On September 7, 2014, I finally surfaced after a decade of drowning in emotional turmoil. The bitter taste of uncried tears burned my throat as I gasped for breath. But then, as I watched my partner pour a full bottle of whiskey down the drain, I felt a sense of relief wash over me. With every breath, my body grew lighter, and clarity returned to my mind. When he asked me to toss out the unopened beer cans, I believed we would thrive; sobriety would be our lifeline.
I was mistaken.
Our supposedly perfect marriage lasted just a week. For seven days, I felt confident, cherished, and reassured. I envisioned a bright future free from alcohol. But it wasn’t that my partner fell back into his old habits—he was nearing his one-year sobriety mark. The real issue was the tempest brewing inside me, a storm that had been simmering for a decade, masked by the distraction of his drinking. With his sobriety came the need for healing, acceptance, and forgiveness—things I hadn’t fully processed.
The initial weight of his apology felt like a leaden anchor, pulling me under. I found myself grappling with resentment—resentment not for his healing journey but for the fact that nothing felt different. I was still juggling responsibilities while he took time for himself. I felt like a second priority to both my partner and our child, my feelings dismissed. I was stuck in a role that felt like coddling him when, in fact, I was the one feeling unsupported. Pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t became my daily performance.
It may sound immature, but unless you’ve lived through a close relationship with an alcoholic, it’s hard to grasp the selfishness that often accompanies both the addiction and recovery processes. You can’t understand the struggle of having unmet needs that you’re too afraid to voice. Supporting someone who is healing after years of pain and anger while feeling utterly alone is incredibly challenging. The divide between “us” and “them”—the recovering alcoholic and everyone else—felt insurmountable.
In those early days, anger consumed both of us. I was filled with rage, self-loathing, and doubt. How could I forgive someone who had hurt me so deeply? Who had put me in the hospital? Who had nearly drowned me? How could I forgive myself for remaining in that situation?
That’s the harsh reality of his sobriety—one I had been avoiding. My married life was marred by both physical and emotional abuse, and I had stayed with my abuser long enough to start a family. Friends often commend me for my “strength” in enduring it all, but there’s nothing courageous about facing abuse or feeling trapped. That’s not a legacy I wish to pass on to my daughter.
As his sobriety count shifted from days to weeks and then months, we found ourselves more in tune with each other, yet we still felt like strangers. The battle of “us” against “them” continued.
My depression deepened, prompting me to seek therapy. Slowly, I began opening up about our struggles. Each week, I gained strength, but the more empowered I felt, the further I drifted from him. I realized I wanted a divorce. By early 2015, I courageously uttered the word “abuse” for the first time. I told him that while I would always love him, I was no longer in love.
I had read the statistics. I knew that many marriages ended when one partner entered AA. Determined not to become just another statistic, I immersed myself in Al-Anon meetings and sought guidance, but I soon realized this approach wasn’t for me. I couldn’t replay my painful past or focus solely on victimhood. I needed to break free from it all—including him.
Couples therapy followed shortly after. It has been nearly a year since his last drink and over a year since he last laid a hand on me. Yet, it has been 11 years since I felt truly safe and loved. We have wonderful moments that are becoming more frequent, but the road ahead is still long. Our past continues to cast a shadow over us, but it’s how we handle that past that truly defines our future.
To those in AA, your courage is commendable. You will find community and healing there. For those with loved ones in recovery, know that your strength doesn’t come from enduring abuse but from taking the steps you need to heal. And for those whose loved ones are still struggling, remember that you are not alone. There are resources available to help you navigate this journey.
Ultimately, we are both part of the “us” and the “them.” Not so different after all.
For more resources on navigating relationships and recovery, check out this post. You can also find support at Make a Mom, an authority on the subject. If you’re considering fertility treatments, March of Dimes offers excellent guidance.
Summary
In this candid reflection, I explore the complexities of my relationship with a recovering alcoholic and the unexpected challenges I faced. Despite initial hopes that sobriety would save our marriage, I uncovered deep-seated issues that I had been avoiding for years. As I sought therapy and began to find my own strength, I ultimately realized the need to prioritize my healing and happiness, leading to the difficult decision to pursue a divorce. It’s a journey of acceptance, resilience, and understanding that both partners can be part of the “us” and “them” dynamic.