By the time my daughter was born, three
years later, our marriage was over. Sam was completely drunk, comatose in the
spare room, when, already having contractions, I drove myself to hospital. He
only came to the hospital for the end of labour. Days later, I told him to move
out, to choose between the love he professed for me and our children, and the
love he actually displayed, every day, for alcohol. He broke down, admitting he
drank all the time, showing me a pile of vodka bottles at the end of the
garden, hidden behind the back wall where I wouldn’t have seen them. He
promised he’d stop, saying that we were everything to him and, because I loved
him, every part of me wanted to believe him.
He
broke down, admitting he drank all the time, showing me a pile of vodka bottles
at the end of the garden, hidden behind the back wall where I wouldn’t have
seen them.
Our separation took over a year. On the
advice of a friend who had been married to an alcoholic, I started going to
Al-Anon, the support group for families and friends of alcoholics. The first
session I went to was in a draughty community centre. I sat on a plastic chair,
embarrassed that I’d found myself in this place, while a circle of people
started explaining their own experiences of living with an alcoholic. What I
heard made me realise my own experience was much worse, and Sam’s alcoholism
far more extreme, than most of the stories I was hearing. When my turn came, I
started to speak, but all that came out was tears. I cried and cried. Admitting
defeat in the face of alcohol - such a powerful enemy - was a profound relief.
It made me realise I wasn’t mad or unreasonable, as Sam frequently told me I
was.
Sam, meanwhile, was in and out of the
house. He’d move back for a month, pretending to be dry, then the familiar
patterns would re-emerge and I’d kick him out again. One night, I finally
snapped when he came in late, drunk, while I was in the bathroom brushing my
teeth, the children long asleep. Blearily clutching the plastic wrapper of a
bunch of pink chrysanthemums he’d bought hours earlier as an apology, he wanted
to know what there was to drink in the house. “Nothing,” I said, trying to step
past him. He blocked my way, then reached for the mirror over the sink and
threw it at me. It hit my cheek and smashed into pieces on the bath. He threw
the flowers at me and the petals fell like confetti as I felt the cold,
metallic taste of blood in my mouth and heard the sound of my daughter crying.
Ending the marriage was like coming up for
air after being forced underwater for a long time. It was only when I stepped
out that I realised how terrifying the place alcohol had taken me to had been.
I woke every day feeling relieved, despite now facing life as a 27-year-old
single mother to a baby and a toddler. Bringing up the kids alone was easier
than it had ever been with Sam. I felt as if I was reclaiming some of the
boundless joy of parenting that coping with Sam - and his devotion to alcohol -
had robbed me of. I no longer sat on park benches and wept, but instead felt as
if I was running through sunny fields with my kids, enjoying every moment of
being with them, with the knowledge that at the end of the day, I wouldn’t be
dealing with a drunk, angry man. I started laughing again, and because I wasn’t
pouring time and energy into managing a broken marriage, my creativity
flourished and my life as a journalist took off. By separating myself from
Sam’s alcoholism, I’d found my way out of the maze. There were tough times, of
course, when money was tight or I felt lonely. Bringing kids up alone, and
managing motherhood and a career without support requires huge amounts of
energy but, honestly, it’s a breeze compared with being married to an addict.
It
was only when I stepped out that I realised how terrifying the place alcohol
had taken me to had been.
Sam still drinks and refuses to acknowledge
the emotional price that those who love him have paid - and continue to pay -
for his addiction. He’s always utterly refused to contribute financially
towards things for the children - karate lessons, school dinners, new school
uniforms. Despite my anger about this, I made the decision, early on, that they
should continue to see him. They see him straight after school, when he’s still
sober, and do not stay overnight unsupervised with him, but instead go to his
wonderful and loving family, who have always been exceptionally kind and
supportive towards me throughout this.
I feel strongly that it’s really important
for the kids to know their dad. While he is unquestionably an alcoholic, he’s
still their father, and understanding that is safer in the long term than
denying it exists. Besides, I know, too, that he genuinely loves them, and they
love him. I want them to have fun with Sam, which they do, just as I did, all
the time. I’d like them to know the good qualities that attracted me to him in
the first place, because I do not believe he is a bad person. His addiction is
a tragedy because it masks the great man that Sam could be, were he sober. I
love the fact that both children have inherited his humour and sometimes I see
flashes in them of the funny, flawed man whom I loved so much, and that makes me
happy.
I
can happily forsake it for weeks on end - it’s not something I’d ever, ever
prioritise over my children, although of course I know it enhances good times
with friends.
Sam’s utterly dependent relationship with
alcohol has, of course, also made me question the role it plays in almost all
our lives. I can happily forsake it for weeks on end - it’s not something I’d
ever, ever prioritise over my children, although of course I know it enhances
good times with friends. Shortly before I split up with Sam, an older friend
who is married to a recovering alcoholic warned me that while Sam was still
drinking, his relationship with alcohol would always be stronger and more
compelling than his relationship with me, or with the children. Everything -
and everyone - will be less important than the next drink. And giving up that
‘marriage’ is very hard. It’s not a challenge I’d like to ever face again
within a relationship, and it’s for this reason I advised the friend who called
me last week to walk away from her boyfriend as fast as possible.
Earlier this year, I got married for a
second time and am now expecting a third child. I’m grateful that the children
can witness on a daily basis what a grown-up relationship, without anger and
manipulation, really looks like. I’m grateful, too, that the children can have
an easy, loving relationship with Sam - without having to deal with the daily
stress of living with alcoholism, they can take much from their relationship
with him that is incredibly positive. The afternoons they spend with him are
happy; they come back to me with stories of fishing trips and movies, or his
excellent lasagne - always better than mine - and the jokes he has told them.
Somehow, something sweet has been salvaged
from the wreck of our marriage. The sadness I felt about our divorce has long
gone. I don’t regret my relationship with Sam in any way at all. Sometimes, I’m
even grateful for what it taught me about resilience and survival. From it,
too, came my beautiful, funny, sweet children, but I’m under no illusion that
marriage to an alcoholic is anything other than a horror show.
