Issuing the Ultimatum

A storm is raging outside right now. Quarter-sized hail stones, rain pouring. The sky is trembling with thunder and lightning is ripping holes in the air. I have seven hours to prepare for the real storm to hit.

Last night, Pete went to a Loverboy concert with his friend from work, Monica. He got home around 2:20 AM. Drunk.

I asked him how much he had to drink. He said, four; two drinks before the concert, two afterward. I call B.S.

He was passed out within 10 minutes of walking through the door, completely unresponsive to anything. That doesn’t happen with two drinks. I don’t care how much of a lightweight you are.

We’ve had issues with alcohol in the past. I left him in September 2008 because of his drinking. He promised to go to counseling and AA. I guess I should have gotten more specific, like, “more than one meeting.”

He stopped drinking. For a while. I didn’t smell alcohol on his breath once for three months or so. Then I guess he felt I was more lenient. We started drinking together. I always told him if he were going to drink, I wanted to know for a fact how much it was. Somewhat co-dependent, but I thought it would be comforting.

Then I watched him. I watched him change from this man I was in love with, to this weird, incoherent monster that smelled like hookers and booze. It happened within ten minutes. One shot too many, and he was gone, and I knew I’d have a rough hour and a half ahead of me. But when the line was crossed, he continued to venture into dangerous territory, dragging his drunken ass deeper and deeper until I took away the bottle. At least, to me.

Catherine was there. She didn’t say anything, notice anything bad. I wonder if he really was that drunk, or if I’m just projecting my past experiences onto him. But it happened months ago, and past is past.

The conclusion I have come to is he shouldn’t drink at all.

I don’t trust him when he tells me he had four drinks over the course of eight hours. I’m terrified when I see exactly how much he drinks with my own eyes. To get that drunk in front of your own boyfriend, who’s begged you countless times to quit drinking, is somewhere on the corner of Fucked Up and Selfish.

So I am dropping the bomb tonight. I don’t want it to be an ultimatum. I never wanted to say these words to him, because I’ve always just wanted him to realize what drinking does to him – to me – and stop of his own accord. But it looks like he needs a carrot.

The terms are as follows:

Stop drinking, or get out of my life forever, period, 100%.

Truth be told, I tried my best, but lost myself somewhere along the way. I don’t have to have a man, but if I am in a relationship, then I do have to be with a healthy person: someone who doesn’t lie, who can express his emotions without exploding, and never even considers living in denial. And Pete isn’t that. And now, after two years, one week, and four days, I’m realizing Pete will probably never be that. Not in this version of the present, at least. For him to change, it has to be necessitated, and I haven’t done that, and he never will.

So here it goes. In about six hours, shit is going to hit the fan. I just hope the grass really is greener on the other side.