Or, The Cosmic Comic Timing of FedEx

Yesterday, after his Overeater's Anonymous meeting, we packed the dogs in the tuck and headed to friends' lake house. We spent the day in the sun with good company and tried to put off the inevitable. For just a few hours, we were able to stave off the impending drudgery that is starting our shared journey toward financial and emotional wellness. These friends know the truth in all its gore and pain, and so far, they're the only ones (and you lovelies, of course). He's not yet ready to tell everyone, but knows it's likely inevitable. We won't have social excuses for various changes coming down the pike.

Reluctant to return to the work ahead of us, and possibly also unwilling to force our happy dogs out of the water, we spent the night. We left early this morning to come back home to the stark reality of our new life; we drove in near silence, perhaps not wanting to break the spell of a lovely summer day, bookended by the ugliness before us.

I went in the house immediately and prepared to shower.

As I was waiting for the water to warm, Mr. Farce called cheerfully to me, "You got a ModCloth package! What did you get?"

My heart sank. The day before my grizzly financial discovery, I had ordered a dress. The dress I hoped to wear at our wedding.

There was a moment when my brain short circuited, and I became mean. My anger is still present, the waves of conflicting emotions are coming less forcefully now, but they're still there. "It was my wedding dress," I said, detached from my words. "I need to return it; we probably won't have a wedding."

It looked like I had punched him in the face. I realized too late that he thought I was leaving him. But rather than reassure him, I turned on my heel and let the water pour over my face, mingling with hot angry tears I didn't want him to know I was crying.

He followed me into the bathroom, as is our habit, and asked if I still loved him.

of course of course of course

We continues to speak in sound bites as we settled on the couch. It was too much, all of it. I turned on Melissa Harris-Perry and tried to confront all the much uglier truths in our world than the palpable discomfort between us. I couldn't and flipped stations until I settled on Kill Your Darlings. If I had been able to actually watch the film, I think I would have lived it. As it was, Radcliffe and DeHaan were impressive. I had to explain the Beatniks to Mr. Farce, who has never read them. The irony of watching a film featuring the man who wrote Junkie was not lost on me as I sat next to my beloved, a man whose familial addictive propensities just caught up to him. And to me.

I looked up food addiction and had him take a look at the indicators. He stared at his phone a while before finally saying, "they're all me. All of them."

We discussed different therapies, that OA alone was not enough. We discussed examining our options financially.

"I'm having trouble even looking at you now," he said softly. "I failed you and did so much damage."

I told him I love him and went to take a nap. I'm not good at napping, but I have never been more exhausted. I dozed on and off for a while. He left to run a quick errand and I showered again and tried on the un-wedding dress. It fit well. It will go back.

I made a list of local therapists who have addiction experience and also sliding payment scales.

Tomorrow, I am going grocery shopping, a menial task I have never found more frightening. Tomorrow, he is calling to eliminate our cable and trim our phone bill features.

Tonight, we are at dinner with my parents. He looks to me for silent permission to eat another piece of bruschetta and it kills me, because I know that's not how this works, but he's still learning.