Chapter 12 - WHAT ERIC WAS ACTUALLY TRYING TO SAVE
Eric requested a mediated conversation through our attorneys.
I agreed once.
No Diane.
No Noah.
Just lawyers nearby.
He looked terrible.
Not theatrically ruined.
Thin.
Unshaven.
Ashamed.
For several minutes he talked about his back injury.
The prescription he received eighteen months earlier.
How good he felt when he could work without pain.
How badly he slept after it ended.
How he started taking leftover medication from old bottles.
Then my dental prescription.
Then nothing for months.
Then cancer.
He stopped.
I finished for him.
“Then I got surgery.”
He nodded.
“And suddenly there were pills in the house.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I thought I could stop.”
“When?”
“Every time.”
That was the first answer I believed.
Then I asked about Diane.
“She knew after my back injury.”
“How?”
“She found pills in my truck.”
“And instead of helping you get treatment?”
Eric's face tightened.
“She was afraid I'd lose my job.”
Diane had spent her entire adult life protecting Eric from consequences.
Bad grades became unfair teachers.
Debt became bad luck.
Anger became stress.
Medication misuse became pain.
Then I came along.
A wife with enough independence to threaten the structure.
“Why call me an addict?”
He closed his eyes.
“At first, Mom said if you started asking where pills were going, we'd tell you maybe you miscounted because of the medication.”
“At first?”
“Then you started keeping a dosing log.”
I felt sick.
“So you changed the story.”
He nodded.
“If you were overusing them, missing pills made sense.”
“And the lawn?”
His face crumpled.
“Mom said if you could mow, it proved you were exaggerating the pain.”
“And if I couldn't?”
He didn't answer.
I understood.
Then I asked the question that mattered most.
“Why did you throw away my drain supplies?”
Eric stared at his hands.
“I was angry.”
“At what?”
“That you needed things from me.”
There it was.
Deeper than pills.
Deeper than Diane.
“I hated being responsible for everything while you recovered.”
I almost laughed.
“You were responsible for me for two weeks.”
“I know.”
“My body was cut open.”
“I know.”
“You stole my medication.”
“I know.”
He began crying.
I didn't comfort him.
“What are you asking from me now?”
He looked up.
“My attorney says treatment would help.”
“Treatment would help you.”
He nodded.
“And you want me to tell investigators?”
“That I wasn't trying to hurt you.”
I sat back.
“You weren't trying to help me either.”
He wiped his face.
“I love you.”
For years, that sentence would have changed the direction of the conversation.
This time it didn't.
“I believe you probably think you do.”
May you like
His face collapsed.
“But I am no longer willing to live inside your definition of love.”
