Us vs. Them: Why Sobriety Wasn’t the Solution I Hoped For

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On September 7, 2014, I took a deep breath for the first time in a decade. The taste of salty tears lingered in my throat as I felt both fear and uncertainty wash over me. But amidst it all, a sense of relief emerged. Watching my partner, Mike, pour an entire bottle of whiskey down the drain, I could finally breathe again. With each inhalation, I felt lighter and my mind clearer. When he asked me to dispose of the unopened beer cans, I thought we were set. We were going to save our relationship because he was choosing sobriety. He was finally committed to saving himself.

But I was mistaken.

Our ideal marriage lasted just a week. For seven days, I felt a renewed sense of hope and safety. In that brief moment, the vision of a future without alcohol seemed attainable.

The issue wasn’t that Mike returned to drinking—he was nearing his one-year sobriety milestone. The real challenge lay within me. The storm I had kept at bay for a decade was now unleashed, thanks to the space created by his sobriety. With his newfound clarity came acceptance and healing for him, but it forced me to confront the painful truths I had long avoided.

As he spent evenings at Alcoholics Anonymous, I found myself alone with our toddler, grappling with feelings of resentment. I wasn’t upset about his recovery; I was frustrated that nothing else had changed. I was still the one holding everything together while he focused on himself. I felt like I was playing second fiddle—not only to our child but also to his healing process. It was as if my own feelings didn’t matter. I felt compelled to support him, all while knowing he wouldn’t extend the same support to me.

It might sound petty, but unless you’ve been in a relationship with an alcoholic, you may not grasp the selfishness that often comes with this journey. The “us versus them” mentality is stark, especially during those early days of recovery. Trying to help someone while feeling alienated and alone is a heavy burden. You struggle with unsaid needs and unfulfilled wants, feeling like a stranger in your own life.

I became increasingly angry; we both did. I was filled with rage, self-loathing, and doubt. How do you forgive someone who has hurt you deeply? How do you forgive yourself for staying?

That was the harsh truth of his sobriety; it forced me to confront the violence and emotional trauma I had endured. I had been a victim of both physical and mental abuse, and instead of leaving, I had chosen to build a life and family with my abuser.

People often commend me for my strength in enduring such hardships, but I don’t wear that label with pride. There’s nothing courageous about being a victim or being too scared to leave. I refuse to pass that lesson on to my daughter.

As Mike’s sobriety progressed from days to weeks, and eventually months, we became more attuned to one another, yet we felt like strangers.

The storm within me continued to grow, and I sought therapy. I started to vocalize our struggles and the violence that had seeped into our lives. With each session, I grew stronger, but that strength pushed me further away from him. It was early 2015 when I finally said the word “abuse” aloud. I told him that while I loved him, I was no longer in love with him. I made the decision to seek a divorce.

I was aware of the statistics: Alcoholics Anonymous has a higher rate of broken marriages than successful recoveries. Determined not to become another statistic, I attended Al-Anon meetings and sought guidance. Yet, I soon realized that reliving the past only perpetuated my victimhood. I needed to break free—from him and the cycle of pain.

We began couple’s therapy the following week.

It’s been almost a year since Mike’s last drink and over a year since he last physically harmed me. Yet, it’s been 11 years since I felt truly safe and loved. We have our moments—good ones that are becoming more frequent—but there’s still a lot of work ahead. Our past will always be a part of us, but it’s how we manage that past that truly defines who we are.

For those in recovery, I commend your strength—that’s where you’ll find your community and your sense of self. For family members navigating the fallout, your courage lies not in staying, but in doing what you need to heal. And for those supporting loved ones through addiction, you are not alone; help is available if you seek it.

In the end, we are both “us” and “them”—more alike than we realize.

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Summary:

The journey through sobriety can be as tumultuous for partners as it is for those in recovery. This narrative reveals the complex feelings of resentment, anger, and the quest for healing in a relationship marred by substance abuse. It highlights the importance of self-care and the necessity of breaking away from toxic dynamics while recognizing the shared struggles that bind us together.