ultimatims, spoke
the air between us, thinning
nothing left to say


I got to the point, Tuesday evening, where I had had enough. 

Believe me when I tell you, I didn't get to that point quickly or easily - and the thoughts rolling around my head and my heart were contracting both to the point of pain.  I love my husband and knew 20 years ago what I was getting into and what today would mean - even if I thought today would come after many more tomorrows.  And yet, here we are.

I'm my husband's primary care giver.  And the care that I do not give, I coordinate.   I take this on gladly, and don't judge anyone for it.  I'm thankful, almost daily, that I have the resources and background to figure this all out. 

But it's been a tough year.  The calendar year of 2019 saw him become more and more debilitated, his personality change, and then him suffer a frightening breakdown.  2020 has seen him improve, slightly, or at least level out to a place where we can figure out this new normal, but we're grieving a life lost - for both he and I.

If you've been following along, you know I hate pot and that for the last year or so he's tried cannabis to deal with his pain and spasms with varying degrees of success.  You'll know that I was never a fan, continue to not be a fan, and actively blame it for some of the mental issues we're seeing.    That, and his anti-depressants working "too well". 

Tuesday, he smoked, and then got manic.  My heart raced, my headache soared, and I got to the point where I decided that I no longer could do this.  I gave the ultimatim once I realized that I didn't care what the answer was - I just knew I couldn't do this.  Weed or me.

I want to tell you that I'm disappointed in myself for not being able to handle this - but the truth is I don't think I should have to, with everything else I deal with. Perhaps I'm still not over what happened in December.  At any point, we all have our limits.