The time on the stove said, “11:13pm”. The lights were off in my parents living room, I was visiting them at the time. I was sitting in my father’s yellow easy-chair talking on the phone to my husband.
I swiveled around in circles in the yellow chair while my conversation with my husband spiraled out of control. He was back in New York, allegedly working. The problem was that every time I left him alone he seemed to forget he was a husband. While I was having family time in rural Ontario, Canada, he spent his days doing God only knows. I didn’t know where he was. That was the whole problem.
You see, I married a drug addict.
I could tell you about my husband’s pain and the reasons why he used drugs. I could also tell you of his great successes and his savant-like skills in technology but this story isn’t about him.
This story is about me.