Discovering blondes are more fun
I vividly remember the first time I felt somewhat like an artifact in my own marriage – an object, a fragment, perhaps a spurious result.
Years ago, on the first cold day in October, I pulled my packed-away winter coat out of the storage closet in an attempt to walk the kids to school and not turn blue.
As I yanked, a bottle escaped out of one sleeve and bonked me on the shin. I stood for a moment watching the tiny amount of amber liquid slosh from side to side. You see I rarely drink and when I do, I’m pretty confident it’s not Scotch (yuck). It slowly hit me. He’s cheating on me – the love of his life is this blonde in the bottle.
For years, my husband battled demons from a tumultuous childhood, always with a trusted therapist at his side. I learned late that physical abuse, especially with boys, can have an effect as devastating as childhood sexual abuse. With abuse comes trauma and with trauma comes anxiety. Alcohol is the readily-available, socially-accepted, self-medication cure-all for anxiety – until addiction sets in. Adding anti-depressants into the mix can cause disastrous results. Honestly, he hadn’t had a drink in front of me for years.
The secrecy, the hours spent in the basement, the never coming to bed and falling asleep in front of the TV instead was just now making sense. I knew he wasn’t being honest with me – I just didn’t know how or why.
Apparently betrayal comes in all sorts of shapes and sizes. To this day, I still shiver when ice hits the sides of a glass.
