Befriending The Friendless

Lady Tiger, I hope I have put you away for today.  I know you are here to protect me, and fight for me, but I need rest. 

I need rest.

I will not go look at Facebook today.  No more triggers.  I triggered with the depths of my horror, shock, and despair, and was out for five days.  I triggered with the depths of my rage, fear, and pain, and am still trying to recover.  I took my calcium this morning.  Maybe that will help.

I don’t know if I can be a friend to him.  If I am to be the person that I think I want to be, that is how it would work.  A distant friend.  Someone to be ‘nice’ to him.  To respect him despite his insanity of choice.

As for a lover, well, he said he wanted to talk about what how we might get back together.  But he didn’t.  I didn’t feel that I could be the one to start the conversation, but I tried to be there if he wanted to talk.  He only talked about stuff, just stuff, like always.  I tried not to let my huge disappointment show, how it hurt to be offered love only to have it snatched away again.  Maybe he doesn’t mean to play that ‘push me pull you’ game, but maybe he does.  It is power over me, and he has weird issues with power.  I feel like only I bring up the relationship, or how he is truly feeling.  He rarely, if ever, offers.  And if I have to ask, then he allows himself to feel that I am prying, and attacking, and digging up dirt.  He doesn’t seem to want to share, only take.

I can only assume from how terribly odd he was acting last night that he is in full addict mode now.  Even my son, who doesn’t recognize another’s emotional state very often, even he commented yesterday on how He was always seemed to be hiding something.  In His presence, I felt that the air reeked of secrets, and His eyes were glazed over and his voice high with apprehension.  I wonder what he plans on doing this weekend while we are away, how he will act out.  It feels like he has his plans in place.  It hurts to care, to care that he might get well, to care that he might give a damn about me.

I suppose it is all for me, then.  I never thought it was otherwise.  I wanted to bring him happiness because helping others be happy brings me happiness.  It is not dependant on it, but I love to see love and joy light up someone’s face.  Maybe that only makes me feel safe.  Maybe that only makes me feel powerful.  Maybe that only feeds my ego.  Maybe that is not a bad thing, either, though.  Positives rather than negatives.  But maybe I am not supposed to care, and just let people flounder around and kill themselves as they will, and hate themselves to death, and suffer, and just watch and nod my head and cry and hold out my hand if they ever want it. 

To love someone, with no hope of reciprocation, no hope of love in return.  I guess that is unconditional love.  I firmly believe that is the love a mother has for a child, not the love needed to cement a bond in a partnership.  Partnership requires trust, and nurturing, and safety on both sides.

Or, an addict for his addiction.  That is an empty, twisted form of unconditional love.  The addiction, it may offer pleasure, sometimes, then simply relief from the constant pain life in addiction creates, but it will never love him back, or nurture him, or want good things for him, or hold him when he feels lonely and afraid.  It may know all his secrets, but it doesn’t give a damn about his life, or his health, or his love.  It simply demands he feed it, continue the existence and life of that single brain pathway, dig in even deeper into his real existence.  He has become a faulty computer program, stuck in an endless loop which uses up all the cpu and completes nothing.  Useless function.  But he cannot reboot, will not, fears it more than living with addiction, for the addiction owns his fear response, his needs, his hopes, has usurped his entire brain to continue its useless loop.  Cells desperate to keep their massive stimulation, for without, they too, wither and die.  A cancer of his mind.  And he loves it.  Learned helplessness in the face of unrelenting misery and single minded, truly single minded brain function.

He has no room for me.  I think I only fit into his existence when he could neatly tuck me into one of his addictions.  But his addictions have been his true love for much longer than he has known me.  I cannot compete with the exquisite pain of the lover he takes with him everywhere.  I think his childhood left a huge hole in the pathway of his mother-safe-love brain, and the addictions tried to fill that hole, and I tried to fill the constant hole left in his life due to the addictions.  But his misery and the addictions he uses to run from it are his real life.  Within that constant running game, there is no room for anyone else.  Not even the person that he might have been, maybe once was.

The secrets increase rather than diminish.  The addict returns.  I experienced sneering man the day before yesterday, and now he is hiding something huge.  Something even my son can sense.  He has no sponsor to talk to.  When the urges hit, he will have no reflex of calling someone for help, so he will fall back into the reflex of addiction.  He has no support group outside his scheduled days, new rituals which may help, but there is no emergency valve when things go wrong for him. 

I don’t think he wants one.  I think the addiction is still calling all the shots behind the scenes.  His life still revolves around his misery and rituals which usurped his brain from lack of mother’s protective love.

So sad.  If I had been the perfect enabler, maybe he would still want me.  If I were to cook and feed him into diabetes and catastrophic obesity, buy him cartons of cigarettes, piss and moan about how he didn’t pay me any attention but prefered his books and his porn and strippers nd prostitutes, then maybe he could finally find that perfect loop of addiction where all his fears and all his justifications were absolutely true, and he could feel guilty and shamed and totally justified all at the same time.

But I am not that person.  I wanted him to be healthy, a weight for his size that he carried with pride.  Not waking up coughing and hacking every morning and chronically out of breath and high blood pressure and ugly teeth and hands and smell from smoking.  I wanted him to enjoy the activities in life that he dreamed to try, building things, creating, bringing himself joy.  I wanted him to enjoy my body with me, and me enjoy his, and try pleasurable things and scary things and exciting things and loving things and silly things together.  I wanted to cook side by side, and build side by side, and sleep side by side, and hold hands when we couldn’t walk anymore.

But his addiction has other plans, and that is his true love.  Against that powerful obsession, I cannot complete.  There is no room for me.

I have been friends with such people before.  It wasn’t what I wanted for a marriage.  It wasn’t what I wanted with him.  I thought he had so, so much more to offer.  But I have almost two years to survive.  I must try to find a way to act like a friend.

Not because he deserves it.  Not because he asked for it.  Not because he even wants it.  But because that is the person I would choose to be.  At least a friend.

I should find this goal, add my goals to my daily prayers page.  Every day, every day.  Be polite.  Be respectful.  Be confrontational if absolutely necessary.  Be honest, although I must be careful with this because if he is truly a narcissist, being open and honest with him is downright dangerous.  Be available if he ever does come around to wanting to talk.  Be nonjudgemental, which is hard, but if I can do it with my sons, I can do it with this man.

This man.  I thought would be my best friend and lover.  I will be sad for him, and for us, and what might have been, if his emptiness and his vain attempts to fill it are all he has left.  Another life lost.  Another person who will be miserable forever.  Maybe that is what all my attempts of love had in common:  they had no room for love, no room for me, their misery consumed everything.

Some articles on ‘The Art Of Manliness’ describe true love, people who are truly in love and each other’s best friends for all their lives. 

I cry for myself, and my friend.

There are times I miss him so, so very much.  I miss my beautiful husband, who died in a far off land and I only received the news by cruel messenger.  I miss my wedding ring, funny thing to miss, but it meant so much to me, this marriage.  I will miss this name, even though it hurts every time I say or use it for now.  I miss feeling like someone cared about me even when I wasn’t around to see it.  I miss having a friend to stand beside and stand up for and feel protective of, even when he wasn’t there to see it.  I miss my best friend and I probably always will.  But that man I miss never existed, and I don’t really know or understand this stranger who took his place, this doppelgänger with his face, his evil twin brother. 

I hope someday he finds real happiness, even if it is not ever to be with me.


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