JayR

This may well be the most painful and difficult thing I’ll ever type . . .

I am married to a substance abuser. I am married to – perhaps – the clinical definition of an alcoholic.

No . . . I’m softening it too much. Let’s be clear: I am the 51 year old husband of a 50 year old alcoholic.

My life, as I knew it, is suddenly upside down and I am frightened like never before in my life. As I sit here wide awake at 4:30am – after, perhaps, a 90 minute sleep – my head is spinning with ‘what-ifs’ and questions about my culpability (if any) in helping create this situation. I am fearful for my wife taking her own life. I am fearful she will choose the bottle over her marriage. I am frightened by the possibility of life without her.

And I didn’t do anything intentional to turn my world upside down. Perhaps that is the most confusing part of this. I fancy myself to be a very good husband and friend to my wife – but behavior like that seems to indicate that something in her life may be going unfulfilled. The doubts and the fear I feel are by no hand of my own – or so I feel. We have an amazing and loving relationship . . . and while I have achieved very public acknowledgement for my achievements for what I do professionally, she has always been there to support me by making sure I am taken care of so I can do all the things a husband is required to do for his family.

Let’s start with what I found . . .

I’d noticed a sudden assembly of empty vodka bottles in the garbage that started to appear just after Christmas. (God bless my wife, even in her sickness, she’s still concerned about recycling . . .) It was alarming as I knew I wasn’t the person contributing to the collection. So I began to count and mark the liquor bottles. Since Christmas she has gone through 9 bottles of vodka - and she doesn't even drink vodka. Or so I thought . . .

Last night, when I came home, I found a new bottle of the same brand of vodka . . . almost empty. The one I had marked – containing 3 or 4 more shots – was gone. It was replaced by a bottle with NO marks of my own. Dear God . . . had she really consumed almost an entire bottle of vodka in the 8 hours I was at work?

Friday night we arrived home from a funeral (and quick dinner with a beer for each of us) and later I found a mini-bottle of empty Captain Morgan in the garbage. What I feared was happening came true. She was sneaking the liquor and hiding it from me. Classic behavior, to be sure. The arrival home to a wonderful meal of Eggplant Parmesian wasn’t as welcome when I opened the pantry door and found the new vodka bottle – sans my hidden marks – sitting amongst a rearranged liquor cabinet.

I quietly ate my meal and waited to finish before I spoke up. As I was cleaning up my dishes I paused and said, “I need to talk to you about something.” I explained what I had been doing for the previous few weeks and she didn’t deny it. How could she? She attempted to explain that she dumped out the one bottle with the few shots remaining in it – and then said she also dumped out half of the new bottle.

Uh-huh . . . and I’m supposed to believe that? Sorry, my experience with alcoholism isn’t so limited as to take that feeble attempt of hers to lessen the amount consumed and believe that story. If there is one thing I know about alcohol abuse it is that the offending person will try to cover up their consumption from their loved ones, family and friends.

For the next 5 hours we talked and she lied and I cried and she was truthful and I cried and she asked for forgiveness and I stared blankly and . . . well, you get the idea and need not be bored with her attempts to blame shift, justify and explain the reasons behind her actions. Surely she had to still be drunk if that much vodka was consumed. So her anger and other unappealing behaviors seemed flawlessly clinical in their execution by the abuser. I’ve fought with her drinking since the days I had my townhouse back in the mid-1990’s . . . but I NEVER imagined it would devolve into this.

She asked that I not tell anyone. How can I not? I can’t trust her to visit a friend and let the friend allow her to drink. I can’t not tell her family and alert them to the problem we now face – or THEY will be made unwilling accomplices in her illness. That’s the thing about substance abuse . . . it destroys trust, it is the epitome of selfishness, it forces people to lie and deceive in ways that bring others into their illness.

My head is spinning still . . . I hit a wall here and probably need to stop typing. It’s 5am now – Super Bowl Sunday. I’ve packed up all the liquor into the back of my truck again – and will take it to work to keep it out of her . . . well, just to keep it out of her.

Life will change now. But what will it look like when all is said and done? Will I remain married? Will she choose the bottle over me? What will my life – as settled as I presumed it was just one day earlier – now be 180 degrees in another direction? My fear is that my married life – as wonderful and amazing as it was – will never, ever be the same again – and I am powerless to do anything about it.

What did I do?

How would I ever consider that I would ever ask that question of myself?

How can trust ever be reestablished?

I feel ashamed. I feel like my life - in the span of 24 hours - went from the sincerity of the depth of our love by speaking about how I might feel if she passed away before me (probably a normal conversation after a funeral of a loved one) or the hurt she would feel were I to pass away . . . and now, I'm wondering if my life as I knew it has ended.

The miracle we both felt we had in our relationship is battered and I fear I am losing the future I once peacefully took for granted . . .