Not yet
My husband is an alcoholic. There, I've finally said it. Just not out loud. Not yet.
He doesn't think I know. And I'm not certain that I do know. And I wish I didn't know. But there is a little voice inside my head that tells me it's so.
He sneaks to the shed every night, like a cheating husband goes to a mistress. He finds a reason. He makes an excuse. He leaves me for her. He's not gone long, just long enough. And when he comes back to me, I can smell her on him. I can see the tale-tell signs. The slurred speech, the repeated questions about things we've already discussed. And the little voice inside my head tells me that he loves her more than he loves me.
He is such a good person. He is hard working, and happy, and friendly, and loving, and patient, and kind, and giving. And he is so well-liked and respected. Everyone who knows him, loves him. Not like me. I have no close friends or family to speak of. He is my best friend. And the little voice inside my head tells me that he doesn't want to be my friend, can barely tolerate me, and that is why he has to drink to stay with me.
He has hidden it so well for so many years. Well over a decade by now, at least. But our grown sons know, because they are with him in the shed when he drinks. They know and protect his hiding places. They pass the bottle around between them. But they don't drink to the excess that he does. I don't think they do. Not yet.
And the little voice asks me why it even matters to me. What difference does it make that he sneaks away and drinks a little every night? Leave it be. We're fine. You're overreacting. He doesn't get drunk in public and make a fool of himself. He doesn't get belligerent. He is not abusive. He doesn't throw and break things. He has never hit, cursed or blamed me. He doesn't stumble, stagger, or knock things over. And he doesn't drive on the really busy roads where he might hurt someone else. Not yet.
And the little voice tells me that I am the one with the problem. What sane person gets up in the middle of the night and wanders outside? And finds themselves at the shed a 3:00 a.m.? And opens cabinets and looks behind things on shelves trying to find the almost-empty bottles backed up by the full bottles? And measures to see how much is missing from the night before? And I want to scream and break the bottles against the walls and the cement floor and let it all out. All the alcohol. All the emotion. But I don't. Not yet.
If I were a better wife, he wouldn't have to drink. If I helped him more around the farm. If I were a better cook. If I wore more makeup. Then he wouldn't be so disgusted with me that he can't be near me unless he's drunk. This is what the little voice tells me night after night while I wait for him to come back inside.
And I want to scream at him that he is taking years off his life. That he will leave us sooner than he needs to. That he is stealing from me what is most precious; time spent with him. But I don't say a word, because the little voice inside my head tells me he'd rather die young than have to grow old with the likes of me.
And one day the little voice will tell me that it is time. Time to quit lying to myself, and letting him lie to me. Time to quit being quiet and pretending I don't know. Time to quit taking all the blame on myself. Time to give up that whisper of hope. Time to move on. But the little voice hasn't told me to, because it knows I'm not ready. Not yet