Praying for Death

I hate the way he breathes; after years of cocaine use he has a constant drip and whistle, much like a snot nosed child, but he is not cute.

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I hate the way he comes home and his jaw is twisted tight, jerking back and forth much like the head of an old typewriter.

I hate his glassy wild eyes and sweat beaded forhead.

I hate listening to him attempt to speak with is lead like tongue flapping out of control between tightly puckered lips.

I hate him attempting to touch me with harsh, drug laddened hands.

I HATE HIM. I HATE MYSELF FOR HATING HIM.

I hate lieing to my children, my in-laws, my neighbors, my coworkers, my children's friends, and my family to cover his erratic, psychotic behaviors.

I hate working four jobs and still being broke as he steals every cent and pawns our belongings.

I hate the stench of his breath as he staggers in from another alcohol and drug binge.

I hate the degarating words he spews at me so effortlessly.

I HATE HIM. I HATE MYSELF FOR TOLERATING IT.

I'd like to say it wasn't always like this, but deep in my heart, locked away, I remember the day of our wedding: I was afraid and uncertain. 17 years later, I am no longer uncertain. I know I sealed my own grave on that day in March.

My entire life I've wanted to be good, I was never a saint, but always repented. How ridiculously stupid of me to still worry about hurting the man's feelings. How can I actually be afraid at failing as a wife, when the roles have been changed so perversly?

I used to be proud and independent, now I feel I carry a weight much larger than life. I'm tired, sad, alone, and broken. I am fake, always smiling on the outside, while slowly dying on the inside.

I used to pray for his recovery. Everytime I heard an ambulance I would panic. I would lay in bed beside him, paralyzed with fear when his coke induced apnea paused his respiration..One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine...Thank God, a laboured, choking inhale; but he's alive, I would think.

I do still pray when I hear an ambulance, but for the possible victim who might be on the receiving end of his possible collision. I no longer wait up at night. I no longer lie next to him worried if he will continue breathing, waiting for that choking inhale proving life continues; in fact I no longer sleep with him.

I now pray for his death. For years every birthday wish, every shooting star, has been the same; put us both out of our misery.

I ofton wonder if his cocaine weakened heart, high blood pressure, failing kidney, or shadowed lungs actually did kill him; how would I react? Would I cry? If I did cry, would it be in mourning pain or joyous relief?

I wonder if my constant sadness will cause me to die first. Maybe my weakened, tired, broken heart will give out first. Wouldn't it be ironic. I sicken myself with shame.

I HATE HIM.. I HATE MYSELF.

I can't imagine this is it. Through sickness and health, til death do us part. This is as good as it gets. The rest of my life, day after, day, after day, until death. Always wondering, always waiting, to exhale.

May God forgive me and have mercy on my soul.