In May of 2014 I had an epiphany. My husband (at the time) had been drinking to the point of passing out on a nightly basis. Not the cute kind of passing out (is there a cute kind?) . . . but the sloppy, food on your face and down your chin, snoring like a forest bear kind. The kids had even begun to recognize that it wasn't funny anymore; it was a problem.
At the time, I had been filling my head with every free piece of material on youtube by Tony Robbins and was ready to confront the drinking and offer my full support and encouragement. I was convinced that we could tackle this together and would come out stronger in the end.
We sat in church on Mother's Day when I got the internal prompting that this was the moment. I couldn't wait. So, mid-sermon I turned to him and said, "Hey, let's go out to the foyer and talk. It's important."
And everything changed after that. It was supposed to get better. I only wanted to do the right thing in the eyes of God. To have a marriage and family that honored Him. To be a supportive wife and (together) overcome this obstacle that had begun to infect every facet of our home.
"You have to stop drinking. It's destroying our family and it's really unhealthy for the kids to see you drunk and passed out every night. And you're mean when you drink; you're a different person. We can do this. Together. I'll help you. Please."
I honestly truly expected him to gently take my hand in his and gaze into my eyes as they welled up with tears and thank me for saving his life and his relationship with his children and our marriage. After all, GOD'S WILL was for him to overcome this. It was the right thing to do: see a problem, face it head-on as a team, and forge a stronger bond while being an example for the kids on what a REAL marriage is supposed to look like. For better or worse. Things definitely got worse.
There were no eyes welling up with tears. He didn't take my hand. He sneered. A hardness came over his face. It was the unmistakable glare of denial and pride, and whatever he said was the predictable script of an addict: "I don't have a problem . . . I don't know what you're talking about . . . YOU drink wine . . . " insert the hostile response of your choice.
I was dumbfounded.
Didn't he wake up every morning and apologize for the night before??
For passing out and spilling food all over the floor?
For snapping at me as I tried to wake him to go to bed?
For not waking up when someone ran over our cat at midnight . . . forcing me to (alone- except for my 2 year old son) transport our gory, gasping beloved pet to be put down at the emergency veterinary hospital?
For not waking up to my phone calls when I was 3 months pregnant and involved in a head-on collision with my 2 young daughters?
The years came to mind. The ever-increasing loneliness I'd felt every day and night.
How the hell could he possibly be in denial? And to mock me with a sneer.
"Really, God?? This is how this is going to go down??? I even had the conversation IN CHURCH. A little help here?"
The years that preceded this pivotal conversation were peppered with subtle abuses that only slightly resembled a Lifetime movie; nothing major. What one might refer to as a 'domestic incident'- but really, no established pattern that I couldn't explain away.
But see, the drinking and occasional fits of aggression along with the fact that he kept stealing my (doctor prescribed) Adderrall were just the island teasing the water's surface. What lie beneath was something much more pathological and all-consuming as the coming years would reveal. In 2003 I hadn't married an alcoholic . . . though he was drunk nonetheless as we said our vows. Had he merely been an alcoholic there may have been hope for us.
But no.
Through years of frustration which would eventually lead to obsessive research (which is characteristic of me) I'd later discover that I'd married a psychopath.
Lucky me.
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