Spring is officially here. Riding on tail of the warm air comes swarms of bugs taking over our lives. The joy of sunning one's self has been replaced with fear of clouds of biting flies. They infiltrate the house. They make time outdoors unbearable.

Against my children's wishes, I bring the party indoors. I find that we are still not free. These nuisances with wings are getting in through the heater vents and small holes in the screens. There is no escape. Indoors there is a new insect challenge. Wasps. I am highly allergic and my knight in shining armor is off at work.

I wander throughout the house with a fly swatter in one hand and an epipen in the other. I pray I will not be stung. On my own, I would leave them be. Play the peacemaker with these lethal creatures, but they scare the children. They must be killed.

My joy of spring is dwindling. The only hope I have of rekindling my love for the season is a weather report stating that an evening thundershower is coming our way. I love thunderstorms. They remind me of the beauty of our planet. The awesomeness of lightning bolts streaming against the night sky. The feeling in your chest when thunder sounds. Loosing power and requiring your family to go back to their roots of candlelight and closeness only makes the storm's beauty amplified. Nature at its finest.

I understand seething. I feel it in my chest and throat. It's almost a rabid feeling. The side effects are almost unbearable: Shakiness, confusion, loss of bearings, rage. I felt rage tonight. It is a rage that I do not recognize. I do not know where it resides in me. I have felt it before, but it was long ago. I felt it when those popular girls in school would form a circle around me and beat me from every direction. This rage is what causes people to go out of character. This rage is what makes people finally snap. I use to think there was something wrong with people who shoot up schools or beat up innocent people because they were tail gaiting. I am not condoning what they do (nor am I implying intent to do something drastic), I merely wonder what brought them to that point. What does it take to cause someone, generally mild mannered, to come unhinged.

I do not like the feelings running through me when my husband treats me the way he does. It changes me. It is as if my blood is tainted. I feel it running through my body, poisoning everything it touches. When he succeeds are pushing me, I become as sick as him. The difference is that I know I am sick. I don't like being infected with this illness.

I am at a crossroad. If I go left or right, I part from my marriage (against my family's advice) and I charter an new path. I do not know what it would entail. but it would not be with him. If I push forward, I stay with him, we complete the purchase of our home and I become stuck. I cannot leave after my parents pay of his debts and help furnish our home. I cannot let them down in that way. On Thursday, a very large sum of money will go towards my husbands debt to erase it forever. That is unless I stop it. I have until Thursday to make one of the biggest decisions of my life. The weight of this decision is overwhelming. I want that house so badly. I have made plans and promises. But I cannot do it without him.

Until this moment, I felt nothing but rage. When I wrote that last paragraph, the tears began to fall. I'm not angry anymore (at least not in the forefront). I am heartbroken because I feel like I have to sacrifice myself to keep my family together and give my children what they deserve. My children deserve to stay together and have a relationship. My son deserves to have a home where we can live for awhile (instead of constantly moving from less-than-ideal to less-than-ideal). I just want them to be happy. Is is too much to ask that I be happy too?

I know that purchasing a home comes with its fair share of troubles, but I feel that the world as a whole is against me. Between delays and deadlines overlapping as well as negotiating through a brand new real estate agent selling her first home, there has been nothing but stress.

Our credit card debt was suppose to be resolved as of the close of business last Tuesday. Then the credit card company refused to speak to our lawyer without us present. The soonest we could arrange that was for today. Today they tell us that the credit card company themselves cannot settle the debt, we have to contact another company in writing. It will take approximately one week.

We are suppose to negotiate with the buyer on Saturday. We cannot do that without this credit card issue resolved. Firstly, our approval is contingent on the resolution of that debt. Secondly, we need to know how much money we will have left after the debt is resolved. The money remaining dictates how high we can offer.

Add to all of this the fact that we have until the 30th of April to have the contract signed in order to get the federal refund of $8,000. We are relying on this money. We need it to put on the new roof (the shingles need to be replaced) and to run plumbing for a shower (who over the age of ten really takes baths to get clean???).

I feel like I am in the middle of a tornado. I am at a complete stand-still and the world is turmoil all around me. I just wish that there was something I could be actively doing. Sitting around and waiting is driving me insane.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference (and patience not to dwell).

My step-daughter's biological mother is a wench. Let me start by saying I had a wonderful Easter with my children. It was just the three of us and we visited my parents. We did an Easter Egg Hunt, played basket ball, flew kites and my dad took the kids on a ride in his excavator. They had a field day.

My dad adores my step-daughter, but because her mother is so wretched, he rarely sees her. Today, when they were flying kites, one of the kites got stuck in a tree. My dad told her that he had it all covered and went and got a chain saw. She said "Oh my goodness! Are you going to cut down that big tree just for a kite?" He replied "Of course. You need to have your kite back." (He kept it to himself that he is in the process of clearing out the trees anyways). He asked her which of two trees the kite was stuck in. She indicated the wrong one (which I believe he knew). He cut down the tree she indicated and then looked up to see the kite still up there. He said "Why would you let me cut down a perfectly good tree?" Just as she began to stumble out an apology with a very worried look on her face, he said "No biggie, it must be this one." With a chuckle from him, she knew he was just joking. She thought he was wonderful.

Anyway, I digress. We had a fabulous day that ended with me dropping her off at home. Bio mom was cordial as ever. Ten minutes after getting home, I received a call on my cell. I was then berated for literally twenty minutes for letting her sit in the front seat of the car and for not putting sunscreen on her. According to "mommy dearest", she was purple and in agony. Unless my little girl has become a chameleon, she was not purple (as I am sure I would have noticed). She was not even the slightest bit red. In regards to the car, she is just shy of ten years old. The law is 8&80. Eight years old and at least eighty pounds. She well than exceeds the requirements. She has ridden in the front seat numerous times when I have stuff in the back. The airbag was turned off. I'm not stupid.

This woman looks for things to get upset about and she NEVER approaches me in person. It is always on the phone. I think what bothers me the most is that she attacks me as a mother. Her father always forgets sunscreen, but I would have expected more from you Ireland. How can you be so irresponsible?

I may not be perfect, but as far as I am concerned, I am a damn good mother.

Spring is in the air. Easter is right around the corner. I did not realize on this crisp near-spring day that an eggs-hausting fiasco was about to unravel in my kitchen.

We have chickens and therefore, we have many eggs at our disposal. I thought a fun mother-son activity for today would be painting eggs. Unfortunately, our chickens produce brown eggs. I hated to go out a purchase eggs that are white when we have three dozen brown ones in our refrigerator. I figured that I could whitewash the eggs so my son's eggs-uberant artwork would show up. It did not go well. Every time I added another layer of whitewash, the previous layer would wash off. I figured I would paint them instead. I was covered with paint and they eggs looked sloppy.

In the end (after literally four hours of my son asking if they were ready and me asking "not quite yet") we painted brown eggs with all of the pretty patterns. In the end, I spent more money on white paint than I would have for a dozen white eggs and they weren't even white in the end.

A lesson learned. Share your Easter/Springtime stories!

A change of pace: I absolutely love this video. It makes me crack up every time I hear it. I thought you would all appreciate it. Maybe it will brighten a not so bright day:

One of my dear friends brought home the newest addition to her family. An adorable, chubby-cheeked little boy. It has me thinking. In all of the pictures of her pregnancy, my dear friend was holding a large java. I am not passing judgement. I am certainly not in a place to do that. It just got me wondering why some babies make it and others do not.

I did not know that I was pregnant with my first son. It was five months before we finally got confirmation (I have hyperthyroidism). During that first five months, I was living the life of an unconstrained college student, partying off years of repression. I worked at a bar and drank enough each night so I couldn't stand up. I was doing key-bumps in the back room and smoking all sorts of things when I'd get home at night. I went to school and played my usual "studious good-girl" part during the day. Most of my classmates never knew.

I am re-entering the world of employment and let me tell you: Times have changed. I am twenty-six years young. I only legally entered the working world eight years ago, but everything is vastly different.

First, applications are almost completely online. Convenient, yes, but with it are some big negatives. Although I have fabulous internet service and I rarely suffer from disconnections, I find that 3/4 of the way through almost every online application, my service goes out the window. This means I have to start all over again, because heaven forbid it saves your information as you go. The next part that drives me batty is the questions at the end. These are not your typical "Have you been charged of a felony?" or "Do you have reliable transportation?" questions. These are seemingly random questions that I believe some psychiatrist created to weed out the weirdos. To be perfectly honest, I have no feeling toward convicts that are released from prison (God honest question from a Home Depot application). Then they give you the tricky ones. Ones that can be interpreted in several ways. If you see a co-worker taking a pen home from work, you would report them. Strongly agree, agree, disagree, strongly disagree. If I say I would, does that say I am honest or nit-picky? If I say I wouldn't, does that say I'm stealing cash out of the register when no one is looking? I am literally calling my friends and family for there take on these questions.

Below is a picture of a house. It is so close to becoming a reality, no longer a dream. I have visions of the kids playing in the backyard. I see a vegetable garden growing delicious tomatoes, sweet peas and pumpkins for autumn jack 'o lanterns. I imagine redecorating to accentuate the gorgeous woodwork that was put into place in the late 1700s. I am close to having this house. I am close to having my dream come true. My only problem is that to have my dream home, I have to be with my husband. To own this house, I need the second income. To have both of my children, I need to actually live with my husband.

No Husband = No Step-Daughter

St. Patrick's Day. The day of my ancestors. A day to celebrate my Irish pride. It use to be one of my favorite holidays. That was before the strings were attached. I am sure you all can guess those strings. Anyone with a loved-one who is an alcoholic knows about how tough "celebrations" can be. I have to drink, I'm celebrating that I am Irish. To not do so would do disservice to my nationality. Some of these celebrators are not even of Irish decent. Some, like my husband, are only a little Irish from a long time back. More often than not, they do not even partake of Irish whiskey or green beer. In the case of my husband, it will be Budweiser. Nothing more American than that.

I lay in bed, sleep deprived and angry from the latest fight. I try to enjoy having the whole bed to myself. A luxury that I so rarely have. No snoring, no rustling, no stealing of the covers. I finally nod off into a peaceful and much needed slumber. It is 3:30am.

I wake from my sleep unsure of what woke me. I glance at the clock and it is 4:15. I close my eyes to drift off again, but notice the bed is shaking. Darn cat, it must be clawing at the bottom of the bed. I make my usual tsss tsss sound and it stops. I go back to sleep.

At 4:30 I wake again to the gentle shaking of my bed. The cat is really starting to bother me now. I have six of them. I'm not sure of the culprit, but I make the tsss tsss sound again, it stops and again I try for sleep.

This continues constantly until 6:45. Every time I am getting a little louder and harsher. I have started to get the dog involved by saying "get that kitty" and having her chase him away. When 7:00 arrives, I am at my wits end. I start tearing out the storage containers from under the bed. I am yelling and carrying on. Nothing is making this cat stop. I discover that it is not the end of the bed he is scratching. He is inside the box spring doing God knows what.

In the grips of an adult-size temper tantrum, I flip the mattress and box spring up on end (so much for taking it easy on my back and shoulders). My husband arrives home from work and I look like a rabid animal, consumed in rage. He makes me coffee. I enjoy a cup while standing outside watching the sun rising. I take drags off a cigarette like I'm making love to it. Twenty minutes and I have gained my bearings again. I feel more exhausted than before.

I use to take everything with a grain of salt. I would not lose it over a frustrating cat. I would not be in tears as I tore apart my room. Life has been so overwhelming that the littlest thing takes over me. I fear I am becoming more like him. Angry over every little thing.

Needless to say, the cat and I talked things out. :-) I have started my day over again and will probably enjoy a Lunesta tonight. All will be right again.

A year and a half ago I was a happy woman. I had hopes and dreams. I felt my life coming together the way I wanted it to for the first time. A year and a half ago I stood at the end of an outdoor aisle, wearing a beautiful dress with a bagpipe playing softly in the background. I stood looking at the love of my life with his groomsmen looking dapper in their kilts. My dear children flanked me. I was at peace in my world.

I feel so lost. It is as if I was thrown from my ship of dreams during a terrible storm. I am a castaway, floating on one of those yellow rafts. The beacon light is flashing but no one is coming to my rescue. I am running short on supplies. I have to make a decision soon. It could be the difference between finding safety, security and a new ship of dreams or dying alone, floating in a sea of emptiness. I lay awake at night, through the soft plastic of my raft I am feeling the gentle undulations of the ocean under my back, a constant reminder that my ship is gone.

I have made preparations to do something bold, but something holds me back. Why am I so scared to take the next step. Is there a flaw in my plan that I missed during my hours of scrutiny? What if I don't make it to land? What if I never find another ship of dreams? Can I live with that disappointment? I do not want to die alone in the life raft, but I cannot bring myself to risk dying during escape.

I know what I ultimately want, but still, I don't know what to do...

Not listened to. Not heard. It hurts when this happens. It happens so frequently to me. "Friends" do it. People who are suppose to care. The only people who seem to listen are strangers. Maybe that is why I miss the city life so much. I don't trust close-knit groups. I like being around people who don't know me. I like talking to people who don't know my past. It is a fresh start every time.

I want to share my stories, even if it's a little something from my childhood. My stories are not made for heart-gripping novels, but they are important to me. It makes me feel important to share the parts of my past that are good. People only focus on my past.

I was abused by my mother and several of my boyfriends. I spent my school years being pummeled by bullies. I spent almost a decade addicted to drugs. I was homeless while I was pregnant with my son. This is my past, but it's not all of my past.

I want to share the good stuff. Celebrating the good helps me erase the past. I just wish someone would listen.

Unconditional love. I have seen it, though only with my children have I ever found it for myself. Three years ago, I worked in a healthcare center. I cared for people with Alzheimers and dementia. It was trying, yet beautiful work.

There was a man that visited every day. His wife was in the late stages of Alzheimers and she lived at the healthcare center. He would take her out every morning for breakfast, take her to the park and spend a beautiful day with her. She did not know who he was, but she knew she liked this man.

I spoke with him one day. I said that I could not imagine how difficult it must be to see her in this condition. I told him that I thought it was so honorable that he took her out every day without fail, when so many other families disappear when their loved ones reach the more trying phases of the disease. He sat quietly for a moment before speaking. When he finally did speak, he said "I am not trying to be honorable. She is my wife of 50 years and I owe her this and more. She took care of me and now I take care of her. I feel blessed."

The last part confused me. He feels blessed? How can this be? I had to ask what he meant by that and his response blew me away.

"She does not know who I am. She does not remember our year together. I am a stranger to her, but every day I make her fall in love with me again. Every day, when I bring her back, I have succeeded. I am 76 years old and I can still make her fall in love with me. I am blessed."

I don't know what brings me to sharing this. I don't know if it is because I hope to some day have a husband that shows me that sort of devotion. I am not sure if it is because I give every day with all my heart to someone who really doesn't know me.

It is a beautiful, real-life love story.

I thought martyrdom went out of style after the biblical era, but it appears I was wrong. We have received sobering news that we have only a few months to find a new place to live. We dreamed that we would be in our house by this time, but it seems that is not to be.

I handled this news with what I would describe as "leveled grace". I used it as an opportunity to be honest not only with my husband, but also with me. I told him straight out that our day-to-day stress is getting difficult for me to deal with. If we are able to purchase our house, I will find the strength to continue in our marriage (can we say mommy-only space???). In the event we are forced to rent some place, I will be doing that with just myself and the children. I cannot add my husband's neurosis to the list of stresses that occur when renting. He had no response to this news.

Later this evening, I walked into the living room to discover my husband tearing apart our closet under the eves. When I inquired as to what he was doing (though my mind was mostly focused on the undoing of all my work I had done cleaning up after the kids), he replied with "I'm looking for my sleeping bag so I can see what I'll be sleeping on for the rest of my life."

Now, this must be a joke, right? Wrong. Apparently in my husband's silence to my news, the cogs were turning. He refuses to get a place just for himself. Parish the thought he has to maintain a place on his own. He makes a feeble attempt to attribute this decision to the welfare of the children and myself. I am not convinced. He wants to live in people's backyards so the children and I are better off? I do not see a connection here. I view this as yet another case where he wants me to agree with his stupidity. He wants me to change my mind. To weaken in my stance for freedom from stress.

My response to this took much inner strength. So badly I wanted to say "Are you kidding? Quit being such an adult baby." Instead, I found it in myself to say "You need to make the best choice for you." You know what? I actually meant it. I have removed myself from his situation and feel no guilt, anger, or overall hostility.

Dearest Husband,

I love you. I want a family, a home and a future with you, but I have identified my bottom line. It is a line that must never again be crossed. I want a healthy relationship with you. The relationship we have now is far from a healthy one.

You are responsible for your drinking. I cannot control this aspect of your life. I have accepted that. You will do as you please. It hurts me when you drink, but I will be strong. What I will no longer accept is certain things that stem from this drinking.

First, I expect you to still be a part of this family. I understand that you provide for our family financially, but we are lacking in the emotional support. You need to be here and not be angry with us. We have done nothing to deserve this anger. It is rooted elsewhere and if you feel the need to be angry, I prefer you direct it to what you are really angry with.

Second, you have the right to be depressed. I understand that we are not where you want us all to be. You are under pressure and that is okay. You have a painful past. You can be depressed if you feel you need to be, but do not pull me in any longer. I will not help you beat yourself up. I will not agree that our life is falling apart. We are not where we wanted to be, but there is so much good surrounding us. I will not be depressed for you. I will not participate in this negativity.

I do love you. I married you because I wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. I still want that, but there must be change. These are my terms. I love you too much to help you hurt yourself.

Ireland

These are the words I want to have the courage to say. I am not at that point of strength yet, but I'm getting closer. I cannot work on him. I can only do my own work (and I have a lot of it to do).

I no longer feel a sense of disappointment when the drinking consumes him. I feel annoyance. I have decided to allow him to deal with what is his, but regretfully I am here and it affects me too. I live in no man's land. There is nowhere to go to feel free. Today there is a storm. The roads are slick and dangerous. All I want is to feel free.

How can I escape? How do I get free, at least in my mind? The negativity and self-loathing consumes me. I am exhausted. I listen to the words of this sick person and I am left feeling sick also. I do not like these feelings, this murkiness in my throat and stomach. It is something a thousand showers cannot wash away.

I want to be cleansed. I want to be free.

Another dreamless night. I am getting use to life without sleep. I don't even bother to get into bed anymore. I find it so difficult to lay in bed at night, next to the one I love, and feel completely alone. It is hard to stare at the ceiling and feel resentment towards the form lying next to me. I spend the night on the couch, thinking about the importance of trust. I question all that I have been told and all that I thought I believed. I wonder if you can commit to someone you don't trust. I doubt it. All the love in the world cannot save some things.

I remember a scene from my childhood. It was warm and the sun was shining bright on that summer day. My cat had found a mouse which she was playing with. Being the animal lover that I was and still am, I felt compelled to save the mouse. I scooped it up away from her and scolded her for hurting it. I took it inside and cleaned its wounds. I searched the house for a box and some of my mother's quilt batting she kept in her sewing room. I made it the perfect bed. I instantly fell in love with this mouse. I cared for it all weekend long. On Monday, when I returned from school, the mouse was dead. All the love and care I had shown that mouse could not save it. The wounds were too deep. The mouse was in too much pain to keep fighting. Love was not enough.

I feel my marriage is somewhat like that. I entered into it somewhat naive that I could save my husband. He just needed someone to love him and care for him. He was troubled and I could save him. No matter how much I love and care for him, the wounds of the past are too deep. He is in too much pain to want to find a better life. Love may not be enough.

I'm not sure how to feel about this parallel. It is painful. I do not fancy myself a hero, but I truly believed I could save him.

A dance is defined as an artistic form of non-verbal communication. This definition clearly covers what goes on in relationships. In the case of my husband, he has many different “dancing” partners that practice different types of dances. Friends encourage, family care but remain distant, children learn cautiousness and (sadly) fear. I may have the most difficult job playing a dancing partner to him. There is never an opportunity to remove myself.

When we are with friends, I try to “cut-in” on the dance forming between them. They enable and joke off. Some friends do not see that there is a problem with my husband‘s drinking. Others choose not to recognize it. Sometimes they join in this dance with my husband because they too have a problem and they want freedom from dancing with their significant others. They enjoy dancing with someone who understands.

Where family is concerned, I encourage dancing. So many of them are battling alcoholism, yet either do not recognize it in their loved one, or they choose to ignore it. These people have the potential to truly reach out in a way I am unable to. Regardless of how I attempt to initiate this dancing, they continue to dance alone.

My children have an unspoken dance with my husband. It is subtle, but it is there. They get a little more quiet when “something just isn’t right”. They role play him in a way that scares me. They remain distant in the same way I do, avoiding the dance at all costs. When the dance truly begins between them, hostility I never wish to see in my children immerges. It become a battle to see who will lead. How can an intelligent man like my husband not see this occurring? He is having a battle of strength with a young child. Eventually I intervene and the dance begins then with me.

So what does this dance look like? This dance between my husband and I? It starts as a game of wits. He makes a comment, I respond. We go back and fourth. I am always on my guard, fearing which question or statement will come next. I know it is a trap. I know what to look for, but each time we play this game, he learns. He has learned my weakness and will eventually slip me up. I will say the wrong thing. Although this appears to be a verbal communication, it is not. It appears to be talking about our day or discussing the future. What you don’t see is the underlying dance moves. He moves, I move (cautiously).

When general conversation does not cause a slip-up on my part, we move to what I call “hot topics”. These are topics that in the past have caused me to falter. How the children are being raised. What I spend my days doing, while I am “lying around”. Financial difficulties. My lack of contribution to the home. Again, I try to move carefully and sway the topic to a safe zone. Sometimes I take lead in the dance, but the times that I do not, we get to pure war.

In pure war, my husband is desperate to get me to dance with him. Guns are drawn with all stops pulled. If I have made it to this point, I stand a chance of succeeding. In pure war I can see the thought process of the disease. He is no longer the man I committed my life to. He is an alcoholic that wants me to enable him. He wants me to say “It’s okay that you drink like this. I understand.”

Sometimes I am safe from the dance at the very start. It is only temporary. The real danger falls in the hot zone. I am baited and try as I might, occasionally I am drawn into the dance of disease. All the hurt and anger I feel are brought forth. The worst part for me, being drawn into this dance, is although I am vocalizing the things I am feeling, I find no relief. What is worse, it is enabling him in a way I never intended. The voice in his head is saying “See, your wife is demanding and hates you. Your life sucks. Find any solace in any way you can.”

As you may have noticed, I have changed this blog from A Misunderstood Mother to A Misunderstood Woman. I did this because I don't plan on going in great depths into motherhood, so much as my life in general. Struggles in parenthood are understandable. It may be a topic I discuss from time to time, but this blog is about being a woman and all the trials and tribulations (and joys, if I am lucky) that I, personally, am experiencing. May you, too, find understanding through these posts. Know that you are not alone. Someone out there in the great world-wide-web is going through the same things. Maybe we are not as misunderstood as we once thought.

I am feeling sadness and heartache. I am feeling anger I do not want to recognize. He has done it again. He has lied to my face. I no longer get angry about the drinking. I believe a part of me has accepted that it is him, take it or leave it. He may change, but I cannot put my eggs in that basket any longer. I believe that my pain comes not from the liquid, but the acts that brought it to his mouth. The deceit. He lies to me about his reasons for visiting friends and family. He makes promises that he knows will never be kept. I really wish he wouldn't. Every time he promises, against my better judgement, a small part of me believes things will be different. I am left looking like a fool.

This last "indiscretion" was cloaked in flattery. Darling you do so much around here. I'll take the bottles to the redemption center. Don't you even worry about it. How did I not read right through that? Am I truly becoming as stupid as he must believe I am? Maybe. Maybe that is why I left the redemption center feeling like an idiot. I had been fooled again. One month clean and serene, obviously not.

Falling for the same games over and over again makes me think less of myself (a problem I have continued to battle since Elementary school). It makes me feel used and cheated. I feel like I have no value. I realize in a logical sense that his drinking has absolutely nothing to do with me. It is a disease that has been passed down generation to generation. The disease was there before he met me. It was also hidden before he met me. Hidden in kind words and sweet gestures.

My husband and I have not yet reached our second anniversary. Let it be known, he is not an abusive alcoholic. To be perfectly honest, if he was, I would find this whole situation much easier to deal with. He hit me, I'm done and I have all the love and support of friends and family. My case is not that easy. My husband drinks and gets depressed. My loved ones interpret that as he needs my support more than ever. I just need to give more. If he is unable to make himself feel bad enough, he brings me in on it. This is what I refer to as our DANCE.

My husband no longer wants to dance alone on a particular evening, he wants someone to dance with him: Me. (Translation: He wants someone to agree that he is an asshole and he deserves the life he is living.) I know that I have the choice whether or not to dance. If I choose not to dance, I am not exhausted and my feet don't hurt when I go to bed at night. It is a struggle not to get involved. Some nights I can sit back and watch the desperate actions of an alcoholic trying to bait me. It is easy and I can actually see the pattern forming. Other nights, I am dancing without every realizing I've begun. I have found that once you begin, it is nearly impossible to stop. I have become part of the disease. I too am becoming diseased. I believe the clinic term would be "co-dependence".