On September 7, 2014, I finally felt like I could breathe again after a decade of suffocating entanglement. The bitter taste of my own tears lingered, and I grappled with fear and uncertainty, but the burden that had weighed me down was finally lifting. Watching David pour an entire bottle of whiskey down the drain was cathartic; it felt like my lungs were expanding for the first time in years. Each breath filled with hope as he requested I dispose of the unopened beer cans. In that moment, I believed we would save our marriage because he was choosing sobriety. He was ready to reclaim himself.
Unfortunately, I was mistaken.
Our seemingly perfect marriage lasted only a week. Just seven days. For that brief period, I felt a sense of safety, hope, and joy. I envisioned a future free from alcohol. But it wasn’t that David reverted to drinking—he was approaching a year of sobriety. The issue lay within me. I had underestimated the turbulence that had been brewing inside, a storm that had been kept at bay for years, largely thanks to the distraction of his drinking.
With his newfound sobriety came the need for acceptance, healing, and forgiveness. It was a time for empathy and spirituality, but it also heralded the weight of an apology that I hadn’t anticipated. The burden of this apology began to pull me under, forcing me to confront the past and the pain I had tried to ignore.
As he began attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, I found myself feeling increasingly isolated, left to manage our toddler alone. I felt resentment—not toward his recovery but at the unchanged dynamics of our lives. I was still the one holding it all together while he focused on his own healing. My feelings felt insignificant compared to his journey, and I was left playing a supporting role, unsure if my needs would ever be met.
It may seem childish, but unless you’ve been in a relationship with an alcoholic, you can’t grasp the complexities of the selfishness that accompanies both the addiction and the recovery process. It’s a struggle to support someone so thoroughly while grappling with your own feelings of neglect and isolation. The “us” versus “them” mentality became very real for me—how could I help when I didn’t understand his journey?
In the early days, anger consumed both of us. I was filled with rage, doubt, and bitterness—toward him and myself. How do you forgive someone who has harmed you physically and emotionally? How do you forgive yourself for staying?
This was the harsh reality of his sobriety—one I had been avoiding for a decade. My marriage was marred by violence and self-loathing. I had endured emotional and physical abuse, yet I had remained with my abuser and even started a family. People often commend me for my resilience, but I don’t wear that badge with pride. There is no valor in suffering, in being diminished and too fearful to leave.
As the sobriety count turned to weeks and months, we began to connect more deeply, yet we still felt like strangers. My depression deepened, leading me to seek therapy. Gradually, I found the courage to speak about our struggles and the violence that had plagued our relationship. With each passing week, I grew stronger, and as I did, I found myself drifting further from him. The more empowered I became, the less I desired to stay.
It was early 2015 when I first uttered the word “abuse.” I told him I still loved him, but I wasn’t in love with him anymore. I expressed my intention to seek a divorce.
I had read enough statistics to know that relationships often falter when one partner enters recovery. Determined not to become another statistic, I attended Al-Anon meetings, sought a sponsor, and immersed myself in literature about recovery. I tried to be supportive without being overbearing, but I soon realized Al-Anon wasn’t for me. I needed to break free from a past that was holding me hostage.
We began couples therapy. Nearly a year has passed since David’s last drink and the last time he harmed me. Yet it has been over a decade since I felt genuinely safe and loved. We share better moments now, but there is still much work to be done. Our past continues to loom over us, but it is our response to it that shapes our future.
For those in recovery, I commend you. That’s a brave and commendable path. For family members navigating the pain of addiction, you are strong and courageous, not just for sticking around, but for taking the necessary steps for your own well-being. If you have a loved one facing these challenges, know that you are not alone in your struggles. Help is available; all you need to do is reach out.
In this journey, we discover that we are both the “us” and the “them,” revealing how interconnected our experiences truly are.
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In summary, my journey through the tumultuous waters of addiction and recovery has opened my eyes to the importance of self-care and empowerment. While the road remains challenging, it is essential to recognize both the pain of the past and the potential of the future.