Of all people in my life, I have given you the least amount of credit deserved. I have fought you the hardest, felt the most betrayed, been the most resentful. I have girded up my loins and gone to war with you, deemed your opinion worthless, and rejected you. I have not given a thought about what you needed or wanted, instead demanding that you give what I needed. I have painted a picture, drawn the line, mapped out the road and you were going to follow it come hell or high water.
I hate you smoking. I hate it with every fiber of my being. I hate the smell of it. I hate the taste of it. I hate the cost of it. I hate the death of it. I hate that I can't make you stop. I hate that my ability to combat addiction isn't capable of fighting yours. I hate that your smoking, is my greatest weakness. I hate that it makes me resent you.
Fear makes me hate your addiction. Fear creeps in and dominates the conversation, like the elephant in the room: what on earth would I do without you? What if our children think it's okay to do it too? What if I end up surrounded by a pool of addicts? What if my love is not strong enough to keep all of us together?
The thing is, that I have never really factored you into the equation. What if you smoke to fight away some horrible demons that invaded your brain when you first stepped foot in that country? What if you smoke instead of sniff, or drink, or abuse? What if you smoke because you need to feel like that rebel that you spent so many years being, hasn't died or completely disappeared? What if you smoke so that you don't cheat, or lie, or steal? Or you smoke so that you can be "bad boy" enough to keep me interested?
It hurt me that you spent over a year smoke free only to start again. I'm not going to lie. To be honest, I don't know how to love you enough to not hate you smoking. I'm too selfish. I want you around. I want to wake up thirty years from now, next to you and your happily functioning heart and lungs. I want it to be me and you sitting around with our grandchildren telling stories of our pasts. I want you to be the one holding me while I disintegrate when our children move away from our home. I want you to be the person I go camping with, hiking with, fear-of-heights conquering with, exploring my dangerous side with, laughing with, loving with. I want it to be you that I have gray hair and wrinkles with.
No one knows how to love me like you do. Literally. Not a single person walking this earth, knows how to love me like you. It's amazing, completely flabbergasting, that I was so blessed to be joined with you. You love me like no other person. You lift me up, encourage me, challenge me, defend me, support me, love me, I mean really love me with all that you are. In a world filled with so many little boys, you stand tall as the greatest of men. What God has created in you humbles me. There is an awesomeness in you that can't be described. I am the luckiest woman in the world. I am the most blessed among women that this white spice rack gets to be your Mrs lobster...
So, I'm a bastard. I'm an asshole for not loving you enough to let this go. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I will try with all my might, to be as supportive as I can. Please forgive my passive aggressive comments, my overtly aggressive comments, my threats of forcing you to eat vegan, my bribes, begs, attitudes, resentments. Please forgive my silent treatments, my anger, and my inability to simply say "I love you. I'll love you no matter what. I'll keep right on choosing you every day. I'm just so scared of losing you." And as I write this, I literally can hear your voice saying "I already have..."
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