I can say I hope my happiness is not dependent on my husband's recovery, but can I live it? The fact is, I really need to get a life. I've spent so much time thinking about him, his problem, and the ripples it has made that I'm actually afraid there's nothing more for me.

Flashback to when I was in sixth grade:

I was a latchkey kid who came home from school, scared to be alone. Because I'd eaten uncontrollably this hour the previous day, my body sent me straight to the bathroom, where I'd convince myself, behind locked door, that someone was in the house. With hairbrush or hairspray in hand, I'd finally get the nerve to come out and face the nothing I found, usually to the tune of 'what's to eat?'

I'd eat the tastiest things I could find, all the while hating myself because yesterday I'd promised never to do this again and here I was. I'd eat till sick or until my depressed dad came home. Every day I was in front of the t.v. by then, with a secret stomach ache, seeing his head over the opening between the kitchen and dining room of our ranch house, asking me if I learned anything new today but not listening for an answer.

My mom would come home and cook, and I'd stuff dinner into my already full belly. Sick. The only things I'd get lost in were Donahue, drawing, books, Barbies, homework, softball in the summer until my skills plateaued and I quit, and then sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Food was always the most reliable escape.

***

I'm no stranger to self-mutilation, having trouble accepting love, negativity, and addiction. This brain of mine doesn't ignore much, either. The buzzword, I learned at 30, is acceptance. I'm a mere speck of life, not a god. God juice fuels me but I'm not god. Those of us who make the most mistakes become the wisest, or not.

***

My parents divorce, in the summer before I started high school, came as a shock. My mom told me too much of what sounded like my dad growing sick of my mom. I later realized he was just sick period. Both my grandfathers were alcoholics. My parents were dry drunks. The well of love in a dry household is just that. Lucky me. My lonely mom began to share more and more of her troubles with me, her impressionable, pre-pubescent daughter. My sister was always in la la land, but my mom knew she could count on me. My mom turned her mental strife into physical anxiety--she became and still is a progressively worse hypochondriac, now with a gambling addiction.

I was fixated on people's problems, plus I had my own private one, which I thought I hid under baggy clothes (fat, not pregnancy). I was so insecure and rarely shown normal love that all of my boyfriends happened to use drugs. Well, the one who didn't was the worst because I clung to him for dear life while despising him. That was fun. My issues stuck out with the normal guy so I hated him for it. I see that now.

***

Lessons in how not to screw up my own kids...

My mom is neurotic. I turn her off and end conversations sooner than I used to. She is SO generous but so unwise. She told my daughter, who attends an almost all black school, that black people have high blood pressure and eat a lot of salty chicken. AHHHHHH! I told her this was totally inappropriate! I said, "Rachel, do you know what high blood pressure is?"
"No."
"Mom, do you?"
"Well--"
"No, you don't. Just leave it alone."

My dad is calling me now. He doesn't understand why he walks through life depressed. His dad was an extreme jerk to him and he thinks it's his own fault. People don't realize what alcohol does to a family. He has been wonderful to talk to, encouraging, motivating, and supportive. His efforts to help me have been a blessing for both of us. I will always have a soft spot for my dad, no matter what.

***

And in all the crap that has resembled a giant pile of dirty laundry, underneath it all is my soul. It knows my talents, my likes and dislikes, and love. There HAVE been some moments of clarity throughout my life. I've kept a collection of them, maybe my soul did, because they ended being being puzzle pieces of my spiritual life. I've completed the puzzle and grown.

My kids need the love I craved as a kid. That's all. And they will know more than me when they are parents. That's the way it works. Me reacting to what was, what I cannot change, makes for a scared, fumbling, backwards life. Me having the courage to change what I can and finding the serenity to do so from the only guaranteed source breaks ground for the authentic me.

That means if I accept my husband back it's with the condition that I only look forward.

He was certainly not put here to make me happy--I was. Not to mention who I want to/need to be for my kids.