Waiting for the call

Russell Brand put it so well. The entirety of his tribute to Amy Winehouse was incredibly moving, however the first part of it, quoted here, is what has stuck with me today and which has me inspecting what I’m waiting for:

When you love someone who suffers from the disease of addiction you await the phone call. There will be a phone call. The sincere hope is that the call will be from the addict themselves, telling you they’ve had enough, that they’re ready to stop, ready to try something new. Of course though, you fear the other call, the sad nocturnal chime from a friend or relative telling you it’s too late, she’s gone.

Frustratingly it’s not a call you can ever make it must be received. It is impossible to intervene.

(Read the full tribute here: For Amy – by Russell Brand)

So. What am I waiting for? I find that I am waiting for that call – either Sam calling to say he now sees that he has a problem and is ready to seriously stop and to seek help or a call from his sister, should she even remember to call me, to say that Sam’s drinking has caught up with him. Honestly – what I’m really waiting for in this scenario is the call from his family. Sam is still firmly entrenched in the belief that his drinking wasn’t a problem and hasn’t affected him or any one else. Oddly enough, or not too odd, I guess, is that he’s found a perfect enabler in Ingrid, who says only Sam can say if he has a problem and he doesn’t so… yet she believes he relapsed a year ago. Not sure how one can relapse if there’s no problem, but I’m getting off track here.

Spring, Fall and Winter I used to read the local paper every day, because there was always an article about yet one more death (or sometimes more than one) related to alcohol and the cold. I read the description of the victims looking for Sam. Of course this was all before I knew he was breaking his wedding vows and sucking a new enabler into his life. Any way, this was just another version of waiting for the phone call.

The other thing I’m waiting for, which I will NEVER get, I’m sure, is an admittance from Sam that he raped me, that he intimidated me, that he denied my SELF, that he inflicted domestic violence even if he “stopped short of hitting [me].” (As if the rapes weren’t violent. As if I have no reason to fear him just because he “never laid a hand on” me in anger, as if a 6’7″ rugby player towering over 5’4″ me – roughly grabbing my breasts or my… or pushing me back over a boiling pot and hot stove is loving and not violent…) I find I still want and am waiting for that admittance.

Without the blameshifting, the: “Well, she started cleaning during my games and I know she did it on purpose, so….” or the minimizing, the “I might have done it once, but that was before I realized how much it hurt her so I slept on the couch after that.”

IT WASN’T JUST ONCE!!!!! …… IT WASN’T JUST ONCE! Not just once. And it was when he was sleeping on the couch that he’d sneak back to the bedroom, stripping as he walked, to sneak into the bedroom and pin me to the bed. Telling me to be quiet our I’d wake up Max. Don’t wake up Max.

I want him to admit he raped me repeatedly our last few years together. I want him to admit that he used fear and intimidation to keep me in the back room. I want him to admit that he threatened to call the cops on me and I would never see our son again if I continued to push him away from me so I wouldn’t be bent back on top of the hot stove. I want him to admit that Max ran into the house from the front yard to find him doing that. I want him to admit he had no right to treat me that way. I want a sincere apology.

This will never come. Never.

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