A dark night…..

(This post is sort of an expose. I read many blogs and I feel that for many of them there is more going on in background. I am not a saint and I have sometimes written about my ex-wife in an unfavorable light. Tonight, you can see me in an unfavorable light. It is only fair.)

This post is about some of the hard times I have endured. We, as blog writers, often paint a rosy picture to our readers. There is often another side of life that is never written about. Tonight I will share a darker side of me and a side I would rather forget. This happened many years ago and I hope I am a changed man. This was before I became homeless.

I had been drinking all day. Rachel was at work at the library. I was out of a job and feeling sorry for myself. I made a feeble effort at cooking supper. I burned the bread and the rice in my chicken and rice was undercooked. I stood in front of the stove with my head swimming from the alcohol. I looked up at the clock in the dining room. Shit, she would be home soon. It was almost 10 pm. My hands shook as I poured more water into my concoction to try and get the rice done and I turned up the stove. I looked out at the driveway and could see the head lights of our Volkswagen Beetle. Zero hour had arrived. I quickly ran into the den and put in some gum to mask the smell of alcohol. As I did this I heard the back door open.

“Doll? You there?” Rachel asked as she stepped in and took off her coat.

“Yeah, I am here.” I replied loudly from the other room.

She walked in the room and took one look at me and knew that I had been drinking.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” She asked.

“I’ve had a few beers.” I replied.

She went screaming out of the room and called her mother. I hastily ran outside and cranked up my motorcycle. I wanted to be anywhere but here. I wanted to escape. I couldn’t see straight though and knew if I got on that motorcycle I would be dead. By this time she had locked me out of the house. I banged on the back door to no avail.

“Rachel, please let me in. It is cold.” I decreed.

“Fuck you. I just want you to leave.” She said from the other side of the door.

I sat down on our back deck’s steps and pondered…. Why did I have to do this? If I was so miserable why didn’t I just leave? Why did I have to drink like I did? I was a completely miserable son of a bitch.

By this time I was completely drunk. I had the grand idea that I would thrust my hand through the window, reach up, open it, and crawl in. I walked up to the deck and with all my strength smashed out our back window on the deck. A piece of glass fell and severely cut my wrist. Blood gushed everywhere. I panicked. Blood was dripping all over our deck in great pools. I ran to the back door and banged on it with my good arm.

“RACHEL, I NEED SOME HELP. I THINK I NEED TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL. I NEED STITCHES.” I cried at the top of my voice.

There was no reply.

I slumped down in front of our back door and started to cry. I held my wrist as tight as I could with my other hand to stop the bleeding. The blood trickled out around my fingers and finally stopped.

Several hours later after I had almost fallen to sleep and was freezing cold the door opened and I almost fell backwards into the kitchen.

“Are you sober now?” She asked.

“I just want to go to bed.” I replied.

She opened the door and I crawled to bed. I have a huge scar from that cut and I have nerve damage and cannot feel my right hand thumb. It is completely numb. That is how deep that cut was. I was too drunk to get to the hospital and when I sobered up I didn’t want to tell what had happened.