Evolution Series: Don’t Ask About Him

Please ask about my cats. Elvis and Carson are my loyal little companions, but even more importantly, they are my family. They are my comfort, my unconditional loves and my best friends. Ask about them and enjoy my smile as I tell you all about their perfect little furry faces.

Please don’t ask about Louie. I’ve distanced myself, and I don’t know the everyday details of how he’s doing. You asking about him reminds me of the distance, the detachment and the walls I’ve had to build to protect myself. You don’t know all of this, and I know that no malice exists behind your innocent question.

You don’t know that I pick up the phone to call him because I want to hear his voice, and then I put the phone back down, never clicking his little picture to initiate the call. I type out a text and delete it without touching the send arrow. He’s very predictable though, so I know the basic drill.  He’s doing just enough work that he can convince himself that he makes an effort, wasting incredible amounts of time and maximizing the delusion that his problems all have to do with money, and NOTHING to do with his alcohol consumption. “Not even close,” is what I’ve heard out of his mouth over and over again. There’s no point tuning into that channel when the content hasn’t changed and I’m not buying what that infomercial sells.

Please don’t ask me about him, because I’m repelled by the lip-smacking, drunken blabber, and I refuse to be around it. It’s actually so much deeper than that.

Being around his drunkenness would be the same as allowing it, and by allowing it, I’d betray myself and deny my experience as the partner of an alcoholic.

But still, the distance between us breaks my heart – more and more so with every passing week. You won’t understand that I see him as two different people: my beautiful sweet and caring Louie, and Louie the drunk. As one of my Echoes of Recovery sisters said so truthfully, “That drunk guy is gross. The guy buried inside is not.” Through distance and time, he’s still mine, but I don’t want to talk about the love I feel for him.

You don’t make me feel better, or build me up, when you say that I was right to kick him out because he’s a loser, or that he’ll never change and I deserve better. I know I did the right thing. I was strong and confident in a horrible situation, and I don’t want to be congratulated for it. I had to stand up for myself and demand respect because if I didn’t, no one else would. But personally, I would rather the situation not exist in the first fucking place. I would have preferred that the man I love just know how to act, know how to live and know how to appreciate the good things I brought into his life.

I know what I deserve: the space to work on myself and try to be better every day, and for that beautiful human to be in recovery. We both deserve recovery from this disease! And before you ask, yes, he has a disease. How do I know?

Because healthy humans don’t behave the way he does.

There’s no need to sling insults.  You wouldn’t be mean if he had cancer.  It doesn’t help me heal for you to be mad on my behalf.

There’s a stupid saying that time heals wounds. Whoever said that dumb shit wasn’t in a relationship with an active alcoholic. It’s un-understandable that someone would choose liquid poison over the possibility of success, and half-a-chance at a good life. If I don’t understand it, you certainly won’t either. I know you don’t know how to support me, and that’s OK. There is no playbook for this. But I’ve built quite the support system for myself, so let’s just keep our conversation superficial. Let’s please keep the questions to a minimum, and let’s talk about something less toxic, like politics, instead.

If you are ready to join Rene and find support from people who do understand, please consider joining us in Echoes of Recovery.

Echoes of Recovery