metaphorical trains are driven much like my physical Kia is driven: with a gas pedal and a lead foot.

Thursday 1

Thursday 2

DaBoss began rapid firing questions at me in a tone that made me feel scared and guilty at the same time. Her brusque tone seemed to be frightening poor little Amaya even more. Every time Daboss spoke Amaya cringed on the desk and kind of reached for me at the same time. Finally, when I was sure the kurt physical examination was done, I scooped Amaya up and held her to me as close and cuddly as I could. I tried to think reassuring thoughts at the sweet little one in my arms while still trying to give my boss the impression of sitting up straight and giving all of my attention to the obviously serious matter at hand.

Amaya had always been petite, kind of small for her age, and she was light as a feather compared to some of her peers. Still today, whatever trauma she had endured seemed to have made her smaller somehow. Maybe because her vibrant personality, the dynamic it factor that got her noticed easily amongst other equally adorable 1.5 to 3 year olds, whatever made her multiple staff members’ favorites, even though we were repeatedly admonished not to show favoritism. I felt a surge of white hot rage at whatever monster could do this, this criminal act, to the baby child now curled up in my lap, apparently trying to be invisible today, when she used to thrive on attention.

When did I notice the blisters? Had anyone else seen them? Who pointed them out? What was the child (she glaced quickly at some papers before continuing) Amaya’s father’s frame of mind when he dropped her off this morning?

You mean did he confess to how the hell his 18 month old got blisters on both palms? No, we somehow missed that tidbit as he dropped off his little one. Come to think of it he did seem in an usual rush to head off to wherever it was he went each am.. Not his normally chitchatty self. Her mother picked her up in the evenings.

Damnit! I had really liked both of them. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions of either one of them being the perpetrators but if she had somehow achieved those blister burns through some spectacular accident, why wouldn’t he say something? I’d found parents to be anxious to point out any possible health concern from a sniffles to diaper rash to lack of morning appetite and youre gonna tell me burned palms don’t make the cut for a daycare provider’s need to know? And if she had been injured as she so obviously HAD, why was she even being dropped off at daycare? Why the hell couldn’t one of them take a sick day? What the hell was going on here?

More questions. They had started to repeat 2 maybe three times before Daboss finally had me sign something.

“So what happens now?” I asked. I was intimidated, by DaBoss and the whole situation but I also felt a compulsive need to know something right was going to happen to babygirl who had been wronged.

DaBoss sighed. She gave me a tired looking smile with no actual cheer in it. “Now you can get back to work. You did the right thing by telling me what you noticed.”

I knew that. I also knew that that wasn’t an answer to what I had asked her and furthermore, that she knew she had not answered what I had asked her. “I mean, what happens to Amaya? Does she just go home, or do they question her parents? How can we be sure that she is getting taken care of.. like medically, and like keeping her away from whoever the hell did this to her?”

She sighed and stopped pretend smiling. “We will follow proper protocol. You can get back to work. Leave Amaya here for the moment. Nurse needs to look her over before she can play anymore right now and I have a few calls to make. They need you outside, we have the puppet show today.”

I hated her then. Protocol?! What. The. Fuck. As if Amaya were a stack of challenging paperwork instead of an injured toddler with a dangerous living situation.

The rest of the work day somehow managed to drag and blur at the same time. At one point during the puppet show, Amaya was deposited in my lap. I held her close and tried to install as much protective love and comfort as I possibly could. I felt more and more sure that I wasn’t going to see her again. And about that I was right. All to soon during the hellish puppet show on that horrible day a troop of three awkwardly formal strangers wove their way through the crowd of crosslegged toddlers and staff on the grass.

Suddenly shadows fell across my lap. I looked up and before my eyes could adjust to make out the figures framed by bright sunlight..she was plucked off my lap and from my life forever. She sobbed heartwrenchingly and reached her injured hands out for me. There was nothing I could do. I felt both furious and like the biggest pussy on the face of the earth for not intervening, with the LAW.. Like I could have done anything.. It didn’t stop me from feeling horrible though.

The rest of the day dragged miserably. At long, long last it was 5 pm. Normally, I’d take my time about leaving, shooting the shit with other staffers. Not that day though. Two reasons.

First: It was obviously a horrendous day I wanted obliterated from my consciousness, preferably with aid of alcohol..

Second: J had been paging me 911 for 3 hours. (This was the ’90’s. no texting or cell phones or Facebook messenger or even AOL..

I walked quickly toward the nearest payphone. My heart was pounding and I wondered if she had figured out that we were fucking like rabbits behind her back every night. Or if he had somehow lost his mind and told. Or what? What? What?

Ring. Ring.

“Nnhelloo?” Ugh! I hated the way she answered the phone. She thought it made her sound sexy and sophisticated. I thought it made her sound slutty and brain damaged.

“Hi. It’s me. Just got out of work now.. sorry.” Sorry? Why the hell was I apologizing? For working hard while she and S lay under the covers in her parent’s guest bedroom, eating Bagel Bites and watching BET and cartoons. “What’s up?”

“Thank God it’s you! I’ve been needing a friend all day!”

Not as much as I needed one. But knowing you I will not get a word in edgewise while you perceive yourself in crisis. At least I’m not busted for the fling I’ve been having with your man, why do I somehow feel let down by this fact?

“What’s the matter, sis?” Yeah, we called each other sis.

“Lately… no matter what I do, S won’t fuck me.. He comes over, has me make him breakfast and then crashes in front of the tv. It’s like I’m a fucking throw pillow that can scramble eggs. I tried everything. I’ve jerked him so much it feels like I should fucking get stock in that lotion he likes. Nothing. Even that thong he loves and the push up bra that gives me porno boobs. I’ve even tried going downtown. No FUCKING WOOD!”

“Ok, first of all, EW! I do NOT need the gory details of your sex life or lack thereof.” But I only said that part for appearances, because it was actually delightful that they weren’t doing anything. It meant our strenuous nightly adventures where just as fulfilling for him as they were for me. I did feel a teeny bit bad that this was making my “sis” feel sad and sexually inadequate, but nowhere near bad enough to give up the incredible sex.

Ok.. I wildly overtaxed my abilities to write while sleep deprived and flared in the upper extremities..

I’m going to have to pick up with this next week, THANKS FOR READING!

The hard stuff..

When Roland saw the lobster-things coming out of the waves again (their coming had nothing to do with tide, then; it was the dark that brought them), he left Eddie Dean to move himself before the creatures could find and eat him.

The pain he had expected and was prepared for. He had lived with pain so long it was almost an old friend. He was appalled, however, by the rapidity with which his fever had increased and his strength decreased. If he had not been dying before, he most assuredly was now. Was there something powerful enough in the prisoner’s world to keep that from happening? Perhaps. But if he didn’t get some of it within the next six or eight hours, he thought it wouldn’t matter. If things went much further, no medicine or magic in that world or any other that would make him well again.

Walking was impossible. He would have to crawl.

He was getting ready to start when his eye fixed upon the twisted band of sticky stuff and the bags of devil-powder. If he left the stuff here, the lobstrosities would almost surely tear the bags open. The sea-breeze would scatter the powder to the four winds. Which is where it belongs, the gunslinger thought grimly, but he couldn’t allow it. When the time came, Eddie Dean would be in a long tub of trouble if he couldn’t produce that powder. It was rarely possible to bluff men of the sort he guessed this Balazar to be. He would want to see what he had paid for, and until he saw it Eddie would have enough guns pointed at him to equip a small army.

The gunslinger pulled the twisted rope of glue-string over to him and slung it over his neck. Then he began to work his way up the beach.

He had crawled twenty yards almost far enough to consider himself safe, he judged when the horrible (yet cosmically funny) funny realization that he was leaving the doorway behind came to him. What in God’s name was he going through this for?

He turned his head and saw the doorway, not down on the beach, but three feet behind him. For a moment Roland could only stare, and realize what he would have known already, if not for the fever and the sound of the Inquisitors, drumming their ceaseless questions at Eddie, Where did you, how did you, why did you, when did you (questions that seemed to merge eerily with the questions of the scrabbling horrors that came crawling and wriggling out of the waves: Dad-a-chock? Dad-a-chum? Did-a-chick?), as mere delirium. Not so.

Now I take it with me everywhere I go, he thought, just as he does. It comes with us everywhere now, following like a curse you can never get rid of.

All of this felt so true as to be unquestionable … and so did one other thing.

If the door between them should close, it would be closed forever.

When that happens, Roland thought grimly, he must be on this side. With me.

What a paragon of virtue you are, gunslinger! the man in black laughed. He seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside Roland’s head. You have killed the boy; that was the sacrifice that enabled you to catch me and, I suppose, to create the door between worlds. Now you intend to draw your three, one by one, and condemn all of them to something you would not have for yourself: a lifetime in an alien world, where they may die as easily as animals in a zoo set free in a wild place.

The Tower, Roland thought wildly. Once I’ve gotten to the Tower and done whatever it is I’m supposed to do there, accomplished whatever fundamental act of restoration or redemption for which I was meant, then perhaps they…

But the shrieking laughter of the man in black, the man who was dead but lived on as the gunslinger’s stained conscience, would not let him go on with the thought.

Neither, however, could the thought of the treachery he contemplated turn him aside from his course.

He managed another ten yards, looked back, and saw that even the largest of the crawling monsters would venture no further than twenty feet above the high-tide line. He had already managed three times that distance.

It’s well, then.

Nothing is well, the man in black replied merrily, and you know it.

Shut up, the gunslinger thought, and for a wonder, the voice actually did.

Roland pushed the bags of devil-dust into the cleft between two rocks and covered them with handfuls of sparse saw-grass. With that done he rested briefly, head thumping like a hot bag of waters, skin alternately hot and cold, then rolled back through the doorway into that other world, that other body, leaving the increasing deadly infection behind for a little while.


The second time he returned to himself, he entered a body so deeply asleep that he thought for a moment it had entered a comatose state … a state of such lowered bodily function that in moments he would feel his own consciousness start down a long slide into darkness.

Instead, he forced his body toward wakefulness, punched and pummelled it out of the dark cave into which it had crawled. He made his heart speed up, made his nerves re-accept the pain that sizzled through his skin and woke his flesh to groaning reality.

It was night now. The stars were out. The popkin-things Eddie had bought him were small bits of warmth in the chill.

He didn’t feel like eating them, but eat them he would. First, though …

He looked at the white pills in his hand. Astin, Eddie called it. No, that wasn’t quite right, but Roland couldn’t pronounce the word as the prisoner had said it. Medicine was what it came down to. Medicine from that other world.

If anything from your world is going to do for me, Prisoner, Roland thought grimly, I think it’s more apt to be your potions than your popkins.

Still, he would have to try it. Not the stuff he really needed…or so Eddie believed..but something which might reduce his fever.

Three now, three later. If there is a later.

He put three of the pills in his mouth, then pushed the cover..some strange white stuff that was neither paper nor glass but which seemed a bit like the paper cup which held the drink, and washed them down.

The first swallow amazed him so completely that for a moment he only lay there, propped against a rock, his eyes so wide and still and full of reflected starlight that he would surely have been taken for dead already by anyone who happened to pass by. Then he drank greedily, holding the cup in both hands, the rotted, pulsing hurt in the stumps of his fingers barely noticed in his total absorption with the drink.

Sweet! Gods, such sweetness! Such sweetness! Such..

One of the small flat ice cubes in the drink caught in his throat. He coughed, pounded his chest, and choked it out. Now there was a new pain in his head: the silvery pain that comes with drinking something too cold too fast.

He lay still, feeling his heart pumping like a runaway engine, feeling fresh energy surge into his body so fast he felt as if he might actually explode. Without thinking of what he was doing, he tore another piece from his shirt soon it would be no more than a rag hanging around his neck and laid it across one leg. When the drink was gone he would pour the ice into the rag and make a pack for his wounded hand. But his mind was elsewhere.

Sweet! it cried out again and again, trying to get the sense of it, or to convince itself there was sense in it, much as Eddie had tried to convince himself of the other as an actual being and not some mental convulsion that was only another part of himself trying to trick him. Sweet! Sweet! Sweet!

The dark drink was laced with sugar, even more than Marten who had been a great glutton behind his grave ascetic’s exterior had put in his coffee in mornings and at ‘Downers.

Sugar …white …powder …

The gunslinger’s eyes wandered to the bags, barely visible under the grass he had tossed over them, and wondered briefly if the stuff in this drink and the stuff in the bags might be one and the same. He knew that Eddie had understood him perfectly over here, where they were two separate physical creatures; he suspected that if he had crossed bodily to Eddie’s world (and he understood instinctively it could be done … although if the door should shut while he was there, he would be there forever, as Eddie would be here forever if their positions were reversed), he would have understood the language just as perfectly. He knew from being in Eddie’s mind that the languages of the two worlds were similar to begin with. Similar, but not the same. Here a sandwich was a popkin. There to rustle was finding something to eat. So … was it not possible that the drug Eddie called cocaine was, in the gunslinger’s world, called sugar?

Reconsideration made it seem unlikely. Eddie had bought this drink openly, knowing that he was being watched by people who served the Priests of Customs. Further, Roland sensed he had paid comparatively little for it. Less, even, than for the popkins of meat. No, sugar was not cocaine, but Roland could not understand why anyone would want cocaine or any other illegal drug, for that matter, in a world where such a powerful one as sugar was so plentiful and cheap.

He looked at the meat popkins again, felt the first stirrings of hunger … and realized with amazement and confused thankfulness that he felt better.

The drink? Was that it? The sugar in the drink?

That might be part of it but a small part. Sugar could revive one’s strength for awhile when it was flagging; this was something he had known since he was a child. But sugar could not dull pain or damp the fever-fire in your body when some infection had turned it into a furnace. All the same, that was exactly what had happened to him … was still happening.

The convulsive shuddering had stopped. The sweat was drying on his brow. The fishhooks which had lined his throat seemed to be disappearing. Incredible as it was, it was also an inarguable fact, not just imagination or wishful thinking (in point of fact, the gunslinger had not been capable of such frivolity as the latter in unknown and unknowable decades). His missing fingers and toes still throbbed and roared, but he believed even these pains to be muted.

Roland put his head back, closed his eyes and thanked God.

God and Eddie Dean.

    The Drawing of the Three

By Stephen King

I’m in a difficult mood right now. I am furiously angry but I also want to cry. Part of this, I know, is due to the fact that I am giving up another substance at the moment, and I am finding this extremely difficult. I am giving up soda. This may seem trivial and easily done, for many who are in recovery and for some who aren’t. It isn’t easy for me though. I’ve tried probably hundreds of times. This is the first part of a larger, almost inconceivable plan to give up sugar.

Also, I’m yet again having relationship problems with Husband. He doesn’t understand mt struggle I know, but some days it hurts and infuriates me that he won’t even try to show some concern, empathy something.

And.. Son is exhibiting signs of severe anxiety again, when we were doing so well! We had a great day yesterday but he had two near panic attacks. Once at at the Back to School BBQ when he became convinced the baby chicken he was holding was going to hurt him and then later in the evening, driving home from a friend’s birthday party. It was storming out and he voiced his concern that we would get struck by the lightning we saw. Husband and I tried to reassure him but only seemed to make things worse so that by the time we were home and he had to get out of the car, he was practically in tears and he sprinted for the house in a spreed I have never seen him move,

This seems out of the blue! I thought we had gotten past this point. We were all doing so well together. Now I feel simultaneously unsure of how to help him and 100% sure that Husband’s way of dealing with this is doing more harm than good.

Lastly, I have been preparing a post on my drug addiction. It is much more slow, difficult process than any of my other blog posts were. I know it’s important for me to share but it’s so hard still.