He is “OUT”
B must be out of his favorite painkiller and has inevitably decided to take it out on me. Happens every single fucking time.
When he is not riding the amazing feeling of Vicodin, he becomes the hugest asshole on the face of the planet… especially when he is COMPLETELY out.
What the hell did I just walk into?
Every single photo of us together has been taken down from the wall and the frames are stacked up empty.
Are we having a fight I am totally, inexplicably unaware of?
B is in a frenzy. He is edgy, fidgety, flighty, and in the throes of a clammy cold sweat. Oh yea, he is detoxing BIG time. Poor B… no more pills for you. (SMILE).
~Where the fuck are our pictures B?~
The fucking cackle… it is his trademark.
His eyes are darting to the spare bedroom. His smile wicked. His eyes wild. His face is pitiful. He was in his haughty, smug element…which was becoming the new “norm”.
I glance into the spare room, and to my fucking amazement he has torn every single framed picture of us together into tiny little pieces. Not large rips that could be repaired, but like fucking confetti.
~Why the fuck did you rip up all of our pictures?!~
B is frantically getting his shit together. He puts on his shoes… grabs his wallet and car keys… and throws on his leather jacket.
~Uhhhh, where do you think your going? And what about our fucking pictures?!~
– Baby girl, we have more pictures, and it isn’t your business where I am going.-
The cackle, the wild eyes, his blatant rude and cruel mood. I am fed up and seeing red.
I begin crying hysterically.
He decided to rip up our pictures and then give ME this attitude like I have done something wrong.
All that is wrong is that he has an addiction to pills and he is apparently OUT of them. Who better to take it out on than me… right?
My makeup is running into my eyes, tears are running off of my face, snot is streaming down my nose, and my anger has reached an all new high.
I block B from the door because I KNOW where he is going… he is going to go find pills.
He is trying to push by me but I am relentlessly pushing back, hitting him in the chest with my fists, trying to rip his jacket off his fucking body.
~Don’t you love me?! If you loved me you would fuckin try to get better!! You are so fucking cruel! ~
I snatch his key and chuck them across the room.
Now the cackle turns into the “you stepped over the line” smirk and humph sound he loves, second only to the cackle.
His eyes tell me that I better fucking stop. I have crossed the line.
My mascara is running down my eyes and face…my eyes feel so puffy that I can barely see. I am crying to the point that I cannot breath. My fists hurt from hitting him. Our fucking pictures are ripped into smithereens.
What matters to this asshole? The pills.
He retrieves his keys, pushes me aside and holds me at the entryway hall with one arm while opening the front door with the other.
I watch him with the stare of death and lost hope.
He closes the door behind him.
He is “out”.
An hour later he is back… loving, sweet, cuddly, and affectionate.
And his pupils are the size of a pin dot… looks like he found what he was looking for.
© bipolarmuse 2012
** This is a little excerpt of my life that took place in the year 2000. The story is true to my memory and feelings in that moment. Thank you for taking the time to read… it truly means a-lot to me. **