99 bottles of beer on the wall…or vodka stashed in the closet

19 12 2012

I will forgo the usual and somewhat mundane litany of excuses and just get back to the story!

All seemed well at the cocktail party, and he came back to the house that night after being banished for 5 nights, however I went and snuggled up with Clare in her bed. I was mentally shattered and instantly fell into a deep deep dream-less drooling slumber.

At 3 am something woke me up and I see Mort staggering into Clare’s bedroom, fully dressed (though not the same clothes from the night before)…he was saying “are you looking forward to your dinner?” I hissed a torrent of expletives being mindful to not awaken Clare. He looked confused and staggered out. I lay there in my heavy slumber half wondering if I had dreamt it, but the heavy pounding of my heart in my ears confirmed that it was all very real. I was so so so tired so instead of springing out of bed, I fell back asleep. Only to be awoken by the exact same scenario an hour later. I mean literally the same…this time adrenaline trumped sleep and I leapt from the bed and dragged him out of Clare’s room to find space where I could explode.

While I wanted to throw him out instantly, he was clearly delusional and as much as I didn’t want to look at his face I also didn’t want to put him behind the wheel of a car for the safety of others.

So instead we attempted to have a conversation…at this point I have to exercise the censorship clause and not repeat the conversation verbatim because every second word out of my mouth was the omnipotent “Fuck” utilized to its full capacity as a pronoun, verb, noun, pretense, adverb, adjective and just almighty wail.

He attempted to explain his state was to be blamed solely on taking the doctors prescribed medication….oh yep sure…I then did a quick check of the pantry.

I had purchased a case of wine coming into the festive season…it had been sitting dead warm…two bottles were missing…again, warm white wine (sends a shiver down my spine…it obviously did for him too but his was of anticipation and not disgust.) He wasn’t even bothering to hide the evidence.

I made several comments about how I was quite sure that the doctor had not recommended washing down the medication with alcohol. He then stood there and got in the loop of ridiculous questioning about why was I so mad and what had he done wrong.

This was a pivotal moment….the first initiation of physical contact….and it was by me…it wasn’t a hug.

I asked him ever so politely in my Darth Vadar voice to remove his glasses and I pre-warned him that I was going to slap him across the face. He did and I slapped….then I went and grabbed his bag that was still packed and called him a cab….after he left I raided the closet, looking into pockets, drawers, crevaces…..I found 17 mini Smirnoff vodka bottles. I should have slapped him one time for each 50ml worth of deception.


Say cheese

3 12 2012

If you experienced a niggling feeling of deja vu reading that last post, I certainly had that feeling writing it.  It sounded an awful lot like a previous post, and in ensuing weeks I found myself in a devastatingly dysfunctional rendition of groundhog day. But we’ll get to that.

Throwing Mort out for the second time was no easier than the first in terms of the ‘cover’.  We had another big weekend planned with our friends.  One of my good friends is a part-time photographer and so a group of us had her take family portraits and then we were all having dinner together.  Why wasn’t Mort there for the family photos? “Unexpectedly called away for work again”.

Everytime I look on the wall in my room and see the enlarged photos of my girls beaming back at me with their radiant smiles I am so very very grateful that Mort was “grounded” and didn’t feature in these pictures……because they might not have survived the great photo massacre later the next year. Again, we’ll get to that.

While he was at the hotel, we spoke multiple times.  Whenever I said the word divorce he would say something to the effect of “don’t threaten me”, I would simply reply that it wasn’t a threat, it was a reality.  We had another big event coming up in a few days, a cocktail party for the school parents & citizens committee.  The ‘Mort away for work’ story was growing thin as he had never in the history of this job had to go anywhere and now he suddenly had to do it twice in a few weeks.  So we were going to have to put on the ‘front’ with false smiles and attend together.

In the meantime, upon my insistence that he go and talk with his doctor, he said that his doctor had prescribed him medication for anxiety and depression and that should make everything go back to normal. Yep, sure.faces

Step zero

2 12 2012

So as I deliver this last line, he stands there and says, “I don’t understand what I have done wrong and why you are so mad, it’s not like I am having an affair or something.” I am momentarily speechless as I try and process the fact that he thinks there are rating levels of badness, ‘affair’ super bad (which is definitely in keeping with my criteria, but spiking water bottle while taking children for a swim…one of which relies purely on floaties and adult supervision……in his mind , not really rateable).

I tell him that he can continue to pack while I am speaking.  “Actually you are having an affair and her name is Smirnoff – it is all about lies and deceit.”

I stood so very still for a moment, “you are clearly an alcoholic and have a very very serious drinking problem.  What are you going to do about it.  If this is who you want to be then we don’t want to be a part of it and I want a divorce.”

I was in this moment trying to come to grips with the fact that I saying these words to someone that I thought I knew and respected…..the person that I married and had a relationship with all these years…who was this that I was talking to?

He looked straight at me and said “I don’t have a drinking problem.” I spittled back with pointing fingers, “you think you don’t have a drinking problem, are you seriously standing there as you have poured vodka into that water bottle and you are saying that you don’t have a drinking problem (insert hushed screams and eyes bulging) you are clearly delusional and you will go to AA or this marriage is over.”  He vehemently refused saying that he didn’t have a problem.  I pointed out that if his wife of 11 years was standing uttering the word “divorce” due to his behaviour then he sure did.

Now writing this in text it seems that this conversation was long and drawn out, but when the words are flying out in controlled rage it’s all pretty quick.

He then began with a slight beg…a plead….”please don’t make me go, where am I going to go”…..then getting no buy- in from me it turned into a different tone, “I’m not going and you can’t make me”…..”well, actually I can and will”…. as I shoved some of his random crap into a bag and dragged it and him to his car.