Thinker. Dreamer. Lover

I never thought it would happen to me. In fact, I specifically promised myself as a child that it wouldn’t. I suppose nobody imagines being in a long term relationship with an alcoholic; but for me it was so much more than that. It was a vow to not repeat the horrors of my childhood. Yet, at 38 years old I find myself despairingly living alongside the very poison that destroyed me as a kid and that continues to haunt me long into adulthood.

I grew up with an alcoholic and abusive stepfather. Mine was a traumatic childhood. I wouldn’t necessarily say that alcoholism and abuse go hand in hand, but in my stepfather’s case they most certainly did. There was my sober stepfather, who was an intelligent, hard working and professional human being. He invested in teaching me and educating me and pushing me to excel in school, instructing me with manners and how to speak impeccable English. Then there was my alcoholic stepfather, who was a completely different man. In fact, to me, he was a monster. He would drink, heavily, and then yell and scream and beat me. I was accused of being a brat, I was told I was worthless a “piece of shit” and then I was thrown against walls, pummeled in the head and made to bleed. From age 5 to 12 I suffered in this existence, until finally one day, I was convinced it would be the beating of my life, and I didn’t want to die. So I ran. I didn’t know where; I didn’t know what would happen; I just knew I had to escape.

From that day on, the day I liberated myself, I made myself a vow. I would never, ever again be around an alcoholic. The truth is, the illness ran in the family. My grandfather, who died before I was born, was an alcoholic as were both my uncles. One is many years sober, and the other, well he was never an abusive or violent alcoholic, but nonetheless the disease consumes him and pulled apart his family. I wanted nothing to do with alcohol. I left my family, my mother and my sisters at 12 years old, to save myself from its evil reach.

I spent the rest of my life without any further direct contact with alcoholism. Of course, there were years of counseling, therapy and psychiatry to help me with the trauma caused by my upbringing, but there was no longer any oppression from having to know or love someone that drank so heavily. I felt like I would make it in life, until as fate would have it at 32 I would meet and then later marry an alcoholic.

I fell in love. I met this kindred spirit who spoke to mine. We shared a strong intellectual connection and also emotionally we were akin. I thought I was lucky to find someone who would see me for who I was and love me nonetheless. I felt I would always do the same. Signs of his heavy drinking surfaced early on. One of the first dates we went on was a group house party, something I used to love to do, and of course there was plenty of booze at such parties. My spouse got so drunk that night that as I drove him back to his apartment, he stumbled out of the car and up the steps to his front door and I thought immediately “Damn, I really liked this one”. It was instinctive. My automatic response was that I could not continue in the relationship. It was clear to me that in order to get that drunk, there was something inherently wrong. Perhaps I should have stuck to my gut and just turned off the phone or ignored his subsequent text messages. I didn’t. I wanted to give him a chance. I wanted to be proven wrong and be told that his behavior was exceptional, that it was completely out of the norm. I talked to him and this is exactly what he said. He lied.

I’ve spent the last 6 years of my life with two people. One person is kind and warm and gets the inner most parts of me that nobody else knows. He is intelligent and articulate, well read and thought provoking. He understands me and listens to me and gives me great affection and love. The other person, is a monster. Not the same kind of monster as my stepfather, but rather one that is intent on his own self destruction and often unconcerned with the wake he leaves in his path towards that end. There is no physical harm done unto me,  but there is violence as the stupor of my husband’s drunken state leads to increased fury at the injustices of the world. The beating occurs to his own body as his fist makes contact, often with a wall, furniture, metal, mostly all inanimate objects and conversely himself.

The sad thing about this disease is that often, it plagues the souls of the most tortured and pained. My stepfather passed away when I was 31, he was ravaged by cancer and death took to him very slowly and without mercy. I remember crying profusely at his funeral. I cried, not because of my memories of him but because I knew the torment he inflicted on himself from his own unresolved and brutal childhood far exceeded any that I had suffered at his hands.

This is also true of my alcoholic husband. I don’t love that he is an alcoholic, in fact I hate that; I love him because deep down he is a hurt and conflicted little boy who is hopeless and despaired. He turns to drinking to mask the pain he feels inside, and deep down inside me the hurt little girl wants to reach out and hold the little boy’s hand and let him know he is not alone. I understand him so profoundly, I know exactly what it is like to grow up in a dysfunctional family. I mourn for his own tarnished childhood, perhaps even more than I’ve ever mourned for mine.

I am ashamed, I feel guilty and so depressed. I broke a promise I made to myself a long time ago. A promise that I would never again suffer in the hands of alcoholism; that I would never again see it’s horrendous face, mocking at me. Yet, it is that face that I see now several times a week, devouring my otherwise handsome husband’s visage. I hate that face.

Regardless of how much empathy and sorrow I share with his situation, I can no longer continue to enable him. I’ve done it now for far too long. I’ve cared for him and picked him up so many times when has stumbled inebriated at a restaurant, at an event, at the beach or any public forum. I thought it was caring for him, but now I realize it’s allowing him to never fully get the help he needs.

And so, although I love my spouse, I have to do right; right by me and right by him. Living like this is no longer right and I cannot keep breaking promises that I had vowed to keep.