Dark stretch of road
I overthink. A lot. Endless hours with myself and my mind. I can’t say it’s a good place to be. Honestly, it’s often a sad, depressing area. Judging, questioning myself. I question myself enough I sure don’t need anyone else’s input into it.
There’s a simple stretch of interstate that runs through town. I’d say it’s a mile. Maybe two. Two people I’ve known have died on it. I always wondered why. Is it cursed? Is there something odd? How do you wreck driving those short two or less miles on good roads?
This week it’s clicked – You take the interstate to avoid driving in town. To avoid law enforcement. To get to the house party or bar on the other side. That’s how they died. Taking a quicker, DUI free way. To save a ticket the took a road that was faster, less safe and led to their deaths.
How’d I realize this? Taking the same way. For the same reason. Just to get some food. Driving home. Two nights in a row. Thinking of them each time. Thinking they just wanted the “safe” way which cost their lives.
Do I have a problem? If I’m asking myself that I guess the answer is yes. I don’t do real, hard drugs. I rationalize it. Some beers are okay. But those beers have increased since Kira died. Since covid hit. I could be getting high and I’m not.
Yet, I’m using alcohol to cope. I’m slowly drinking more than I’ve drank in years. Why didn’t I drink all those years? Because I couldn’t stop at one. What’s my issue now? I can’t stop at 1. I drink until I’ve had my limit. I drink until the location I’m drinking closes. I drink until I can’t keep my eyes open.
My husband used to bitch I never wanted to drink with him. Now he bitches tonight that I’m a “lush” who goes out every night. That I never come home on time. That I’m just being a “tramp” somewhere. You wanted me to drink. I agree. You don’t like it. You wanted this. It’s not fun. Is it.
He’s awful. He’s mean. He’s hateful. I drink to escape my house. I drink to escape him. I drink to escape my adult child. I drink to escape my sadness over Kira’s death, Brenda’s death. I drink to be numb. I drink to be away. He wanted me to drink. Yet he hates the person I’ve become.
I too hate the person I’m becoming. I hate it. Yet I can’t say no. I crave it by Thursday when the nearby place opens. Crave it. I need the release. The quiet. The calm. I need the numbness my body will feel. Need to be free. Need to stop thinking.
Driving home on that stretch of road again tonight I realized I need to fix this. Tammy would have fixed it. Angie would have fixed it. They didn’t want to die on that dark, cold road. They deserved more. Their kids deserved more. I deserve more.
It may not be meth but it’s still awful. It’s still bad. I don’t want to get to that point. I know better. I am better. Where to even begin tho. It’s not easy. One day at a time. I guess here we go all over again. Not for him. For me. He isn’t worth it. But I am.