Jason and I talked into the night last night.
It has been a while since a deep midnight discussion did not result in me crying or Jason getting frustrated, because PPD will do that to a person. Last night, though, was sweet. We were both serious; the joke-cracking was minimal, which is a large feat in our house.
Jason is a recovering Meth addict. He has been sober for a long time now, more than five years; however, anyone who has ever had contact with addictions can tell you that the fight never ends - you are never “healed”. Meth has a 6-7% rehab success rate, which means that 93% of people who become addicted will never be clean.
Jason didn’t just wake up one day and decide he was going to stop. There was a long climb back to Sober, and it took years. He went through horrors that I will never be able to fathom, and he came out on the other side.
By the time I met him, he had been clean for a couple of years. He has worked his way up to middle class, earning everything he has. He is the most devoted father I have ever met; his life circulates around his partner and his child. If you passed him on the street or met him in line at the supermarket, you would never be able to see the shadows in his past.
He is my hero. He is my rock. He knows strengths I hope to god I will never have to find. Occasionally, in the dark of night, he will tell me I am more than he deserves.
I really think it is the other way around.