He's high again.

I hate it when he's drunk/high. Which is the correct term, when the person is actually an alcoholic, but can no longer drink because he has damaged his liver so completely, and then turns to pills instead?

Is his life so harsh he must have something to dull reality? I honestly don't see what part of his life is so difficult that he needs this crutch. He has a comfortable home, plenty of toys, a good job, plenty of friends, and I'm neither combative nor argumentative. I would give him all the affection any man could possibly handle, if only he gave me the opportunity.

When we first met he was recovering from the emotional blow of his previous wife's infidelity. I thought at the time that his need to drink was a coping mechanism from that or some other traumatic event. I have since come to realize that his drinking IS the actual stimulus for virtually all traumatic events in his life -- including the death of his second wife in a car accident.

The trash talking has started now. Someone at some time must have told him he was cute or funny when he started up with the trash talking, because he always has the same smirk on his face when he starts. Suddenly he has all kinds of ideas about what he wants me to do -- go cook something sweet like a cake or pie, go wash his Harley, go do this or that, like he thinks I'm his mother, personal assistant and slave all rolled into one. Then he starts up with the vulgar bathroom humor. How old is this man, anyway?

Being in the same room with him when his body reeked from whiskey after an all-nighter was simply intolerable. Thank God I no longer have to endure that, plus the physical abuse has stopped as well.

Years ago my stepdaughter lied and manipulated him into such a state while drunk that he grabbed me by the throat while I was on the toilet and actually lifted me in the air. Then, in a very surprising move for me, I instinctively struck out and socked him in the eye. My defensive reaction was a shock for both of us. He threw me down against the bathtub, breaking my ribs.

For several days I had to have my son help me when I needed to get up. But his damage was visible -- for over a month he had a nasty black eye. I still don't know what he told the guys at work, but at least he's never tried anything like that again.

He has finally dropped off to sleep now. I breathe a sigh of relief. For the next two hours peace will reign supreme.

Sleep tight, husband. Sweet dreams.

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