Here we go again. I had to call the police last night to get you to leave the house after a two-day binge. Marlie sat here and argued with you, the police tried to tell me you needed more treatment. At last you left on foot with your sleeping bag.
The bull headedness, just refusing to listing to anyone. Just want to stay here. It was just a slip.
But you don't believe in slips and neither do I.
Because I sent you out to work in the van.
Part of the process, you said. Well the process is going to keep going until you are in jail, dead or we're divorced.
The only options I have if you refuse to cooperate is to get you arrested and charge you with stealing money from our business account -- my account -- or let them search your van for paraphenalia, or claim I'm afraid of you - which I am -- or divorce you.
Which would you prefer? Or go to rehab. Or just go away.
Marlie asked me last night in the meeting "How do you feel?" I had to say I don't. I don't feel. I just have to keep working and keep solving the huge problems. It's like that reality show where the big floaties keep coming and the people have their vision and breathing obstructed with swim mask and fins keep them off kilter, stumbling and trying to avoid tripping. Eventually, most of them fall.
The kids are suffering. I'm suffering. You are too. Please please stop.
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