Sunday, June 2, 2013

I'm Tired of this Shit




Dear P,

It is 11:40 on Wednesday night, 29 May.  I am writing all of this down now so I won’t forget anything or misrepresent the truth.

We just had a huge fight that raged on for about 20 minutes.  You were drunk.  You accused me of wanting to lock you up for life and repeatedly told me you would never forgive me for having you arrested two times.  You said you would never forgive me for the time you spend in jail.  The truth is that if you had not been in my house so drunk and out of control, you wouldn’t have been arrested even once.  I refuse to let you blame me for your behavior.

You accused me of being addicted to opioids and benzos when the truth is that, before you moved in and started stealing my medicine, I could make 30 Xanax tabs last two months.  When I took pain medicine in the past, I have always had about half the pills left for emergencies.  Lately, because of my hip and knee pain, I needed all of my medicine, and because you stole half the bottle from me, I have to do without, at the cost of being in pain. I’m too old for that.

Are you a sociopath along with everything else?  How in the name of God can you take medicine from me when you know I need it?  When I confront you about the issue of stealing from me, you say something like “I didn’t take all of them.” What the hell does that mean?  You appear to have no remorse and you don’t apologize because you think you’ve done nothing wrong.  I have to force you to say you are sorry.

Over the years, I have repeatedly told you that I would have no part of your life unless you were helping yourself.  You were doing the opposite.  I am too old to police you every minute.  I have suffered terribly since Clint died, and I was and still am too fragile for this chaos.  
We will never know how your medicine works if you don’t get sober.  Drinking is the absolute worst thing you can do for your mental health.  You must stop, and I want you to seriously consider a 60-90 day rehab.  God, I hope I don’t have to have a judge order you to rehab.  I will, though.  I will.  I’m not in the rehab business and I am up to my neck with your acting out.  

You were so gassed tonight that you could not remember from minute to minute what you had done and said.  That is, in large part, because you began drinking beer before I got home from the store.  I don’t know why you think I am blind and stupid.  I suppose it is part of the delusional aspect of your illness, but believe me, I know when you are drinking.

Kristy and Bert were here for family time, and we also invited Marnie and Chris, who came over to play his guitar along with YouTube so we could sing along, but you kept interrupting, jumping from song to song because you wanted to.  Nobody wants to watch you drink yourself into oblivion or hear you repeating yourself or being inappropriate and unacceptable and selfish.

It’s a mystery to me that you manage to get your hands on beer.  Where do you get the money?  I lock up my wallet, my pills, my car keys and anything else I don’t want you to get your hands on.  It is true that a drunk will get a drink when he cannot get anything else. 

There can be no repeat of this evening.  It is not written anywhere that I have to tolerate you calling me an asshole and accusing me of not loving you. I don’t have to listen to that tripe.  And I don’t have to watch you kill yourself.



© 2013 cjschlottman

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