This week’s Woman of the Week
features the first creative non-fiction submission of a brave and talented woman who wanted
to share her writing, and experience, of living with an alcoholic partner. Kate’s* submission is raw, honest, and real;
and will hopefully help others going through a similar experience to not feel
so isolated. Talking about our
experiences is the first step in uniting with others who might be going through
something similar.
It’s
almost too clichéd to mention... a bachelor party? Surely the warning
signs are glaring you in the face like the death stare of a feline before the
deadly pounce? Surely I don’t need to verbalize my concerns (I mean this
conversation has been had, right?).
Yet, here I lie at 23:00, listening
for every car, willing the front door key to jingle.
I’ve tried to be ‘cool’ about everything, you know, given myself the ‘pep talk’ about how to not be the nagging wife, lectured myself on letting go and scolded myself for paranoid thinking. And I’ve done pretty well in the past. But invariably, things end with a ‘spree.’
I’ve tried to be ‘cool’ about everything, you know, given myself the ‘pep talk’ about how to not be the nagging wife, lectured myself on letting go and scolded myself for paranoid thinking. And I’ve done pretty well in the past. But invariably, things end with a ‘spree.’
I
call it a spree, because just like a spree killer, it is the cause of numerous
fatalities until the shooter ultimately turns the gun on himself and ends it
all.
The spree starts off rather innocently, it almost jumps out at you from behind the bush, and you wonder why the hell you didn’t notice the crazy gunman against the greenery? Am I fucking blind? A few beers after squash, a pub lunch with mates, gulps out a bottle, a loud voice, floppy arms, ssshhh, ‘Don’t wake the baby,’ argumentative, critical, ‘Don’t take the bait’, lots of swearing, repeat myself, repeat myself again, snoring, the smell, that smell, those fumes...midnight feasting...’ka-tttccchh’ goes the next can, ‘just so he can sleep,’ adcodol, another can, the kitchen cupboard creaks, the lid of the bottle twists, the deep sigh that follows the glug, back to bed, try again, anxiety, worry, shit, it’s morning.
The spree causes the death of:
Consideration.
(This one, I mourn significantly.) Why can’t he see the table is skew, or the coffee cups outside or the dirty nappy, or the wet towel on the floor, or the unmade bed or the cigarette ash?
Connection.
I had a bad day, I’m feeling tired, I’ve got a sore tummy, I’ve struggled with a deadline. Why can’t he see me?
Sensitivity.
Everything is too loud, everything is antagonistic, as If I’m being taunted, ‘come on, say something...say something about why you Disapprove...’ Again, I remind myself not to take the bait.
Common sense. (RIP)
The keys are gone. The wallet is gone. Missed the turn off. Where are we going? What was the question?
Eventually...the shooter has to end it... so with the gun pointed squarely at his temple, he hates himself. The whites of his eyes bulge wildly, the gasps for air become more urgent, the shame is too much...realization beating the bleeding brain into groggy submission. The more Clarity, the More panic. Then the heaving, wretching, purging, the pacing then Finally, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
Yet...it’s now nearly 1am, and here I lie...alone.
The spree starts off rather innocently, it almost jumps out at you from behind the bush, and you wonder why the hell you didn’t notice the crazy gunman against the greenery? Am I fucking blind? A few beers after squash, a pub lunch with mates, gulps out a bottle, a loud voice, floppy arms, ssshhh, ‘Don’t wake the baby,’ argumentative, critical, ‘Don’t take the bait’, lots of swearing, repeat myself, repeat myself again, snoring, the smell, that smell, those fumes...midnight feasting...’ka-tttccchh’ goes the next can, ‘just so he can sleep,’ adcodol, another can, the kitchen cupboard creaks, the lid of the bottle twists, the deep sigh that follows the glug, back to bed, try again, anxiety, worry, shit, it’s morning.
The spree causes the death of:
Consideration.
(This one, I mourn significantly.) Why can’t he see the table is skew, or the coffee cups outside or the dirty nappy, or the wet towel on the floor, or the unmade bed or the cigarette ash?
Connection.
I had a bad day, I’m feeling tired, I’ve got a sore tummy, I’ve struggled with a deadline. Why can’t he see me?
Sensitivity.
Everything is too loud, everything is antagonistic, as If I’m being taunted, ‘come on, say something...say something about why you Disapprove...’ Again, I remind myself not to take the bait.
Common sense. (RIP)
The keys are gone. The wallet is gone. Missed the turn off. Where are we going? What was the question?
Eventually...the shooter has to end it... so with the gun pointed squarely at his temple, he hates himself. The whites of his eyes bulge wildly, the gasps for air become more urgent, the shame is too much...realization beating the bleeding brain into groggy submission. The more Clarity, the More panic. Then the heaving, wretching, purging, the pacing then Finally, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
Yet...it’s now nearly 1am, and here I lie...alone.
My
husband is having an affair.
There,
I said it.
In
fact, sometimes I wonder whether I am the mistress? She was his high school
sweetheart, after all. But he married me. He chose me, yet I know I always come
in second place.
Sometimes he’ll ask me out for lunch (a sweet gesture, right?) but I am the only one who knows, it is not for me...it is because SHE will be there, and he’ll get a glimpse of her perfection. I’ll smile and laugh with him at the table, but his attention becomes more and more focused on HER.
Sometimes a week will go by, and I try to ignore how SHE has consumed him, his heart, his mind and his body. How can I possibly complete with her hypnotic influence? I can feel his irritation with me, his impatience and annoyance. I can’t give him what SHE can.
When he comes home I can smell HER perfume on his breathe, he whispers HER name is his sleep, he is tormented by his desire for HER and I am powerless to stop it.
Why can’t I be enough? What’s wrong with me? I know I’ve put on a little weight, I know my skin isn’t like it was, I know I have pressures and stresses and worries of my own, I guess that’s what makes me real though? SHE is the bitch who he is married to, I’m just his stupid wife. I sit back, a reluctant observer, while he cheats on me, as inhales her brazenly out his bottle.
Sometimes he’ll ask me out for lunch (a sweet gesture, right?) but I am the only one who knows, it is not for me...it is because SHE will be there, and he’ll get a glimpse of her perfection. I’ll smile and laugh with him at the table, but his attention becomes more and more focused on HER.
Sometimes a week will go by, and I try to ignore how SHE has consumed him, his heart, his mind and his body. How can I possibly complete with her hypnotic influence? I can feel his irritation with me, his impatience and annoyance. I can’t give him what SHE can.
When he comes home I can smell HER perfume on his breathe, he whispers HER name is his sleep, he is tormented by his desire for HER and I am powerless to stop it.
Why can’t I be enough? What’s wrong with me? I know I’ve put on a little weight, I know my skin isn’t like it was, I know I have pressures and stresses and worries of my own, I guess that’s what makes me real though? SHE is the bitch who he is married to, I’m just his stupid wife. I sit back, a reluctant observer, while he cheats on me, as inhales her brazenly out his bottle.
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