It's been a year to the day, since I found out the extent of your habit, your secret, your full blown addiction.  I was wondering what had me so off kilter.  Was it Bob's horribly abrupt, self inflicted, evacuation of Earth?  Were my meds off? Maybe my hormones?  No, it's been a year of trauma and drama.  It's strange how our brains store things and reminds us of dangers previously perceived.  Like a big old yellow sign only holding the vague message, "CAUTION: WORK AHEAD".  You never know if you're going need a good slam on the brakes or to reroute your entire commute. So, you remain ever vigilant.  And still, you are not here with me entirely, looking back on the past year, and shaking your head in disbelief at the absolute madness of it all.  You're out in the other room, going through withdrawal for what seems to be the hundredth time in the last year.  Unable to be with me, again.

I read two articles tonight, one about the end of marriages, another about the grief stages as applied to relationships.  My conclusion is this: if we don't do something drastic our marriage has less than two years left and I'm already in the middle of grieving it's death.  Where are you, really?  Do you not see that the end is near?  When I leave will you be devastated by the coldness and suddenness of my departure? Or do you have in you what I have always seen? Will you finally take up your sword and go to battle? Or will you blindly bump along until I collapse under what has become the dead weight of our once coveted love and devotion? My soul is exhausted.  It aches for respite from the rigors of living with and loving an addict.  Was this what it was like for you when I was where you are? Help me to get through one more day with you, because I cannot even begin to imagine a day without you. All I know is that these days are numbered and that change is coming fast for us.