I know I’m not speaking from direct experience, but as one with a ring side seat, let me assure you that is absolutely awful.
I can tell now. I know what to look for. And that fact alone has been hard won. It’s come from emergency gallbladder surgery two years ago. From the call from your work a year and a half ago. From a grand mal seizure on the Santa Clause train in front of my entire family this December. From when your skin was yellow. From when the police brought you home.
I see it. The lack of sense of time, the sleeping, the illogical requests of your kid, the urge to pick a fight with me, the fact that you are avoiding, and are unable to track a sentence sometimes.
The fact I asked you to leave.
I know. I can see it.
IT SUCKS. It sucks for you – I know it does. I KNOW it’s a disease. But from this side, too – it’s hard and painful and exhausting. I feel like I can barely trust myself, much less you.
I feel like I’m the crazy one.
Should I have let you stay? Should I live with the fear that the next time, I will know for sure that you were so far gone you were unable to hold a conversation, and yet still put our son in the car?
No. I can’t. And I won’t. And I’m sorry you can’t always seem to understand why I’ve made these choices, but they are mine to make. I will not risk our son.
And believe it or not, I am trying not to risk you.
Will this be enough to get through to you that I fear for your life? Your health?
I’m fighting to keep my own head above water. Alcoholism is drowning us both.
I’ve thrown you the lines and the flotation devices I can find, but now it’s up to you, because I’m about to go under if I try to keep you afloat. I have to put on my own oxygen mask first.
Reach for the life raft. For your son, if not for yourself or for me.