Originally Posted by MamaNature

And the little voice inside my head tells me that he loves her more than he loves me.

And the little voice inside my head tells me that he doesn't want to be my friend, can barely tolerate me, and that is why he has to drink to stay with me.

And the little voice asks me why it even matters to me.

And the little voice tells me that I am the one with the problem. What sane person gets up in the middle of the night and wanders outside? And finds themselves at the shed a 3:00 a.m.? And opens cabinets and looks behind things on shelves trying to find the almost-empty bottles backed up by the full bottles? And measures to see how much is missing from the night before?

If I were a better wife, he wouldn't have to drink. If I helped him more around the farm. If I were a better cook. If I wore more makeup. Then he wouldn't be so disgusted with me that he can't be near me unless he's drunk. This is what the little voice tells me night after night while I wait for him to come back inside.