I keep having these really awful, graphic nightmares, horror movie stuff. There's always a lot of blood and visceral detail I won't get into.
Stress much?
You know, when the alcoholic goes through rehab, if you're like me, you go, "Oh things are going to be SO MUCH BETTER!" and then they discharge, and they are, and then you realize you live in the state I live in and you go, "Hey wait a minute, this isn't going to last - oh...man..." and BOOM everything goes to pot.
Seriously. Now, by no means was this anyone else's responsibility, but seriously, the recovery programs here are effed up. You're still wrestling with the 'tude of, "I kin do et mahself," and really, sure, you can, if you want to drink your liver into a weapon of mass, blunt destruction (read: scarrify it). But when you call ye auld rehab only to find out that the counselor that helped your husband was canned and so was the director of the place as expected, you realize two things:
1) He wasn't lying when he told you that hey, he stopped going because they wanted us to get a divorce and that they wanted to collectively cut their wrists open when I talked to them (SERIOUSLY?!)
and
2) EVERYTHING IS BROKEN ABOUT THE SYSTEM. EVERYTHING.
It's hard to not be cynical, especially when the husband's addiction mechanism has turned, in combination with other things, into this emotional obsession that makes him a complete and total jerk. Especially when, gee, I asked those stupid counselors about post-recovery physiological and neurochemical changes, to which they replied, "Oh, you don't have anything to worry about."
SERIOUSLY?! An alcoholic for upwards of 15-20 YEARS and WE HAVE NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT?!
Did I capitalize enough?
*throws hands up*
Stress much?
You know, when the alcoholic goes through rehab, if you're like me, you go, "Oh things are going to be SO MUCH BETTER!" and then they discharge, and they are, and then you realize you live in the state I live in and you go, "Hey wait a minute, this isn't going to last - oh...man..." and BOOM everything goes to pot.
Seriously. Now, by no means was this anyone else's responsibility, but seriously, the recovery programs here are effed up. You're still wrestling with the 'tude of, "I kin do et mahself," and really, sure, you can, if you want to drink your liver into a weapon of mass, blunt destruction (read: scarrify it). But when you call ye auld rehab only to find out that the counselor that helped your husband was canned and so was the director of the place as expected, you realize two things:
1) He wasn't lying when he told you that hey, he stopped going because they wanted us to get a divorce and that they wanted to collectively cut their wrists open when I talked to them (SERIOUSLY?!)
and
2) EVERYTHING IS BROKEN ABOUT THE SYSTEM. EVERYTHING.
It's hard to not be cynical, especially when the husband's addiction mechanism has turned, in combination with other things, into this emotional obsession that makes him a complete and total jerk. Especially when, gee, I asked those stupid counselors about post-recovery physiological and neurochemical changes, to which they replied, "Oh, you don't have anything to worry about."
SERIOUSLY?! An alcoholic for upwards of 15-20 YEARS and WE HAVE NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT?!
Did I capitalize enough?
*throws hands up*
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