When the call came through, I wanted to throw up, and I feared I would pass out. I was driving.
He said he had to talk to me about something that would upset me. He sounded sad and exhausted, as if he were so disappointed that he couldn’t process the situation. I suspect he was. He wanted to wait until later, but I insisted he tell me then.
It was 2:47pm CST. He said we had until 3:00pm CST to get five months of mortgage payments to the lending company or foreclosure proceedings would begin. I demanded the company’s phone number, and I begged for an hour extension.
The money transfer went through at 3:59pm CST.
And at the risk of sounding melodramatic, my world fell apart.
Since the birth of my son in 2012, I have developed severe anxiety where finances are concerned. My husband and I discussed this back then, and we agreed that he would handle all the finances and he would provide me with a cash allowance to spend. I thought I could trust him. I had absolutely no idea that instead of paying our bills, he was spending his free time at a little corner store, playing illegal slot machines.
“It started when my dad died back in March,” he said.
I don’t really care, except I do. The part of me that nearly became a psychologist is fascinated with the mental illness that has played out in his mind in the past six months. The wife inside of me is physically ill at the realization of what he has destroyed.
My best friend says, knowing this, the pieces of the past fit neatly together. She’s right. There were signs all along, and I either unintentionally or subconsciously ignored them. I don’t know. I’ve lost 8 pounds since last Thursday because I can’t eat. I can’t drink. I can’t sleep. Until yesterday, I haven’t even been able to cry, and now it’s a struggle to keep the tears at bay.
I promised to love, honor, and cherish him, in sickness and in health, ’til death do us part.
I never imagined a mental illness in the form of a gambling addiction.
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