We would have to sell our house if we divorced. The house we bought from my grandma, the one my dad grew up in.

Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. Matthew 6:34

Our beloved camper, Betsy Ross, would have to go. No more traveling around the country with our girls and dog, no more seeing the fifty states before they graduate.

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go. Joshua 1:9

Is Chris capable of being honest? Can he stop lying? Is hard work too hard for him? Is our marriage redeemable?

When I am afraid, I will trust in you. In God, whose word I praise, in God I trust; I will not be afraid. What can mortal man do to me? Psalm 56:3-4

I need to find a new job; my work-from-home job is great for my family, but won’t support myself without Chris’ income. No more getting the girls on the bus in the morning, no more welcoming them home, no more class parties, no more flexibility.

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid. John 14:27

I worry about moving my girls again. It was such a difficult decision to move them to a new area and a new school–will I have to do that again? I can’t do that to them.

Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine. Isaiah 43:1b

What if Chris gets sober and who he has become isn’t enough? What if who he has become doesn’t work for our marriage anymore? What if I don’t want to be married to him anymore?

Be strong and courageous, and do the work. Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord God, my God, is with you. He will not fail you or forsake you until all the work for the service of the temple of the Lord is finished. 1 Chronicles 28:5

Money. Money. Money. Divorce. Retirement accounts. Properties.

I sought the Lord, and he answered me; he delivered me from all my fears. Psalm 34:4

Are my kids safe? Do they feel loved in the midst of this chaos? How do I comfort them when I can’t seem to comfort myself? Should they see me cry so much?

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. Psalm 23:4

Does sleep come back? I’d love to sleep through the night. I’d love to wake up rested instead of immediately exhausted and sad.

Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you. 1 Peter 5:6

I’d like the hurt to stop–just for a moment. A break, I need a break. Anger, confusion, heartache, loneliness, betrayal. Constant and relentless.

Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Deuteronomy 31:6

What if Chris keeps drinking? What if he continues driving drunk? What if he dies? What if he gets arrested? What if he kills someone? What if?

So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. Isaiah 41:10

I’m too broken to fix. I’m too shattered to heal.

For I am the Lord, your God, who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you. Isaiah 41: 13

What if we get back together and this happens again?

You who fear him, trust in the Lord–he is their help and shield. Psalm 115: 11

How did I get here?

Will I ever feel normal again?

How will these cracks heal?

What is to come?

They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.” … For men are not cast off by the Lord forever. Though he brings grief, he will show compassion, so great is his unfailing love. For he does not willingly bring affliction or grief to the children of men. Lamentations 3:23-24 & 31-33

When I say out loud my children won’t grow up in the home of an alcoholic, I say it with every ounce of my being.

This will not be their home life.

This will not be their legacy.

This will not be their chaos to cope with.

I will lose my marriage. I will lose my husband. I will lose my house. I will lose my comfort. I will lose all of it to stop this ride immediately.

I can’t control Chris’ drinking. I already tried.

I can’t control his pain. I already tried.

I can’t control his recovery. I already tried.

I can’t love him into sobriety. I already tried.

If the sheer force of my will could fix this, it would be fixed by now.

The most impactful reactions to my series a few weeks ago were when I heard from adults who grew up in the homes of alcoholics or addicts. This story I’m living isn’t new. This reality has played out for decades in millions of homes. It played out in the home Chris grew up which makes the irony especially brutal.

When you’re a kid living in the chaos of a parent struggling with addiction, you don’t get a voice. Often you’re along for a ride you never agreed to get on and would love to get off of, but no one is actually listening to you. I saw this more times than I can count in the classroom, kids unable to say they are in unsafe situations so their behaviors betrayed their reality because they didn’t have or couldn’t say the words.

It took me almost four months to begin to comprehend the destruction Chris had brought to our life by his drinking. And when he started again–in secret, while still keeping up the facade of meetings and counseling and accountability relationships–I had clearer lenses to view the results. There comes a point when an alcoholic is fooling no one but themselves. Chris was too selfish and too drunk to see it.

I did see it though.

I saw it. I watched. I understood what needed to happen next.

Addicts and alcoholics will lie and deceive and manipulate anyone and anything to continue their behavior. Swallowing that pill–that my husband’s love is alcohol and not his wife or his children–took a few months. When I wrote about a 90-day sobriety chip showing up on my desk, I knew it was a lie. He wasn’t sober. I don’t actually know how long he stopped drinking after he was caught, but I would say maybe thirty days. Maybe. I would ask him about it, but he’s still living a lot of lies and so his answer won’t be the truth.

When I finally had proof–when I was holding the empty beer can in front of his face–I could say without a doubt or fear or regret he needed to leave our home. He couldn’t live here anymore. He wasn’t going to pretend to be sober here anymore.

He had to go.

I think God let me have four months to wrestle with boundaries and realities and truths so when the time came, I could do the best thing for my children and for myself.

Your girls need your resolve to help heal them. I know because my parents were horrible alcoholics. Growing up was a nightmare.
-blog reader

I’m basically saying that I think you taking a hard stance in your marriage and with the girls is awesome. My parents fumbled a lot when it came to the divorce, not talking about it, and dogging each other to us kids.
I believe the best for you, the girls and Chris is yet to come and Jesus will see you through it. I think what you can control is how you deal with the shit. As a kid who saw way too much fighting, thrown objects and hatred, I think the best you can do is be the woman of God you already are. That will last for them. That will build them to be women of God who aren’t afraid of relationships or marriage or letting someone in.
-Facebook message

When I hear from adults who grew up like my kids are, their reactions were thank you. Not end your marriage. Not hatred for Chris. Not try longer, don’t ask him to leave.

But thank you. You’re doing what my parents didn’t. You’re doing what I begged for. You’re doing what I dreamed about. You’re doing what I needed my parents to do.

As the son of an alcoholic, I applaud your decision to not be silent. Some of the worst things in my dad’s life came out of me not speaking up and enforcing the consequences of his actions. Our transgressions cannot hide in the light, but they love the dark.
-text message

You are doing the very thing I needed and begged my mom to do as a child. Our lives were so secretive and private…I’m not telling you this to burden you, but to tell you DO NOT GIVE UP. You are creating a new legacy of boundaries and healthy choices for your daughters and they will thank you one day.
-Instagram message

No one wants my marriage to end. No one is encouraging divorce. Everyone hopes this ends with sobriety and health and healing. But my kids don’t have the voice or understanding to say “get me out of here” so I’m doing it for them, with the support of a lot of people who didn’t get that chance.

As the daughter of alcoholics, I wish someone had plucked me from that situation and protected me like you are your little darlings. The painful, long-term effects of living in a chaotic household of secret-keeping and prioritizing addiction are in the deepest corners of my life and are so hard to undo. That lifestyle has kept me from forming deep relationships, sharing my true self, and understanding my value. I mean, when your dad chooses a trip to the bar over your senior musical, you wonder if you matter to anyone. I’m so grateful you’re strong and you’re willing to hold him accountable for his actions, for both his benefit and that of your kids. Thank you, pal.
-blog reader

People have been throwing around the word “brave” when they respond to my story. It’s a nice compliment to hear, but I don’t think I’m brave. I don’t feel strong. I don’t feel anything but forced to make painful choices by a husband who refuses to address hard things, face the pain of a broken childhood, or stop running to alcohol when things become difficult.

He forced my hand.

I didn’t suddenly become brave. I just ran out of options.

Why share this? Because I know without a doubt, some of my readers have kids who can’t speak up. Whether in their family or in their house, there are kids right now who need help asking to be kept safe, to be able to leave the eye of the storm.

I’ve learned recently that love–a lot of the time–is painful and hard. Love is uncomfortable and difficult. Love is making painful choices with hope in mind. I am so full of hope in asking Chris to leave. Hope he’ll get better. Hope he’ll finally start doing hard work he’s been avoiding. But hope for myself too. Hope I’ll be okay no matter what. Hope I’ll be safe and healthy whether I’m married or not. Hope my daughters will grow up loved well and safely. Hope that my hard work will eventually make my life better. It’s all I can control. I can’t control my alcoholic husband. I can’t control whether he drinks. I can’t control whether he lies.

But I can control my life, who has influence, who has access to it, who is let in. And if you’re not a safe person, you’re no longer welcome in the inner circle. I’m an adult who gets to say that.

If you know a kid who would want to say those things, but can’t, you need to speak up for them. Forget politeness. Forget manners. Forget hurting feelings. We’re adults. It’s our responsibility. We’ll be accountable for our words one day, but we’ll also be accountable for when we were silent.

So how are things right now, you ask.

That’s a good question.

Everything you’ve read until today has been written for a while (except for last Friday’s post, obviously). I’ve been writing since it happened. I started writing specifically about this topic on May 7th, and I haven’t really stopped. I’ve written things and let them sit for weeks to make sure they actually needed to make their way to the internet. I’ve written things that won’t ever end up here. I’ve edited, changed, added, and taken away things for weeks.

You, the reader, got four months of thoughts, emotions, and hurt in two weeks.

I’m sorry about that. I know it’s overwhelming and a lot to process.

Believe me, I know.

One thing that kept me from writing publicly for a long time was the fear of burdening others.

It’s also what keeps me from sharing in conversation. After I acknowledged that thought–that I would cause others pain or anguish by sharing my life with them–I had to accept it and then decide if sharing was worth it or not.

Sharing is always worth it. Always.

Our human nature is to think we’re special, unique snowflakes. But we’re not. We’re more the same than different and my story, my marriage struggles, my husband’s addictions, they’re not really that unique. The Grahams are more common than I’d like to think.

So I’m sharing because I know I’m not alone, I don’t want to be alone, and I don’t want to pretend I am alone.

Thanks for listening and taking on our story in whatever way you did. I know it’s a lot.

This is the most immediate writing I’ve done. I saved this post for the last in the series (but not the last time I’ll address this topic) because I wanted it to be immediate and the most up-to-date. I wanted it to specifically address the comments, emails, and questions that arose from my posts. And I wanted to be able to tell you in the most real-time way, what my life looks like at this very moment.

Remember that acceptance is not condoning. To accept is not to say, “This is okay.” It is to say, “This is what is.” Notably, radical acceptance often drops us into a state of grief, as we come to terms with hard realities. –Robin Chancer

Right now, I am working toward radical acceptance which has plunged me into a state of absolute grief. I am in mourning for what I thought my marriage was, what I thought my life would be, and who I thought my husband was.

I am full of grief and mourning.

Probably with a good helping of anger on the side.

And then a sprinkling of completely inappropriate humor for fun.

My hard realities are I married an addict and he will always be an addict (recovering or not), my daughters are the children of an addict and the granddaughters of an addict, and my marriage is very, very broken.

I like to sit on my therapist’s couch and listen to her tell me I won’t stay angry and full of grief. At some point, I will be past anger and onto something new. Who knows what that will be (I haven’t asked…), but she is confident I won’t stay here forever.

So I just get to sit with my grief and anger for a while.

I am settled and comfortable here, but I know eventually I will want to move on.

I also know from past experience with this, if I move too quickly or have shame or guilt because of my feelings, I won’t heal correctly. I have to heal correctly this time. For myself. For Chris. For Ellie and Harper.

I don’t know what healing looks like. I don’t know what my life will look like in six months or a year from now. I make no promises of anything, no guarantees of a future I have very little control of.

I don’t know what my marriage will look like. I don’t know if I will be married.

I don’t know if Chris will be clean and sober. I don’t know if he will be a part of our lives.

I don’t know anything.

I could tell you what I hope, what I would do right now if pushed, what I wish, but I don’t have much energy for hopes and wishes. I’m working too hard for radical acceptance, and that’s it. Here is what my life is. Here is what I can do about it right now. Here is what I can not do about it right now.

BREATHE. BREATHE. BREATHE.

That and Jesus–that’s all I’ve got.

I have been an addict-alcoholic’s wife for almost eleven years. I have been mostly quiet about it. I have written about it occasionally, but not much. I have talked about it quietly to some friends, but not much.

I am done being quiet. I am done hiding.

I have heard from a few well-meaning people that maybe these posts weren’t helpful to my marriage or to Chris. And I’m sure it was thought by others.

Here’s my response to that: Being quiet and gentle and worrying about my husband’s fragile state has done no good. It has kept him from the full consequences of his actions. It has kept him safe and secure in ways that enabled him. It has kept things the same.

I am done with that.

Madness is continuing the same pattern but expecting different results.

We’re starting new patterns right now.

As of today, Friday, September 1st, I can tell you Chris and I are separated. He is not living with us. He is still continuing to make harmful choices for himself which means he is making harmful choices for our family. I will not allow that to take place in my home anymore.

Whether or not it will be his home again remains unknown.

I prayerfully considered and edited this series. Obsessively. When I say I’m just sharing a few things and leaving out the most horrible parts, I am not exaggerating. My stories this week and last were just a few, carefully selected highlights of a much longer movie reel of brokenness. This is the radio-edit version of the Graham marriage.

I am in no rush to make any permanent decisions about my marriage, but I also refuse to live in this unhealthy situation any longer. What that means exactly, I’m not sure.

I know the work ahead of us is overwhelming to think about.

I know that my God is more than capable.

I know that no matter what happens, I will be okay.

I am okay.

 

(Just joining this series? Start here.)

P.S. I haven’t decided if I’ll be quiet on the blog next week to take a little recovery period or not, but know that this topic, this stuff going on in my life, will be written about again, but not solely a focus. I have other posts, other things to say, and my blog will not and can not turn into a messy marriage blog. I’m a million things and my marriage is just one part. So whether you come back here or not, know that this place will go on as normal. I’ll share the good, the bad, and the in-between. And I really hope to find my sense of humor again. I miss writing to make myself laugh. The bittersweet part about tragedy is that the world keeps spinning. So I’m going to as well.)

This is a weird post to write, because I’m sitting in the middle of a mess trying to share how you can survive.

While I’m barely surviving.

I wanted to call this post “The Blind Leading the Blind” but I decided not to. That’s probably what it should be called though.

So what do you do? What do you do when the bottom falls out and you’re reeling from too much pain? Where do you start? How do you finally get out of bed? Where do you go when nothing makes sense anymore and everything hurts?

I HAVE NO IDEA. GOOD LUCK. GO TO ANOTHER BLOG.

Sorta kidding.

Sorta not.

I’ll tell you what I did even though it feels tender, and I don’t know where it’s all leading me.

From the beginning, I crawled desperately to Jesus
May 3rd was a Wednesday. By Saturday, I was able to walk downstairs to my office and collapse into my red chair. With coffee in hand, I opened my Bible to catch up on my devotional reading. (I’m reading the whole Bible in a year and using this version; I can’t recommend it enough.) I didn’t know specifically where to go to find encouragement or hope, so I just jumped back into my daily reading. I was behind, didn’t have a clue where to go otherwise, and just needed to feel less crazy.

The great thing about God is if you show up, He’ll show up too. I didn’t even have the energy to Google something like “Bible verses for encouragement”–I just started reading and expected, no, DEMANDED, God’s help. That feels bossy to say, but it’s what I did.

I sat there for hours. Reading, praying, and listening to worship music. When I couldn’t read, I just listened to music. When I was praying, I was writing in my journal. At one point, I was overwhelmed with puzzle pieces falling into place–things that had felt off for so long–that suddenly God was showing me in a new way. I had a new reality, a new truth, to filter events through. Understanding the consuming way Chris’ drinking had impacted our lives was crushing. Keeping all the memories straight and keeping all the realizations from overpowering me was hard.

But I just kept sitting in the pain.
And when it got too much, I just wrote lists in my journal. Things I could come back and process later because my main emotion seemed to be overwhelmed. I just couldn’t process all the things that were happening.

I highly recommend writing for healing.
I’m not talking about blogging. I’m not talking about sharing awkward Facebook status updates. I mean, get a journal and write horrible, nasty things. Open up a Word document and type all the things you feel like you can’t say out loud. Password protect it if you’re nervous about it. Open a note on your phone and start writing. Research says writing helps us heal faster. This article talks about healing from an injury, but writing can help process trauma as well.

Even if you write and immediately destroy it, I’d suggest writing. Or save it for later when you’re in a different spot and use it as a way to remember God’s faithfulness in the midst of this heartache.

Don’t wait to look for God’s faithfulness.
Find things right now-in the midst of all the heartache-to say thank you for. This feels hard and, also, if I’m being honest, made me mad to do, but I looked for things to be grateful for in the thick of pain and confusion. Saying thanks for my children, for my safety, for the air in my lungs, for the hot coffee, for not yet murdering my husband, for my dog, for a good hair day, ANYTHING to remind me to be grateful. It’s so easy to be consumed with our hurt that we miss the good still present. Don’t do that.

While you’re writing those things you feel you can’t say out loud, make sure you have a few friends around who will listen to you rage without judgment. Like full-on rage.

I personally recommend a friend or two who won’t actually say much and will agree with every single thing you say whether it’s true or not.
Eventually they’ll need to speak truth and provide counsel and encourage and all the other things those self-help books talk about. But first, just verbally throw up all over them and don’t apologize.

We can’t do that forever though. We’d run out of friends. And this would be a really inconvenient time to be abandoned by our people.

So search out a really good therapist too.
I specifically looked for and found a family therapist. I was too wounded to say I needed therapy so I called someone and left a message saying I needed help figuring out how to address this situation with my children. I needed help for my children. I purposefully selected a therapist who knew how to do children’s counseling and family counseling.

But then once I got there and realized it was a safe place where I felt heard and respected, THE FLOODGATES OPENED and I was all like Screw those kids, I’m a mess.

Except in nicer terms and while still loving my children more than life itself, of courssssseeeee.

I understand the privilege in this recommendation. Good counseling is often expensive and out-of-reach for many people who would benefit from it. In 2010 when I first learned of Chris’ addictions, I should have gotten counseling but it wasn’t financially possible. If that is you, I would start at your church and ask for help there. If you don’t have a home church or even go to church, there are a lot of churches who will still help if you ask. Just don’t be shy about asking for what you need. I think you’ll be surprised by what you can find.

Also, I’m reading books.
This is something I didn’t do the first time and I know now I should have. Addicts are all the same. So reading books by people who work with or were or lived with addicts is comforting. Reading books about trauma and healing and healthy relationships–all things I desperately want and need has been good for those quiet moments when it hurts to be in my own head too much. The Bible helps me make sense of my life, but so have other books.

Nobody really grows up with all the skills needed to live with an addict, an alcoholic, or to handle major trauma. Those experience are life’s little surprises just to keep things interesting. So we’ve got to search out knowledge and understanding in areas we lack.

Books I have read or are currently reading:
Boundaries by Cloud and Townsend
Safe People by Cloud and Townsend
Addictive Thinking by Abraham Twerski
And Still She Laughs by Kate Merrick
(Also, the current issue of National Geographic [September 2017] is all about addiction and really informative.)

Books I have on my list to read:
The Scars That Have Shaped Me by Vaneetha Rendall Risner
Codependent No More by Melody Beattie
(Have a recommendation to add to the list? Share it below.)

And finally, I’m attending Alcoholic Anonymous meetings.
Actually, will be. Tomorrow. I have heard from lots of readers who know my story too well that I should be there. Not for Chris, but for myself, for healing. So I’m going to AA to heal. I’m sure I’ll have more to say about that later.

I don’t know how all of this is going. It’s just what I’m doing each day to not collapse under the stress and disappointment of my current situation. It’s all I can do right now.

In my very first meeting with my counselor, she taught me how to breathe. Don’t worry, I was breathing before that, but she asked me to do a mindfulness activity where I just paused and took three long, slow breaths. In through my nose and out through my mouth. Three times. To calm myself. To focus only on today. To not think about tomorrow. To start again. To be aware of only this moment.

So that’s what I’m doing. I’m here, right now, in this moment doing some breathing and doing one simple thing at a time. It’s all I have control over.

Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.

 

(JUST JOINING THIS SERIES? START HERE.)

-I wrote this post about wading through a hard situation and trying to forgive those who hurt us a few months ago. There is some suggestion overlap (I mean, it’s always Jesus, guys), but it might be helpful if you’re trying to figure out how to keep going too.

DISCLOSURE: AFFILIATE LINKS USED.

A few weeks after my niece passed away, I stood next to my sister in church.

The funk that settles after a death—especially an unexpected baby just starting life—is hard to get out of. I’m not sure it really ever leaves completely.

As the worship leader finished one song and started a new one, my shoulders tensed.

I knew the words to this song already. I knew what we were going to sing. I knew the Truth I was being asked to proclaim.

I knew it was going to hurt.

I knew it was going to be hard.

Blessed be Your name
In the land that is plentiful
Where your streams of abundance flow
Blessed be Your name

It’s really easy to be thankful when things are good. When the new job comes, when the relationship starts, when you’re healthy, when the sun is shining.

Blessed be Your name
When I’m found in the desert place
Though I walk through the wilderness
Blessed be Your name

But when the baby dies, it’s hard. It’s infuriating, actually. There is no good reason for the death. There is no answer, no comfort, no peace. When the marriage falls apart, when the money goes away, when the addiction returns.

Every blessing You pour out,
I’ll turn back to praise
When the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say

Sometimes we can shout praise to God. We feel it in our bones, we feel it in our veins. But other times, all we’ve got are our whispers. It hurts to be loud, there’s no energy for it. We’re worshiping from muscle memory, because we did it when we were happy. Now we do it when we’re broken, because it’s all we know. It doesn’t make sense, and it’s the only thing that makes sense.

Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name

As we sing this song on a warm August morning, I know what’s coming. The words I don’t know if I’ll be able to say, the Promise I understand but can’t get on board with. I imagine my sister’s heart–her broken, devastated heart–and I think this is cruel. This is too much.

Blessed be Your name
When the sun’s shining down on me
When the worlds all as it should be
Blessed be Your name

I know following Jesus isn’t supposed to be easy, but this might be too much for me. Healing seems impossible.

Blessed be Your name
On the road marked with suffering
Though there’s pain in the offering
Blessed be Your name

I’ve stopped singing at this point. I’m afraid the words will turn to moans, the pain inside will leap out of its spot in the pit of my stomach and it will be louder than the singing, louder than the instruments, louder than the church walls can contain.

Every blessing You pour out,
I’ll turn back to praise
When the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say

The morning after Chris told me he was an alcoholic, I couldn’t get out of bed. The girls were at school, he was at work, and I couldn’t make my legs move toward the floor. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t find the energy, the power. I couldn’t see out of the fog. I was ruined.

Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name, oh

I assume my sister will sit down. I can’t imagine her finding the strength, the resolve to stand and sing these words. It just hurts too much. I am still not singing, just listening to the voices around me. Trying to gain strength from others and failing, readying myself for the emotions I am going to feel when my sister finally collapses.

Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name

But instead. Instead.

You give and take away
You give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name

She raises her hands. Instead of losing her legs, instead of sitting down in the pew which would have been acceptable and understood, she puts her tired hands in the air as high as they will go in offering and praise to the God who knew her baby wasn’t going to be well but gave it to her anyway.

God, you give and take away
Oh, you give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name

Tears streaming down her face, she worshiped. She worshiped a God who doesn’t always make sense to us. She worshiped a God who is there in the celebrations and who is there in the death marches. Who can handle our anger and fury. Who can handle our broken hearts.

Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name, oh

My sister stood broken at the foot of the Cross, a baby missing from her arms. I could get out of bed, a life I thought I had gone, burned to the ground.

Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name

I don’t know how it happens. How you recover from the loss of a child, the betrayal of a spouse, the devastation of everything.

Blessed be Your name

But muscle memory tells me this won’t last. Muscle memory tells me, sometime again, there will be celebrations, joy, happiness.

You give and take away
God, give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name

I don’t have all the answers. Actually, I know less than I did ten years ago, ten months ago, and last week.

God, you give and take away
Oh, you give and take away
But my heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name

My only answer right now is Jesus. I don’t know anything else. I can’t tell you what the future holds. I don’t know what my marriage will look like next month or next year. If there will be a marriage.

Oh, you give and take away
God, give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name

I know I’m going to be okay. I don’t know how I know this. I can’t explain why I know this. My brain fights this thought. But my heart knows. I’ve seen the redemption too many times to count. The pattern, the rising, the healing.

Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name

Hands high in surrender even though it hurts.

Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name

Blessed be Your name

“…and said: ‘Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I will depart. The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; may the name of the Lord be praised.’” Job 1:21

If you’re unfamiliar with this song, you can listen to it here.

(Just joining this series? Start here.)

If I could go back to the fall of 2014, I would do things differently.

I would demand Chris continue AA meetings and his accountability relationships.

I would notice my husband isolating himself. I would know that when an addict isolates himself, it will never end well.

I would listen to what wasn’t being said, what was missing from our conversations.

If I could go back to the summer of 2010 when I first learned of Chris’ struggles with addiction, I would do things differently.

I would demand counseling for myself.

I would read Addictive Thinking by Abraham J. Twerksi, MD and then re-read it a million times. I would learn what self-deception looks like, what addictive reasoning appears as, and how consuming denial, rationalization, and projection is to an addict.

I would learn about boundaries (by reading Boundaries by Henry Cloud and John Townsend) and about safe people/relationships (by reading Safe People by Henry Cloud and John Townsend). I would look very critically at my marriage through the filter of these books.

I would have allowed Chris to suffer more consequences. Not to be a bitch, but because anyone who makes a mistake has to feel the full effects of that choice if they want to learn how to not repeat them. I would see more clearly ways I was enabling him by taking some of the consequences away.

I would tell myself I will be okay. No matter what happens, I am okay.

I would not keep quiet or dismiss all the seemingly random lies that had come to light throughout our marriage. If someone is lying about things that don’t seem important, they’re lying about things that are important too. Those things are always always always connected.

I would say out loud this is not my fault. And I would keep saying it, every single day, until I understood it. Until I could feel it in my bones that NONE of this is because of me, in reaction to me, or because I am too much.

I would understand that even an intensive, months-long rehab program isn’t the answer to all the problems. I would see it as a step, but not the end.

I would ask the what? questions. What are you numbing? What can’t you handle? What can’t you face? What are you trying to fill? It’s never just about the drugs or the drinking. It is the symptom. It is not the root.

If I could go back to the fall of 2005, when we had just gotten back together after a summer apart, I would do things differently.

I would listen more carefully to the people who loved me and expressed concern about our relationship.

I would pay closer attention to the family dynamics I was stepping into, to the generational sin and struggle that wasn’t hidden but was not addressed either.

I would notice how hard I was working and notice how hard Chris wasn’t working.

I would realize what sometimes looks like confidence and self-assuredness is actually the exact opposite.

I would see the depression and sadness, and not just assume that is who he is.

I might have said no.

————–

I don’t think “regret” is the right word. I am not regretful. But I am learning. And when you know better, you do better. Each time Chris is found living a lie, I learn more. I learn more about myself, him, our marriage, what I will accept, what I will not, what I will tolerate, what I will not. I’m learning where boundaries are and where new ones need to be. I’m re-evaluating and re-calibrating.

We don’t know what we don’t know.

That’s what I think of when I reflect on our years together. What we were doing, what we were living.

But now I know.

Regret means you’d go back and do something different. Regret also leads to a lot of wishing and unrealistic daydreaming. Regret isn’t helpful to me, my children, or my marriage.

But I’ve learned a lot in thirteen years of being in relationship with an addict-alcoholic.

I know better so I’m doing better. I can promise you that.

 

(JUST JOINING THIS SERIES? START HERE.)

DISCLOSURE: AFFILIATE LINKS USED

Sifting through the shock, emotion, and numbness has been hard.

It took months to not be knocked over fresh every time I remembered the lies Chris had been living, the actions that now made sense, the horrible choices he made, and the destruction he has brought to our life.

And it wasn’t until after his 90-day sober chip arrived on my desk silently one morning that I realized how absolutely lonely this whole thing.

Being married to an addict is so so lonely.

The one person who is supposed to be your support when life hits the fan is the person who is actually causing all the pain and suffering. The person you’re supposed to trust, respect, and rely on more than anyone else is the exact opposite of those traits.

Being married to an addict is lonely.

I’m not lacking people. That’s not what is lonely. I have friends. I have family. I have social engagements, parties, dinners, invitations. I have texts to respond to, emails to read, phone calls to return.

But my existence right now is still very isolating.

I am surrounded by people and noise, but I am alone.

This would be the part–if I were a shiny Christian–where I would insert encouraging scriptures and promises from God. This would be the part of my story where I find solace and completeness and comfort in my Creator.

That would be such a sweet story change.

But I’m not a shiny Christian. I’m more of a sharp-edges, mostly black-and-blue, covered-in-bruises Jesus follower. I believe with my whole heart the scripture and promise parts, but DAMN IT, TAKE THIS AWAY PLEASE.

I would just like a break, and I’m pretty angry that I can’t get one.

When Chris went through rehab seven years ago, one night a week was family night. The addict’s kids, spouse, parents, or significant other would sit in a circle with the group and we’d do group family counseling. I refused to talk because I’m an introvert and also because I was insanely angry at every person in that room.

As they told stories, answered questions, and shared encouragement, all I could scream in my head was, “SO YOU KNEW YOU WERE LIVING WITH AN ADDICT?! GOOD FOR YOU.”

Because I didn’t and that felt worse than the addiction part. The betrayal is the worst part. Every single time. I was betrayed and betrayed and betrayed.

In one of the first few appointments with my new counselor, I tried to explain the humiliation and shame I felt in not realizing what Chris was doing all these years. Why couldn’t I put all the pieces together? Why couldn’t I connect the dots of slurred speech, erratic driving, and inability to recall conversations? What was wrong with me? How dumb was I? How dumb am I?

I’d already had this conversation with multiple friends who had tried to convince me it wasn’t my fault, and I hadn’t done anything wrong. They too were there–moments that sometimes felt off, conversations that didn’t make complete sense–and didn’t realize it either. But for them it was just a moment here and there, for me it was enough to be on high-alert all the time but I never put all the puzzle pieces together.

I was just so so dumb.

When I shared this with my counselor, she said that somewhere in my subconscious I probably knew. The answer was probably inside somewhere but my brain–which is made to protect me–wouldn’t ever let me process through it all and come to a logical conclusion. My brain was literally keeping me from the truth because its job is to keep me safe. These dangerous thoughts, the chaos that would have ensued, the destruction to my world was being put off because my brain’s purpose is to keep me safe.

I can’t even trust my brain.

Is this what crazy feels like? I can’t even rely on my own thoughts and reasoning because they fail me.

That’s why I feel so alone. That’s why it’s so lonely here. I can’t trust my husband. I can’t trust my brain. I can’t trust the things my eyes see because what if my brain isn’t letting me see all the parts?

Being married to an addict is lonely.

Being married to a liar is lonely.

 

(Just joining this series? Start here.)

This isn’t the post I had planned for today, but I felt the need to pause for a moment.

On Tuesday when I shared one of many horrible, ugly fights Chris and I have had in the past few years, it connected with a lot of people. I didn’t know what the response would be, but two very distinct things happened.

One: lots of people whispered me too. I heard it in text messages, emails, Facebook messages, Instagram comments, Instagram messages, and tweets. The realities of marriage–any marriage–are never what you dreamed of as you said I do. They’re harder, messier, more raw, more broken, and–a lot of the times–more defeating. If you’re in a marriage, you know that fight Chris and I had. It is not reserved for the addicted and the alcoholics.

There is power and healing in letting someone into a mess you’re ashamed of. My prayer is if you read that post and felt a sigh of relief because suddenly someone was saying the things you have been afraid to, please don’t go back to being afraid of it. If you’re in a similar place for whatever reason, TALK TO SOMEONE. If you’ve been there and know the hope on the other side, TALK TO SOMEONE WHO ISN’T THERE YET. Let’s help each other out.

When I write scary things on the internet, it’s not to get attention or say look at me! It’s to connect, it’s to learn, and it’s to, hopefully, encourage. But we can’t just let that happen on the internet and be silent in real life. Community on the internet is real and good, but community in real life is the lifeblood of change. If you don’t know where to start, share that post with someone, tell them you felt like you could have written it, and see how they respond. Use my story to make yours easier. Use my story to start some conversations. Use my story as a white flag to the people in your life.

Because if I learned anything, it’s we all want to say me too, we just want someone else to say it first. I went first. Now it’s your turn.

The second very distinct thing that happened is some readers knew immediately what was happening. Unfortunately, they knew this immediately because it is their reality too.

In sharing the confusion I felt and the struggle to figure out what was wrong with me, I wanted to invite the reader into the chaos of feeling things were wrong but not understanding why. I wanted to make you think one thing and then when the reality hit, I needed you to feel a little betrayed and lost. But I didn’t want you to be completely blindsided so there were hints–little pieces–that would make more sense as the posts rolled out.

For the people living in the reality I’m living in, those little warning signs were enough. They didn’t need yesterday’s post to know what was going on. My life was mirroring theirs, not just because they were married and fighting, but because they were married and living with an addict. Some clean and sober, some still struggling through.

The spouses of addicts saw what was going on. My story was too close to theirs.

I was reminded again and again this week that we are not alone, we are more alike than we show, we are all hurting in one way or another, and that addiction is alive and well in our world and it is destroying lives, wounding children, and ruining marriages.

The spouses of addicts messaged and said this is what’s happening at our house too. It made me physically ill, because I was taken back to that moment when all the pieces of my life fell together and apart. I was taken back to the moment I crumbled under the truth of my new reality.

Tuesday was tough in ways I didn’t expect. The weight of broken, struggling marriages. The hurting people saying they feel anxious, chaotic, and uneasy all the time too. The realization that addiction is destroying the lives of people I love.

Writing and praying through this series has taken a really long time. I’ve been living this new reality–that not only is my husband an addict, but he’s also a closeted-alcoholic–for months and I can’t begin to tell you how much time I’ve spent wrestling with what our story would look like on the internet. It’s one of the reasons it’s taken so long to finally publish. I think about my girls reading these stories one day, and I want to make sure I’m doing it right.

I have no idea if I’m doing it right.

The days and weeks after I learned of Chris’ lies and deception, I was very, very quiet. My brain was quiet in a way it hadn’t been in years. Our house was quiet because I didn’t have anything to say to him. Our bedroom was quiet because he wasn’t allowed to sleep there.

He didn’t end up leaving that weekend. Not because I didn’t want him to, but because I could not figure out how to tell my sweet, innocent girls about their daddy. I couldn’t do it.

I begged and pleaded for words, for a way to explain so they would understand why he was leaving. God was silent. I waited and waited. And God was silent and silent and silent.

He was loud in other areas, in other ways, but on this, He did nothing.

So Chris stayed on the couch for weeks. We only interacted when the girls were around and as soon as they were gone, the show was over and I could pretend he didn’t exist again.

That is an exhausting, horrible way to live.

I was writing a little during this time. This post was the first thing I wrote online after May 3rd. Writing without really writing about something is hard, guys. *pats self on back*

In And Still She Laughs by Kate Merrick, she writes, “And such is life. A mixture of sunshine and rain, mountains and valleys, births and deaths. When Job’s wife suggested he curse God and die, he responded with something simple but profound: ‘Should we accept only good things from the hand of God and never anything bad?’ (Job 2:10) It was time to walk in everything God has destined for us, and to do it with guts.

You know how sometimes we convince ourselves we are the only souls to walk the earth who have ever been ___? You fill in the blank. Been cheated on? Been stolen from? Been abused? Lost a child? Personally, I know the drama can escalate when I’m self-focused to the point of believing no one else has ever even had a pimple, much less a bad day. We too often make ourselves the center of the universe. That’s exhausting.”

Even though it feels as though my world is falling apart, the world does not revolve around me. I am not the only one hurting, struggling, brokenhearted.

I guess there is comfort in being very much like everyone else.

This story isn’t done. This series isn’t done. We’ve got a whole other week to go and more things are happening as these are publishing. I said in the beginning I’m inviting you into a current mess, into a breakdown-in-progress. You are seeing a glimpse of the destruction of my marriage. I will share hope, it’s coming, I promise–but it’s never really like you imagine.

Thanks for being here.

 

(JUST JOINING THIS SERIES? START HERE.)

I couldn’t feel my legs anymore.

As I stood in the dining room of Cracker Barrel, I grabbed the empty table next to me to steady myself. This wasn’t happening again. This cannot be happening again.

Except, yes, it was happening again.

My addict husband was confessing to lies and sin and hiding and deceit.

Again.

It was like it was 2010 again and we were back on the porch in Tennessee on our family vacation. It was exactly like finding my husband in the throes of drug use surrounded by the beautiful Smoky Mountains.

“I think you know what I have to tell you,” he said, voice shaky and weak.

“No, I don’t. What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been drinking.”

What came next didn’t–and still doesn’t months later–make complete sense to me. The confession: drinking. For years. Rum, mostly. Drunk driving. Drunk at work. Drunk at home with our family. Drunk at church. Drunk on stage with the worship band. Drinking in the morning. Drinking while driving our kids around. Drunk. For years. Almost three, to be exact.

I felt blindsided, dumb, and tired.

I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS AGAIN. I don’t want the heartache, the lack of trust, the suspicions, the checking-in, the disruption, the despair.

This will break me, I just know it. I can’t do this again.

Before we get off the phone, Chris asks me to come to a counselor with him. He wants to get it all out in the open so we can start again.

I don’t want to start again.

I do not want to start again.

Here’s what I want: a husband who is not an addict. I want a husband who doesn’t become addicted to anything and everything he tries. I want a husband who tells the truth. I want a husband who can’t lie to my face when asked point-blank if he’s drunk because the way he’s acting doesn’t make sense. I want a husband who isn’t so good at lying. I want a husband who loves me the right way. I want a healthy husband.

The exact opposite of what I have.

I don’t want to be married to him anymore. I don’t want to keep doing this every few years. I don’t want to live in fear of the rug being pulled out from under me again and again and again. I can see eventually I will not be able to get back up.

I hate him.

I hate him so much.

I hang up on him, numb and scared. I spend the rest of the afternoon pretending everything is fine as I shop, laugh, and hang out with my grandma. Being out in public with her and not at home by myself where I would normally be is probably saving me at this moment. At home I would be raging–packing his bags, tearing up the house looking for alcohol, destroying things.

But at the lawn and garden store, I look at plants and cute pots with my grandma. At the grocery store, I buy food I’ll serve my friends for dinner the following night.

Doing these things feels fake, unimportant, and useless. But having something to do–even for a few hours before I go pick up my kids from school–is God’s mercy in this moment of utter heartbreak and destruction.

God being good in the midst of this makes me angry instead of bringing comfort. How about you be good by taking addiction away from my husband? How about you be good by leading me to someone else to marry? How about you be good by showing me what he was doing years ago so we didn’t have to do this again?

I don’t agree with God’s goodness right now.

I am beyond angry.

That night we go see a new drug counselor Chris has found. This isn’t the first drug counselor he’s seen and it won’t be the last.

On the way there, I drive because he’s not allowed to drive me places anymore. He obviously doesn’t care enough about my safety or my children’s safety to make wise choices. No more driving us anywhere.

“I FUCKING HATE YOU,” I scream, “FUCK YOU.”

It’s all I have.

“You will NEVER do this to me again; do you understand what that means? THIS IS DONE,” I yell through tears of anger and deep, deep hurt.

I’m not sure why I’m going to the counselor with him. There’s no point in reconciliation. I don’t want to fix this. I want it to be done. I want him out of my life. I want him to go be a worthless, lying alcoholic anywhere but in the house I live. I know how he’ll turn out–his father is already there and gives a really good glimpse into Chris’ future–I don’t need to stick around to see how this ends. I already know the ending.

The ending will be he breaks me, he will always be a liar, and he is dangerous to our family.

I tell him on the way home from the counselor he needs to move out this weekend. As soon as I figure out how to tell the girls, he’s gone.

We are done.

 

(Just joining this series? Start here.)