This is the same opening to a post as many that I’ve written before—I haven’t been completely honest with you all. And you know what I’ve realized? When you can’t be honest in your anonymous blog; something ain’t right.
And if you want the truth, it hasn’t been right for an entire month now. It started, sort of, with a DWI.
A week before my mom came to town, D had been working a lot. It was “busy season” at the restaurant and he was constantly stressed. He was also constantly drunk.
Every time he would come over to my house after work, or me go to his, he would be drunk, and I don’t mean tipsy. I mean hammered. He would pick fights with me, or make up things that I said, and I would often sit and cry while he just sat there and watched.
After one particularly brutal fight, I told him he should ease up on the booze and he agreed. Then my mom came to town and things were okay. A few days after she left, I got a call from D at 4 am.
ME: Hello? Yes.
D: Can you come pick me up?
NOTE: He sounded sober as hell, I thought he had car trouble.
ME: Of course baby where are you?
D: I’m at Troop A, do you know where that is?
ME: Yes. I’ll be there.
ME: I’m going to get out of bed, put pants on, and leave, okay?
D: okay, hurry.
I had no idea what was going on, but I assumed it was something to do with his drinking. I put on the rest of my pajamas (a matching set of pink plaid button ups from Victoria Secret) and jumped in my car. He told me to call him when I got there.
I did and he told me the cop would come outside to get me. I waited, nearly shaking, as the cop came and escorted me into a room that looked like a classroom. He was sitting on a bench that had cuffs attached to it; he was wearing his suit from work.
“I just need to wrap up his paperwork and then you all can go home,” the cop said.
I sat on the bench with D, my boyfriend, who was obviously in some serious trouble. He talked to me like everything was normal. He was drunk.
When the cop finished his paperwork, he needed D’s signatures. I heard the charges: improper lane usage, a DWI (he blew a .217), and had expired plates (they were a year overdue).
The cop then told D that he had a drinking problem.
“I don’t know what is causing this problem, but you need to figure it out. This is your second DWI, if you get a third, you go straight to jail, no matter if you blow or not. Since you blew over a .20, I would advise you to bring your toothbrush when you go to court—you’ll probably spend 48 hours in jail. Drinking and driving does not mix. Do I need to show you pictures of accidents caused by drinking? Because it’s complete mayhem.”
“No sir,” D said.
“Okay, well I’m letting you go home tonight, but please do not consider this a free ride,” the cop said.
D promised that he knew it wasn’t a free ride, and we were free to leave. We got in my car and D, still drunk, started rambling on about, maybe he does have a problem, maybe he should try to get help, maybe he should just move to China, etc.
“If you were looking for a reason to get out, now would be the time to do it,” he said.
“I’m not getting out,” I said.
“Do you normally pick up your boyfriends from the police station?” he asked.
Truthfully, no. But, as I told D, everyone makes mistakes. The question is, are you going to learn from it?
We got to my apartment, D ate, and we went to bed a little after 5 am…