I’ve been concerned with their drinking for a couple years, but it seems they have also become concerned with their drinking now – they said they don’t feel they can just “cut back” on their alcohol intake.
They are drinking or asleep or grumpy most of the time and they don’t seem to be enjoying any of it.
They aren’t interested in doing anything aside from drinking, working, or sleeping.
I know I have zero control over if they actually quit or get help.
We’ve been together for well over a decade and we have young kids.
My spouse is a wonderful fucking person – that’s why I married them, and I know they can recover from their addiction if they commit to it and get help, I’m just not sure if/when quitting is going to happen.
To be fair I drank a lot too, when we first met, but I quit binge drinking after college and only drink rarely or at social events.
Here are my questions:
Is it possible to have a healthy family life with a functional alcoholic?
It feels like everyone around me is sinking further and further down this whirlpool of insanity. Meanwhile, I’m floating on some shitty piece of driftwood yards away. I’m holding on for dear life, eyes closed, hoping i don’t get sucked back in to that hole. I’m sick of that feeling. it’s almost worse than drowning in the whirlpool itself.
t’s hard to come to grips with the fact that no matter how well I’m doing, I’m probably gonna end up feeling like complete shit again, because that’s just the way my brain cookie crumbles.
After the sex, I got a Urinary Tract Infection. I was uncomfortable, in pain, and I couldn’t sleep. It’s been two weeks, and I still haven’t slept much.
Now I get a call from the doctor’s office, and it turns out I have herpes.
I want to die.
Instead, I am sitting at work in tears.
He says he didn’t know he had it. We used a condom, but he performed oral sex on me. That’s the only way this could have happened.
I like him. At least, I think I do. He’s sweet and nice and he’s been treating me the way I wish my ex-husband had.
Do I still?
I don’t know. I feel like I can’t know.
Tears are rolling down my cheeks.
He’s out of the state for work for the next week. He sent me a text message a bit ago. I told him to fuck off. He called me. I told him the culture came back positive, but I couldn’t say what it was positive for out loud. I’m at work. I’m embarrassed.
Because of my lovely picture (which is in constant need of maintenance), I cannot talk to many people about the constant weight on my shoulders. This situation is not helped by the recent loss of the two closest friendships I have, which happened as these things do, with only small amounts of shared blame.
I’ve been limping along for a while now, managing occasionally to feel like life is worthwhile and these wonderful times of hope are mostly because of my wonderful husband, the one person in the world that I am not afraid to cry with, the one person I know will not think less of me, or dismiss my pain.
This wonderful husband just got a short-term contract (four months) in a city six hours from here. It is a wonderful opportunity for him, one which I happily encouraged him to take, but I cannot go with him for various reasons.
During the day this seems like something I can manage; after all, he’ll still be here on the weekends, and it’s only for a little while.
But at night, the darkness invades my heart, and I cling tightly to him, terrified by the thought of being apart from him for even one night. Because along with being my best friend and soul mate, he is frequently my salvation.
It is because of him that I have not dropped out of grad school under the overwhelming apathy that threatens to prevent me from finishing assignments.
It is because of him that I can sort through my often tangled feelings and come out the other end feeling like I might be okay.
It is with him, and only him, that I can say that haunting word “depression” and not feel like I have to have a treatment plan all mapped out for his perusal.
Five days a week without him is five mornings I have to get out of bed and go to class. It’s 80 waking hours that I cannot debrief in his arms. It’s five evenings of dread, knowing what’s coming when I get too tired to fight it off, and it’s five nights of hugging my pillow, praying sleep will come before the melancholy attacks.