On September 7, 2014, I finally emerged from a decade-long struggle. The bitter taste of tears lingered as I fought through fear and uncertainty, but a weight had been lifted. Watching my partner pour an entire bottle of whiskey down the drain allowed me to breathe freely for the first time in years. As he asked me to dispose of the unopened beer cans, I felt a surge of hope; I believed we were on the path to saving our marriage because he was choosing sobriety. He wanted to save himself, and I thought that would save us.
But I was mistaken.
Our seemingly perfect marriage only lasted a week. Just one week. For those fleeting days, I felt secure and hopeful, envisioning a future free from alcohol. However, my husband didn’t relapse; he was nearing his one-year sobriety mark. The real storm was brewing within me—one that had been brewing for a decade, kept at bay by the distraction of his drinking. With his sobriety came acceptance, healing, and the long-overdue apologies I had yet to hear.
The weight of those apologies was the first thing that brought me down. The realization that I had to accept not just his words but also the pain they represented allowed the storm to break through. He was spending his evenings at Alcoholics Anonymous, filling the time he used to drink with meetings, leaving me alone with our young child. I resented him, not for his healing, but because nothing had truly changed. I was still juggling everything, my feelings always coming last. I felt like I had to support him while he was finding himself, even though I knew he wouldn’t do the same for me. I was forced to pretend that everything was okay when it clearly wasn’t.
It may sound immature, but unless you’ve experienced life with an alcoholic, you cannot grasp the selfishness embedded in the disease and recovery process. You cannot understand how it feels to have unfulfilled needs and desires that you’re too afraid to voice. Supporting someone through their recovery after years of pain and anger can leave you feeling isolated.
In those early days, anger consumed us both. I was filled with rage and self-doubt, questioning how I could forgive someone who had hurt me so profoundly. How do you forgive a partner who has caused you physical and emotional harm?
For me, his sobriety forced me to confront the truth I had been avoiding. My marriage had been marred by violence and self-loathing. I was a victim of spousal abuse, both physical and mental, and I had chosen to stay with my abuser, even starting a family with him. Friends and family often praised my strength for enduring it, but this was not a badge of honor. There’s nothing commendable in being abused and feeling trapped; that’s not a legacy I want to pass on to my daughter.
As we transitioned from days of sobriety to weeks and then months, we became more attuned to each other. Yet, we were still two strangers living parallel lives—an “us vs. them” situation. My depression deepened, prompting me to seek therapy. Slowly, I began to voice our struggles, the violence, and the strain in our relationship. Each week I gained strength, but the stronger I became, the further I drifted from him.
It was early 2015 when I first uttered the word “abuse” out loud. I told him I loved him, but that I was no longer in love with him and wanted a divorce. I had read the statistics; I knew that Alcoholics Anonymous often led to more broken homes than healed ones. Despite my efforts to avoid becoming another statistic—attending Al-Anon meetings, seeking guidance, and trying to be supportive—I realized that I couldn’t live a life focused on victimhood. I needed to break free.
We began couple’s therapy the following week. Nearly a year has passed since his last drink and over a year since the last time he physically hurt me. Yet, it has been 11 long years since I felt truly safe or loved. We have our shining moments, and they are becoming more frequent, but the work is ongoing. We carry the weight of our past, but it’s how we handle that past that defines us.
To those in recovery, I salute your courage. You’ve found strength and community in your journey. For those supporting loved ones in recovery, remember you are strong, not because you stayed, but because you’re taking the necessary steps for your own well-being. And for those whose loved ones are still struggling, you too are resilient. You might feel helpless, but you can always find the support you need.
Ultimately, we are both the “us” and the “them,” not so different after all.