Only twice have Swenny and I allowed one day to become the next without talking: once when he was fishing in Canada with his Dad and brothers, and now. Otherwise, we have spoken every day, often many times, even when living apart. Last week, though, in another attempt at tough love, I told him not to call me until he has been sober for seven days.
One week ago, I stopped at the store where he works to buy lunch. As I came around the corner, he was sending a text to one of his vendors. My greeting interrupted what he was dictating, and having misplaced his patience, he was uncharacteristically short. His hand was shaking badly, and his eyes were glassy. Because it wasn’t the time or place for a public display of affection, I turned and walked away, saving it for the phone call that followed.
“Where did you go?” he asked. I wanted to respond in kind. Instead, I recapped the past fifteen months in less than as many minutes, asking him to get help. And asking again why he has not.
His answer was a shrug of unknowing that was so well pronounced it could be heard. While it sounded like defeat, it was spelled with the same letters used to form exhaustion. And resignation.
Whatever is keeping him from addressing his addiction remains unknown, likely even to him. What I want to know is how far will he decline before he reaches a place beneath which nothing else can burrow.
With just a few hours left before my established expectation of seven days becomes the anticipation of the week ahead, I still hope that he calls. I know he hasn’t been sober, but I want to tell him that love, even in the best of times, is tough. In the hardest of times, it is necessary. And in all times, it is here. Waiting for his call.
So tell me when you’re gonna let me in. I’m getting tired, and I need somewhere to begin. ~ Keane