When I first realized my husband’s drinking was abnormal — at least from my point of view — it already felt too late.
We had been dating for a couple of years, living in different cities. I knew he drank. I drank. We were in our twenties. He had no kids. I did.
We saw each other a couple of times a week and always had a few drinks together. It felt social. Normal.
When we first moved in together, we were working a summer construction project with friends. We paid them in pizza and booze.
Nothing about it felt alarming.
Maybe I had my blinders on.
Then everything happened fast.
Engaged. Married. Pregnant.
The pregnancy is when I really started to see it.
When I stopped drinking, he wanted to be around me less.
He went out more.
Stayed for drinks after work more.
Found more “errands.” More “chores.”
I started finding hidden cans. Bottles.
I didn’t understand what I was dealing with then. I took it personally.
Why didn’t he want to be home with his family?
Why wasn’t I enough?
But addiction is a progressive disease.
And it progressed.
For years, we maintained some version of normal. He worked away at a dry camp, so he only drank at home.
It was maddening that his work got the better version of him.
Over time, he showed up less and less for us.
I kept thinking it would get better. I was losing my mind.
Surely he was too.
Surely he’d had enough.
Sooner or later.
But no.
It went on for years. Nearly a decade of working away. Then he failed a drug test and lost the high-paying job that supported our family.
And then things got bad — fast.
No routine.
No structure.
Just drinking. Chaos. Madness.
He got fired.
Had an affair.
Lost close friends to addiction.
Crashed his truck.
And all I could do was stand by and watch it unravel.
I wanted to leave.
But I was paralyzed by the stress.
Stuck.
I know it’s easy to judge why I didn’t — or haven’t — left.
But I couldn’t.
I was trapped.
Trapped by stress.
Trapped by guilt.
Trapped by the idea of a family unit.
Trapped by hope.
Trapped by the disappointment of what should have been.
If you relate to this, I hate that for you. Truly.
But you’re not alone.
I see you.
I feel you.
I understand you.
And I’m sorry.
Sorry that by the time you realize what’s happening, it already feels too late.
Sorry that by the time it’s obvious, you’re already too deep.
This is what it costs.