Reading your post brought back so many memories. I used to run myself ragged trying to be thoughtful and make things nice for him. Cooking, cleaning, picking out everything he liked or might have wanted for a special meal or putting myself out to celebrate a special occasion.
And he just drank. And drank. And drank some more. And then he'd rage, and be nasty, curse, call me names, make threats.
He punched holes in walls, broke furniture, smashed dishes.
And I cleaned up his messes, tried to make everything alright again.
By the time he started physically attacking me, I was so worn down that it didn't seem to matter. I hit him back. Beat him with a baseball bat, a frying pan, stabbed him in the neck, but he never seemed to feel any pain, and none of it ever stopped him from hurting me. He never even remembered how he'd gotten hurt. In his world, none of that stuff ever happened. So I started to feel crazy.
I was crazy. Living that way for so long made me crazy.
You were smart to get out early.