I went to a meeting tonight and vented about my Mother’s Day Tea Memo problem, but I’m still pissed off.
I suppose if truth be told, I’m less angry at him and more angry at myself that I’m unable to make any sense of this at all and for the fact that it actually surprised me. Why should anything Mr. N/A does shock or surprise me at all? Why do I keep expecting him to behave like any semblance of a human being? Why does his bad behavior still catch me off guard? Why do I still try to find logic in it?
Things never make sense when you’re dealing with an addict.
If you find yourself turning things around again and again in your head trying to make sense of it… if you cannot find logic or reason… if you are feeling bewildered and befuddled and a bit like you must have zoned out and missed a critical point in the story… chances are, you’ve got an addict on your hands.
They will fuck you up.
But, frankly, I’m tired of giving him the “out” and blaming stuff on his alcohol addiction. He’s really just a great big dick. A drunk dick. Maybe I should nickname him DD, and it sure wouldn’t stand for “Daddy Dearest.”
I have to see him tomorrow for the first time since December at a meeting with my son’s teachers for another matter. It occurred to me that maybe he did this on purpose to try to get me riled up so I would act like a psycho in front of the school staff. But he still doesn’t know that I know what he did. He thinks Joey gave the form to the teacher with his other papers.
I considered having the closed yellow folder in front of me on the table during the meeting for dramatic effect to make him nervous.
Then I decided that he probably wouldn’t give a shit if I knew or not.
I thought about casually asking the teacher for a new form as I happened to let it drop that he had declined the invitation on my behalf without my knowledge, just to show her what kind of a DD I’m really dealing with here. The school staff knows about the divorce and that I prefer not to be around my son’s father for any reason, but I’m sure they just think it’s another case of grown-up playground fights and he-said, she-saids. They really have no idea…
No one really does.
No one, except for those who share the story of having loved an addict, can ever really know.
He drinks his civilized scotch in blissful ignorance, and my head continues to play the brain game, wreaking havoc with my own world as I stubbornly try to make sense of nonsense.