Tonight, my friends, we are going to talk about a few commonalities in an alcoholic relationship: control, secrecy, and trust.
Since the beginning, I came to know how oddly secretive my husband is. "He's just shy", I'd think to myself and explain to others. Shy became Introverted, which turned into Private, then crossed over to Secretive. Something has always felt amiss, and with the fervor of any "lovestruck" young woman I brushed that Something aside.
As far back as our first few years of dating, secrets showed up in drawers, rang on phones, displayed on cellphone bills, and were pieced together by innocuous, passing comments of family and friends. More often than not, though, secrets usually revealed themselves in the teeters and missteps of his gymnastic deception. Lying is a craft that cannot succeed without a diligent memory, and I can only imagine that arrogance, laziness and just plain exhaustion from keeping it all straight creates the cracks for the light to shine on in.
And today there was some definite light shed. And a light bulb for me.
Trust has not been a bedfellow of ours for many, many years, a result of consistently finding out that my husband had been dishonest about something. And each and every time I have discovered his dishonesty, he would accuse me:
"You're a snoop!"
"I guess that's what happens when you look in my phone."
"Stop looking through my stuff!"
He was insulted. How dare I discover his lying? Because sheer suspicion has never been enough to coax the truth from him. Not by a long shot.
"If you accuse someone, you'd better have proof! You can't just accuse me without evidence!" He likes to say.
Trust has not been a bedfellow of ours for many, many years, a result of consistently finding out that my husband had been dishonest about something. And each and every time I have discovered his dishonesty, he would accuse me:
"You're a snoop!"
"I guess that's what happens when you look in my phone."
"Stop looking through my stuff!"
He was insulted. How dare I discover his lying? Because sheer suspicion has never been enough to coax the truth from him. Not by a long shot.
"If you accuse someone, you'd better have proof! You can't just accuse me without evidence!" He likes to say.
As a "high functioning" alcoholic, my husband is successful and makes good money. Without giving away numbers, let's discuss a clumsy third analogy and say that in the span of incomes there are peanuts, cashews, pistachios, pine nuts and macadamia nuts (Macadamia nuts meaning ridiculously, exponentially wealthy because I mean really, the only people buying macadamia nuts besides tourists at Hawaiian Walmarts are the same people who could just as easily slip them in their vintage, quilted Chanel. I predict macadamia nuts will be the currency in some apocalyptic, dystopian future).
I make peanuts at my venture currently, while my husband makes pistachios. We're not wealthy, we're comfortable. We're not wanting for anything and theoretically there should be plenty left over. My husband makes deposits into our joint account (opened just last year) each payday, and though he uses our account, he also uses his personal account. It's never felt right - as if he was keeping money for himself, or away from me at least. It was "our" money but I had no access to it. When I confronted him about my concerns, he didn't budge.
"This is how I do things. And if you don't like it, that's not my problem." Control.
The deposits fluctuated and would eventually become smaller over time. Hmm...if he's putting in this much, where is the rest going? I thought. After crunching the numbers (or Pistachios, as it were) on fixed expenses while at his previous job, I thought, Hmm...there should be plenty of money left over. I mean, he makes Pistachios.
One day, frantic and convinced he was somehow spending money where I couldn't see it, I searched the credit card bills and the mail and the paperwork scattered throughout our home. There had to be some kind of trail. The bills added up, nothing seemed out of place. Something still didn't seem right.
Hmm, maybe there's a savings account I don't know about?
Maybe he's investing in stock?
And then one day, after a particularly horrible week with two strokes of potentially costly bad luck, our account had been overdrawn and my husband addressed it by phone with me. I tried to explain the expenses we had - his birthday amongst them - and that he had been four days late with his biweekly deposit. Of course, I didn't also mention that he himself was also using the account, so why was I to blame? He would hear none of it. He told me there would be big changes in the management of our account. Namely, he was severely limiting my spending money. He told me that for every $1 I put in, he would deposit $3. Nevermind that he's dissuaded me from having a job because in his words, my venture is my "full-time job."
The worst part was this exchange:
"You're going to starve me? Is that your plan?"
"No - you'll have food. You'll have shelter, and food. But that's it." His calm was bone chilling.
My husband was now my keeper.
"It's a pretty good deal if you ask me - $3 is a pretty good return for $1."
As a program friend put it - "Nothing personal, right? It's just business."
Weeks later the payday arrives and a drastically reduced deposit is put into our account. I somehow scrounge and make it last. The next payday comes, and as I'm rushing to finish my husband's breakfast and lunch for the day, he quietly opens his wallet and places some cash on the counter nearby.
Furthering the nut analogy, let's say the amount was Peanuts.
Peanuts. He put peanuts on the counter. Peanuts is not enough to cover groceries for a week, or gas, or anything else we need for our home. Peanuts will be gone in days. Peanuts is not enough to help fund my venture. Peanuts is all I will see for the next two weeks, and surely the account will be overdrawn because it's peanuts. Peanuts is punishment. The reason for the punishment is a post in and of itself, for another day. But his history of violent behavior with me has caused me to, wouldn't you know, be a teensy bit apprehensive about having children with him. At times this makes him insane with anger and resentment. As a result, and partially in his own words, peanuts is my punishment; my consequence for being hurt by his abuse, consistently unstable moods and behavior.
This morning as I resumed unpacking, put off the last couple of weeks due to venture demands, I started to attempt to organize our closet. Surrounded by outerwear and dress shirts, I pushed a section aside to make room and felt something in a leather jacket's sleeve. I felt again. Not there. I went to move the section once more and that's when I felt it - a firm lump in the front pocket. And that's when I found it.
A huge, mobster-movie wad of $100 bills. Lots of them. So many I knew it was thousands. I was shaking.
I put the money back and stood there, staring at the jacket. I paced out of the room, into the kitchen without purpose, back into the bedroom, into the closet. My vision blurred as my mind raced, my thoughts scrambled.
I knew it.
Why is he keeping this here?
He doesn't want me to know.
How long has he been hiding this from me?
Why isn't this in a savings account?
He's a liar.
How long did it take to save this?
We owe my parents money.
What else is he hiding?
I wouldn't even know even if he *did* had a savings account!
He's preparing to leave me.
Attorneys can't find cash in the closet.
Sure, maybe there is a completely rational, reasonable explanation for him hiding cash in a huge wad in one of his jackets in our closet without telling me he was saving "our" money. Maybe there's a reason he chose not to open a secret bank account that I would never be able to find out about. But in my gut it just made sense. As with anything else I've ever found out, it was a confirmation of an intuition; you see what you've suspected all along right in front of your eyes, and as your stomach jumps and squirms it tells you "See? You were right!" And you have never been so completely pissed to be right.
So it made sense. Of course, I thought. This is where it's going. This explains the peanuts. I grabbed the wad, jumped into the bathroom and locked the door, running the water in the sink to hide the sound of me counting the cash. My hands shook so hard I kept dropping the cash. Started over. Lost count. Dropped it again. Turned off the water, turned it back on. Started counting again.
I need to make piles of $1000 to keep track, I had the sense to realize.
The bills kept tangling, piles were blurred. I can't tell you how many times it took me to recount, but once I had the total I was flabbergasted. More than a month's pay before taxes was sitting there on our cluttered counter, next to the empty tube of toothpaste. Falling onto the floor next to his sneakers.
I have never seen so much cash in front of me in my entire life.
The shaking continued as my anger grew. He gave a paltry 2.5% of this to last me two weeks. To buy groceries to make HIS meals, to unknowingly help him save THESE thousands and thousands of dollars in complete secrecy in a leather jacket in our closet. The designer leather jacket that I bought him years ago (eBay), coincidentally. The leather jacket I remember unpacking a couple of weeks ago, empty pockets and all.
My heart sped up and my legs started moving. I wanted to confront him immediately. What would I say? Surely our trip for the 4th of July would be off. He's going to be pissed and punish me for finding his secret.
I took a small amount of it, intent on mailing it to my mom. I searched my work desk, saying I was going to send her a note to cheer her up, and that I would be back soon, all the while feeling the cash scream out from my own pocket.
On the way to the post office, my mom told me to confront him. That she didn't know what she would do. That sending the money to her would be stooping to his level. To talk to him. My friend back home had different advice.
"There's more money. That's just the hiding place you found accidentally. Don't confront him until you've searched every nook and cranny. And when you do tell him - be careful. He's going to be pissed. Just be safe."
I had already turned the car around, my fingers sweating on the wheel, intent to say nothing. The money in the pocket was the ace up my sleeve. "Just because we know something doesn't mean we need to do something about it right now," I've heard it said. Before Al Anon I would have marched straight out of that closet with the gangster-wad leading the way, indignant and resentful, full of adrenaline, demanding answers.
At lunch I choked down my entire meal, nauseated and without hunger. I smiled. I talked about normal things. I attempted to look like my previously buoyant, bubbly self. He said things I half-heard.
"...the tv we have now is 42" I think..."
You've been hiding money from me.
"...Later this year the new Xbox is coming out. Will you continue the tradition of buying it for me? Haha."
Wow. You're a liar.
"...and then we can bring our bikes with us..."
Thousands - thousands!
Throughout the day I calmed down, still seeing the wad of thousands on his face, in-between the lines of his conversation. I said nothing.
The trust is gone.
Hours later, a reminder rang my cellphone that afternoon. It was the local shop, telling me how well I had done that month, that despite their poor performance I had done amazingly. So the reminder is that I can take care of myself. It may not be enough right now, but I can do it. It was a small comfort in the engulfing panic of catastrophizing:
Divorce?
Attorneys can't find cash in the closet.
This is his parachute.
There just doesn't seem to be another reason.
When we ended the phone call, my husband listened to me rattle off the recount of our conversation, visibly excited at my success. I told him how hard I'd been on myself these last couple weeks, that I felt my venture couldn't possibly go anywhere. That I was depressed and grieving my dream.
"I thought, 'What was I thinking? I should get a job already - I mean what am I doing?' "
"No no - look how well you're doing! You'll sit here and work on your venture all day, and you'll see - you'll get there!"
He came over and held me, and swayed me slowly side to side as he consoled me.
Is this a lie?
If I hadn't found that money this would be true.
I'm not sure how much longer I can keep it to myself. For 24 hours the small amount I "borrowed" was still in my possession, while I thought of where to put it, whether back into the gangster-wad or into a hollowed out book. Under a lamp? Somewhere in the car? Bag of flour? Paranoia colors every possible place as just so discoverable. My sponsor had a different idea.
"If he's stashing that money away, he is certain just how much is there. He probably counts it every single time he adds more. I would put it back as soon as you can, and check after the next payday to see how much was added."
Damn. She's right. And if I didn't return it soon enough, there's also the chance my husband would notice the amount missing and simply move the location of the stash without saying a word to me. And then what?
I have vacillated between anger and resignation, but I remain committed to my own sanity, which is to stop going in analytical circles of Why and When and How Long. So for now, the only thing I can do is continue to do the next right thing, and take care of myself and focus on things that lift me up and clear my mind and soul. And one day I will know what to say, and how to say it, and what to do.
"This is how I do things. And if you don't like it, that's not my problem." Control.
The deposits fluctuated and would eventually become smaller over time. Hmm...if he's putting in this much, where is the rest going? I thought. After crunching the numbers (or Pistachios, as it were) on fixed expenses while at his previous job, I thought, Hmm...there should be plenty of money left over. I mean, he makes Pistachios.
One day, frantic and convinced he was somehow spending money where I couldn't see it, I searched the credit card bills and the mail and the paperwork scattered throughout our home. There had to be some kind of trail. The bills added up, nothing seemed out of place. Something still didn't seem right.
Hmm, maybe there's a savings account I don't know about?
Maybe he's investing in stock?
And then one day, after a particularly horrible week with two strokes of potentially costly bad luck, our account had been overdrawn and my husband addressed it by phone with me. I tried to explain the expenses we had - his birthday amongst them - and that he had been four days late with his biweekly deposit. Of course, I didn't also mention that he himself was also using the account, so why was I to blame? He would hear none of it. He told me there would be big changes in the management of our account. Namely, he was severely limiting my spending money. He told me that for every $1 I put in, he would deposit $3. Nevermind that he's dissuaded me from having a job because in his words, my venture is my "full-time job."
The worst part was this exchange:
"You're going to starve me? Is that your plan?"
"No - you'll have food. You'll have shelter, and food. But that's it." His calm was bone chilling.
My husband was now my keeper.
"It's a pretty good deal if you ask me - $3 is a pretty good return for $1."
As a program friend put it - "Nothing personal, right? It's just business."
Weeks later the payday arrives and a drastically reduced deposit is put into our account. I somehow scrounge and make it last. The next payday comes, and as I'm rushing to finish my husband's breakfast and lunch for the day, he quietly opens his wallet and places some cash on the counter nearby.
Furthering the nut analogy, let's say the amount was Peanuts.
Peanuts. He put peanuts on the counter. Peanuts is not enough to cover groceries for a week, or gas, or anything else we need for our home. Peanuts will be gone in days. Peanuts is not enough to help fund my venture. Peanuts is all I will see for the next two weeks, and surely the account will be overdrawn because it's peanuts. Peanuts is punishment. The reason for the punishment is a post in and of itself, for another day. But his history of violent behavior with me has caused me to, wouldn't you know, be a teensy bit apprehensive about having children with him. At times this makes him insane with anger and resentment. As a result, and partially in his own words, peanuts is my punishment; my consequence for being hurt by his abuse, consistently unstable moods and behavior.
This morning as I resumed unpacking, put off the last couple of weeks due to venture demands, I started to attempt to organize our closet. Surrounded by outerwear and dress shirts, I pushed a section aside to make room and felt something in a leather jacket's sleeve. I felt again. Not there. I went to move the section once more and that's when I felt it - a firm lump in the front pocket. And that's when I found it.
A huge, mobster-movie wad of $100 bills. Lots of them. So many I knew it was thousands. I was shaking.
I put the money back and stood there, staring at the jacket. I paced out of the room, into the kitchen without purpose, back into the bedroom, into the closet. My vision blurred as my mind raced, my thoughts scrambled.
I knew it.
Why is he keeping this here?
He doesn't want me to know.
How long has he been hiding this from me?
Why isn't this in a savings account?
He's a liar.
How long did it take to save this?
We owe my parents money.
What else is he hiding?
I wouldn't even know even if he *did* had a savings account!
He's preparing to leave me.
Attorneys can't find cash in the closet.
Sure, maybe there is a completely rational, reasonable explanation for him hiding cash in a huge wad in one of his jackets in our closet without telling me he was saving "our" money. Maybe there's a reason he chose not to open a secret bank account that I would never be able to find out about. But in my gut it just made sense. As with anything else I've ever found out, it was a confirmation of an intuition; you see what you've suspected all along right in front of your eyes, and as your stomach jumps and squirms it tells you "See? You were right!" And you have never been so completely pissed to be right.
So it made sense. Of course, I thought. This is where it's going. This explains the peanuts. I grabbed the wad, jumped into the bathroom and locked the door, running the water in the sink to hide the sound of me counting the cash. My hands shook so hard I kept dropping the cash. Started over. Lost count. Dropped it again. Turned off the water, turned it back on. Started counting again.
I need to make piles of $1000 to keep track, I had the sense to realize.
The bills kept tangling, piles were blurred. I can't tell you how many times it took me to recount, but once I had the total I was flabbergasted. More than a month's pay before taxes was sitting there on our cluttered counter, next to the empty tube of toothpaste. Falling onto the floor next to his sneakers.
I have never seen so much cash in front of me in my entire life.
The shaking continued as my anger grew. He gave a paltry 2.5% of this to last me two weeks. To buy groceries to make HIS meals, to unknowingly help him save THESE thousands and thousands of dollars in complete secrecy in a leather jacket in our closet. The designer leather jacket that I bought him years ago (eBay), coincidentally. The leather jacket I remember unpacking a couple of weeks ago, empty pockets and all.
My heart sped up and my legs started moving. I wanted to confront him immediately. What would I say? Surely our trip for the 4th of July would be off. He's going to be pissed and punish me for finding his secret.
I took a small amount of it, intent on mailing it to my mom. I searched my work desk, saying I was going to send her a note to cheer her up, and that I would be back soon, all the while feeling the cash scream out from my own pocket.
On the way to the post office, my mom told me to confront him. That she didn't know what she would do. That sending the money to her would be stooping to his level. To talk to him. My friend back home had different advice.
"There's more money. That's just the hiding place you found accidentally. Don't confront him until you've searched every nook and cranny. And when you do tell him - be careful. He's going to be pissed. Just be safe."
I had already turned the car around, my fingers sweating on the wheel, intent to say nothing. The money in the pocket was the ace up my sleeve. "Just because we know something doesn't mean we need to do something about it right now," I've heard it said. Before Al Anon I would have marched straight out of that closet with the gangster-wad leading the way, indignant and resentful, full of adrenaline, demanding answers.
At lunch I choked down my entire meal, nauseated and without hunger. I smiled. I talked about normal things. I attempted to look like my previously buoyant, bubbly self. He said things I half-heard.
"...the tv we have now is 42" I think..."
You've been hiding money from me.
"...Later this year the new Xbox is coming out. Will you continue the tradition of buying it for me? Haha."
Wow. You're a liar.
"...and then we can bring our bikes with us..."
Thousands - thousands!
Throughout the day I calmed down, still seeing the wad of thousands on his face, in-between the lines of his conversation. I said nothing.
The trust is gone.
Hours later, a reminder rang my cellphone that afternoon. It was the local shop, telling me how well I had done that month, that despite their poor performance I had done amazingly. So the reminder is that I can take care of myself. It may not be enough right now, but I can do it. It was a small comfort in the engulfing panic of catastrophizing:
Divorce?
Attorneys can't find cash in the closet.
This is his parachute.
There just doesn't seem to be another reason.
When we ended the phone call, my husband listened to me rattle off the recount of our conversation, visibly excited at my success. I told him how hard I'd been on myself these last couple weeks, that I felt my venture couldn't possibly go anywhere. That I was depressed and grieving my dream.
"I thought, 'What was I thinking? I should get a job already - I mean what am I doing?' "
"No no - look how well you're doing! You'll sit here and work on your venture all day, and you'll see - you'll get there!"
He came over and held me, and swayed me slowly side to side as he consoled me.
Is this a lie?
If I hadn't found that money this would be true.
I'm not sure how much longer I can keep it to myself. For 24 hours the small amount I "borrowed" was still in my possession, while I thought of where to put it, whether back into the gangster-wad or into a hollowed out book. Under a lamp? Somewhere in the car? Bag of flour? Paranoia colors every possible place as just so discoverable. My sponsor had a different idea.
"If he's stashing that money away, he is certain just how much is there. He probably counts it every single time he adds more. I would put it back as soon as you can, and check after the next payday to see how much was added."
Damn. She's right. And if I didn't return it soon enough, there's also the chance my husband would notice the amount missing and simply move the location of the stash without saying a word to me. And then what?
I have vacillated between anger and resignation, but I remain committed to my own sanity, which is to stop going in analytical circles of Why and When and How Long. So for now, the only thing I can do is continue to do the next right thing, and take care of myself and focus on things that lift me up and clear my mind and soul. And one day I will know what to say, and how to say it, and what to do.
Thank you so much for making this blog! I have been laying here reading this in tears because this is my husband. It's comforting to know I'm not alone. I just started my own blog over the weekend, so I could have something to do while my husband sits and drinks in the other room by himself. A lot of times I feel like he loves his beer bottle more than me. My husband and I both have our personal accounts that we had when we were single. We opened a joint account but that's more like a savings account. I feel for you in this situation. I feel like no matter what I'm sure you will get in trouble. That's how I feel living with a functional alcoholic. Now, I just need to catch up and read the rest of your blogs. :)
ReplyDeleteWe used to be pistacio earners. Now it's all we can muster to bring in peanuts. His drinking has finally driven us out of that bracket and it has become difficult to get beyond that. Some how when we had a comfortable lifestyle it eas easier to cover up his addiction and to ignor it. Now that we are older and loosing our financial grip, iLife has become gloomy and desperate. If I had just done something when we were financially able. Now i can't even afford counseling or a lawyer. Oh well no ones fault but my own.
DeleteThanks for the blog. Please keep sharing.
ReplyDeleteAs for the reduction in funds towards Groceries etc. just reduce the quality of his lunch and dinner. The extreme would be a Spam sandwich for lunch or a peanut and jelly sandwich. You are running a household just like a business, when funds are cut so are the perks. Be careful with the cash. Like the counselor said tampered with, it could be moved and never to be found again; take the whole wad and use it to hire a lawyer. Give it to mom to hold so he can't claim it. Hope I'm not over stepping by giving advice, keep consulting with your counselor.
Oh, my gosh. I am feeling your heart right now while reading this, and I know EXACTLY what this is like. The inability to believe anything he says, but ACTING like I do. The total bizarre feeling of dancing in his arms in the kitchen while knowing he's doing X when he'd drinking after work, or that he stole money from my account, and even though I found the receipt and the charge was on my card and the item is in my house (a present, he said, for me!), he still completely, flat-out denies it. It's so freaky, to act loving to a person while knowing it's all a facade. And I have been called a "f**king gumshoe" because of my research into the lies. But I can't help researching. Because I want to know I'm not crazy. And also because he is so brazen with his lies! Like hiding thousands of dollars in a closet, my AH's secrets are thinly veiled. He never expects me to look. He thinks he's pulling it off.
ReplyDelete