Past and Present

     I always over-imagined my husband's sense of shame after he'd hurt me again.  I would go in circles worrying at the self-hatred that drives him to hate and hurt me, having been confronted with the police involvement this time, how deeply ashamed and filled with great remorse he must be--which made sense to me as to why he'd then dive into another alcoholic binge.  I worried that the normally intense shame of physically harming another person might get so bad that he would accidentally or purposely hurt himself in drunken reproach.
     Once in response to me asking him via text how he could abuse then abandon his wife and child for days and weeks at a time, he texted "You make me want to kill myself."  Then no response to anything at all, so that I contacted his counselor to ask what I should do, that he wasn't well mentally and I worried for his safety. She said to text him that I would have to call 911 if he did not answer me back that he was indeed ok. If  he were playing a stupid, frightening game with me, he'd wise up at the mention of 911, and if no response, then I was to call 911 to make sure he hadn't hurt himself. I was shocked to see his suddenly absolutely fine reply, with thanks to having a "real family" who love him. His "real family" dagger excluded  me and our son.
     After he'd hurt me, I'd always go back to make sure he was ok-- fully expecting a deep felt apology and the sworn promise to never ever hurt me again.
     Part of my mistake in returning was based on the harm I'd seen other men enact upon themselves and others in conjunction with alcohol.  Obviously my dad going to jail after setting off a gun on my mom drove the extent of violence under the influence home.  Under the influence. Alcoholics. The alcohol made them say and do things they never would otherwise.
     Once I went to have a sleep-over with my little girlfriend Marci. Upon arrival, her dad was lit. Eyes glossed over as he slurred venom at his wife and daughter. He scared the living hell out of them both.  I knew he was at a dangerous point, violence-wise, about to unleash so much worse if his wife didn't IMMEDIATELY take me home and get her lazy, shitty self together. He told me I should never marry a fucking idiot wife like he did. He informed me that he was like this because she was a fucking mess, a stupid, lazy fucking mess. We never played together again.
     My mom's best-friend in my childhood had a hot-headed Mexican husband and 5 kids we'd all go hang out with.  My dad and Big Louie got along fabulously, drinking, telling stories, laughing their way through more beer. Then one of the two of them would have to "reprimand" one of their children because of something misunderstood under the influence or something that didn't even happen.  Louie was fond of inanimate objects to "discipline" his children: a toaster sailing through the air, electrical cords yanked out of the wall... My dad shook me up out of my seat at the kids' table one dinner to smack me outside.  He thought I was mouthing off, when in fact I'd never uttered a word.  There was no defense when dad or Louie were angry.  It was one of the other kid's voices dad had heard, but you never got the chance to explain or even speak once one of them were angry. The only option was to respect the anger. Dad and Louie were so funny before some unknown final number of drinks... Mexicans made me nervous after having him in our life.
     When I was 9, my dad's best friend Joe put a gun to his head in front of his wife and shot himself in a drunken rage over his wife's dogs. His original threatening intention in another-had-too-much-to-drink explosions was to shoot her dogs.  When she blocked them and pleaded, "Joe, no, please--" he decided aloud that she loved the goddamn dogs more than him, so maybe he should shoot himself instead. And he did. Joe was dead immediately. You know, he was hilarious too, so much fun when the parties started.  Just one drink too many, right? Yes. Alcohol could make you crazy and not know it, and of course, not mean it.
     If only my husband would stop drinking and using drugs.  Surely he would heal and be a good husband and father if he could stop the drugs and alcohol.  Yeh, there would be difficulty in getting through his emotions and problems without the aid of substances.  But I'd help him. I'd always be there for him. He must feel horrible about hurting me like that, right? That was my mistake, in conjecturing what a normal rational person would think about going over the edge with violence. God, I was scared of him, for me, for our son, and for him.
     Last year, one of my best friend's father committed suicide.  He was an alcoholic. It was a volatile home for my friend growing up. There were drunken threats of self-violence, but after years of such  threats, my friend took these as alcohol triggered rants. He would be fine in the next several days, everything still the way it was before.  Except last year, after decades of so much pain and alcohol, last year he finally did what he said he would.  My God, my heart went out to her.  It's devastating, the things that occur in a home under the influence.
     Then one of my husband's best friends from high-school overdosed. The hilarious stories the friends and family shared about the man...Such a tragic circumstance... The "Serenity Prayer" was printed on the back of the program.
     Look how bad these people really felt inside all along, that they went into the dark by it in the end...My husband surely felt as bad for the things he did to me and our son...That's what I conjectured.  That's how it was in the history and present. God help him not to hurt anyone any more...
     My husband is a funny and incredibly affable man. So much fun to hang out with.  Everyone says so.  I used to say so too. But my husband never felt bad about hurting me.  Or our son.  It didn't even register.  All the others' emotions I'd projected upon his psyche--their pain and remorse--he did not feel those things. He felt and stated in various ways all along that it was justifiable. He felt bad for himself. He felt pissed off that the police got involved. And he hated me all the more. 
   He's still publicly so much fun, but privately, he's mean. If you don't do as he wants, he hacks you off at the soul, so you do not exist for him.  He would "love" me in front of a crowd, but hate me when we got back home.