One of these days I will write a serious article about being the spouse of an addict. It will be insightful and helpful and cathartic and I will look like some kind of awesome, brave person to have overcome all this shit and rebuilt my life and aren't I amazing for thinking solely of my children and stuff? That day is not today. Because I am very close to panic attack mode.

So, guess what came in the mail today, on the one day I actually managed to get the mail first? Yes, that's right, boys and girls, a whole crapload of junk from the credit card company, all related to my soon-to-be-ex-husbeast's theft of my identity. Most of it is addressed to me: a copy of the statements for the card he opened (I asked for this, so I could see what he charged — how did they not send this stuff automatically? duh?), and some paperwork to fill out reporting the fraud, and a confirmation that my social has been flagged as a victim of fraud at the credit reporting agencies.

There was also THE LETTER. The one addressed to him. The one that, according to the guy I spoke with on the phone last week, calls him out and tells him that he needs to transfer the card into his name. The one that will make very clear I ratted him out. I haven't opened it. (Opening other people's mail is a felony, y'know. Of course, the only way I get to see any of the bills around here is to open mail addressed to him. Also of course, the only way he could have opened a credit card in my name started with him opening mail addressed to me. So much for felonies.)

It's about 9pm, and he's not home yet. He may still be working. He may be out with friends. He may have gone to see the girlfriend I'm sure he has. I don't know. I also don't know when he'll be back. I'm seriously contemplating leaving the letter on his pillow, going up to my room, and locking the door. Because I don't know how he's going to respond to this. He's never gotten violent, but I feel like this is the sort of thing that could spark that.

If I were a fucking grown-up, I would have told him this was coming, in front of a witness, like my lawyer suggested. But a) He always twists everything I say and turns me around and I get confused and I always feel like everything is my fault and I'm a horrible person for not trusting and forgiving better, and b) I really haven't had a chance to set anything like that up. Honestly. That's not just my loser-ness talking. There aren't many people I would trust to be a witness, who won't be lulled by his bullshit, who he will agree to have that conversation in front of. Maybe none.

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I have told some people I trust that this was coming. So I have people who will be expecting a call if I need someone. Not that I would ever actually call. I know me. I'll let him beat me into the ground while the children sleep. (That sounds disturbing, I know. But it's true. I will rationalize not calling for help because it will mean waking my boys.)

So do I leave the letter where he'll find it and go cower in my bed, or do I hang onto it and delay giving it to him? If I start delaying now, delaying some more will become easier. If I just leave it where he will find it, I won't know how he responded to it and whether or not he's going to do the right thing by it and I'll just be living in fear of the blow-up.

So I hold onto the thing. And I look for a way to hand it over with someone I trust to hold my hand while I do it. Which may take me days and days. And I won't sleep until it's done. Because I'm a coward.

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