It’s been 18 hours since I spoke with Jack, and I told him I’d call when I woke up this morning. He’s not answering his phone, or text messages. I’m trying not to worry, but… the last two times this happened? He’d relapsed. I called his roommate, so T. could check on Jack, but that was almost two hours ago and still no word from either one.
[Also, I’ve been renting my apartment out a day or two at a time while I’m away and Jack’s been handling the details, giving people the keys, cleaning up, etc., and if he’s off the wagon? I don’t even know what state my apartment will be in when I return home. But I digress.]
I’m trying to keep a little busy — a little while ago I walked up for some takeout bringing Quinn (Jake and Rose’s dog) with me. I’m in a bit of pain and quite exhausted from my travels yesterday, so I’m taking it easy before I go out to dinner with Jake and Rose, and then head downtown to see Nick Cave reading from The Death of Bunny Munro.
I hate being a thousand miles away and not knowing. The reason behind the silence is either completely benign or utterly heartbreaking, and I don’t know what’s worse: having my fears come true or finding out I was anxious for nothing. Either way I’m reminded how powerless I am, and how there is a complete lack of trust here. Even if I love him like crazy and think he might be The One — which is true — none of that matters if he can’t (or won’t) stay sober.
Part of coming to New York was figuring out whether I could live like this, not forever but for long enough that it would be difficult. Trust is such an important part of a relationship, and once it’s violated it’s hard to regain. Almost impossible, it seems at times. “Love isn’t enough” is a phrase I’ve heard since childhood, and I suppose it’s true. When things are good, they are great. But when he relapses, when I can’t trust him to even remember what I say, and when not being able to get in touch with him for a few hours propels me into major anxiety? Well, I don’t know if I can do this anymore.
Saying that is hard. Extremely difficult. Almost impossible, which leads me to believe it’s important to say that, important to get it out there, or else it will eat me alive. I know that “No” is a complete sentence, but many times I still feel compelled to say more. And in this instance, I know that if I say I can’t do it, Jack will be gracious and kind and understand. Which makes it worse, because I want him to fight for me, want him to want me, want him to think losing me would be the worst thing that could ever happen. The irony is that when he relapses, he loses all sense of being able to feel ANY of those things, and I’m left craving chaos in vain.
Anyhow. I’m going to call a few friends, and then I’m going to take a nap, because when I’m sleeping I can’t be worrying. I might even turn off my phone and if anyone calls? They can just wait until I’m ready to listen to messages and call back. This is MY time in New York City, not theirs, and while I can’t help but worry, I can help obsessing. If that makes any sense.
This life stuff? It’s hard.