On September 7, 2014, I felt a breath of fresh air for the first time in a decade. The bitterness of swallowed tears burned my throat as I gasped for relief from fear and uncertainty, yet a burden was lifted. Watching him pour an entire bottle of whiskey down the sink allowed my lungs to fill, and gradually, I started to feel lighter and clearer. When he asked me to throw away the unopened cans of beer, I believed we were finally on the right path; our marriage was going to be saved because he was getting sober. He genuinely wanted to save himself.
But I was mistaken.
Our seemingly perfect marriage lasted just one week. For that brief time, I felt confident, secure, and hopeful. I envisioned a bright future without alcohol. However, the reality was far more complicated. It wasn’t that he returned to drinking—he was nearing a year of sobriety. Instead, I underestimated the tempest brewing within me. For ten years, I had kept my feelings suppressed, largely due to the distraction of his drinking. With his newfound sobriety came acceptance, healing, and the need for forgiveness. It also brought the weight of an apology, which soon became my burden.
The heaviness of that apology started dragging me down. He was now attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings in the evenings, using what had once been his drinking time to focus on his recovery, leaving me alone with our toddler. I felt resentment—not towards his healing, but at the fact that nothing seemed to have changed. I was still the one holding everything together while he took care of himself, still playing second fiddle to both him and our daughter. My feelings felt insignificant, and I found myself trying to support him while feeling unsupported in return. I was forced to pretend everything was fine when it wasn’t.
It may sound childish, but unless you’ve experienced a close relationship with an alcoholic, it’s hard to grasp the selfishness that the disease imposes on both the drinker and their loved ones. You cannot truly understand how it feels to have needs that you’re afraid to voice or how tough it is to support someone who has caused you so much pain while feeling isolated. The “us” versus “them” mentality—those in recovery versus those outside—is palpable and strong, especially in the early days. I felt helpless because I couldn’t fully understand his journey.
Anger was rampant in our household, and both of us were feeling it. I was consumed with rage, doubt, and self-loathing. How do you forgive someone who has caused you harm? Who has left you bruised and battered? How do you forgive yourself for staying in such a situation?
For me, that was the harsh truth of his sobriety. It laid bare the reality I had been avoiding for years: my marriage was marked by violence and self-neglect. I had endured not just emotional but also physical abuse, and instead of leaving, I chose to stay and build a family with my abuser.
People often commend me for my strength, for enduring the situation, but I don’t wear that as a badge of honor. There’s nothing courageous about staying in an abusive relationship out of fear of being alone. That’s not the kind of strength I want to embody or pass on to my daughter.
As the days turned into weeks and then months of sobriety, we became more attuned to each other, yet we felt like strangers living separate lives. My depression deepened, prompting me to seek therapy. Gradually, I began to voice our struggles, the violence, and the problems in our relationship. Each week, I grew stronger, but with that strength came a desire to distance myself from him.
It was in early 2015 that I first uttered the word “abuse.” I told him I loved him, but I was no longer in love with him, and that I wanted a divorce. I had read the statistics about Alcoholics Anonymous and its impact on marriages, and I was determined not to become just another statistic. I attended Al-Anon meetings, sought a sponsor, and immersed myself in literature about recovery. But I soon realized that Al-Anon wasn’t for me. I couldn’t live a life tethered to victimization; I needed to break free from it all.
We began couples therapy the following week. It has now been nearly a year since his last drink and over a year since he last harmed me. Yet, it has been a long 11 years since I truly felt safe and loved. We share wonderful moments, and they are becoming more frequent, but the road ahead is still filled with work and healing. We will always be shaped by our past, but it’s how we choose to navigate that past that defines us.
To those in AA, I commend your strength. That is where you find your community and your true self. For those with family in AA, you are courageous not simply for enduring, but for prioritizing your own needs. And for those with loved ones struggling, know that you have strength too, and you are not alone. Even if you can’t change them, you can change your own path.
In the end, we are both “us” and “them.” Surprisingly similar, after all.
Further Reading
For a deeper dive into the topic of home insemination, check out our related blog post here. If you’re exploring home insemination options, Make a Mom has an authoritative guide for you. For more insights on the IVF process, this resource is excellent.
In summary, my journey through my husband’s sobriety revealed the complexities of our relationship, underscoring the impact of past trauma and the necessity of self-care. Healing is a continuous process, and understanding our shared experiences is vital for growth.