Lost and found

oliver-jeffers-cover-from-lost-and-found

So it’s true, then.

Time really does accelerate as you enter the latter decades of your life. Standing here, on the other side of grief and trauma, I’m sucked deeper and faster into the mundane: a relentless flush down a very slick s-bend.  Continue reading

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The truth about marriage to an alcoholic

source: freehdw.com

Walking downhill, on my way back from work. It’s 7pm and the night has already crept up around me. A leaf lies curled on the pavement, one of many littering the walkway. A thought drifts down, sparked by an earlier encounter: me at the corner shop this morning, waiting to buy a packet of mints, standing behind an alcoholic who fumbles for his money and mishears the shopkeeper when he quotes the price for whatever it is the man is buying. Continue reading

Avoidance is everything

Back to back in the kitchen, where the floorspace is the width of my outspread arms.  I am washing pots. He is stirring a pot of soup. Our eyes are fixed on our respective tasks. “More washing up,” I say. “It’s endless.” He sighs in agreement.

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Digging shelters

A few days ago I had my last session with my therapist. She’s moving to another clinic, and I’m not the same person I was just over a year ago, so my need for therapy has come to a natural end. Back then, I was suffering from a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. I was anxious, depressed, distraught, desperate. That gave way to anger and more anger, followed by months of flashbacks and panic attacks. Continue reading

Through the wilds of truth

A lonely and desolate place, Dartmoor. (c)Married to an Alcoholic

A lonely and desolate place, Dartmoor. (c)Married to an Alcoholic

The truth can be a wild and desolate place. Thick with bracken, obscure and wet, it’s a place we flee from as much as we seek it out.

We returned from our family holiday earlier this week. It was our first since Ben has been clean. (Our previous holiday was some years ago – an ill-conceived trip to Morocco. Then, I took us to the old city of Fes, where I’d thought alcohol was prohibited. Turned out it was available – at a price – at our riad. Ben had been so desperate to keep how much he was drinking a secret that he left money in the public fridge for each can of beer he drank – money that vanished, of course, before it made it to the proprietor. The poor man looked incredulous when Ben admitted he’d left payment in the fridge. I was fuming, but that’s a story for another post.) Continue reading