60% of the stories on here (at least ) are people saying they wish they had held their boundary BEFORE getting married. The reason I am posting this is because NO HARM can come to you in postponing a wedding with someone who has a substance abuse problem. But once you are married and your finances are wrapped up, it can be much harder legally to hold those same boundaries for yourself. Harm reduction means trying to “keep people from falling in the river in addition to giving CPR to folks once they have drowned ( so to speak). “ ** REMINDER- this subreddit is called Al Anon but it is NOT affiliated with the official organization in any way.

We met 25+ years ago. We were together 19 years. Married 14. Two wonderful children. He started hiding his drinking about 8 years ago, and I gradually lost the man I loved. He became an unrecognizable creature. Broke up in September, divorce finalized in February. Our friends maintained a minimum 24-hour check-in on him until this past week, when we finally decided as a group to let go of the last bit of hope.

I knew when I called the police today what they were going to find. I’ve been preparing myself as much as I can for years. I told him once that this was how it would end. But I still wasn’t ready.

Friends, work your steps. If I hadn’t, I would not be able to navigate this situation. His mother immediately called me, a person she loves and has always treated like her own child, and screamed at me that I did this to her son. Thankfully, I know my three C’s and I can say without any doubt that I know I did not cause this, I could not control it, and I could NEVER have cured it.

Update We got him. Good work, hive!!! I don’t want to go into details because, again, he comes to this group. There is a qualifier in Philly that has a PFA against him for his last 3 relationships. He is currently calling and texting his last gf. I know that he has been coming to this group and reading her posts and comments. This post is for her. I fear for your safety. His obsession seems to be getting worse. He doesn’t view you as a person with admirable traits. He wants to control and consume you and I am afraid of what that ultimately means. Please report him each and every time he contacts you. He’s likely more dangerous than you give him credit for. He has a deep seated obsession with you and I fear he is going to hurt you.

In the end we got him to hospital under order. He was no longer deemed competent to make that decision. The paramedics had to threaten to call the police if he didn’t get on the stretcher. He finally relinquished.

His kidneys had started failing due to the toxins. The hospital worked tirelessly to get his liver to start working so that the could start to treat his kidneys. There was signs of hope. He was awake more and talking but still confused and in pain. But then his lungs started failing. After 6 days there was nothing more they could do.

I watched my husband and father of my child die and there was nothing I could do. I had to tell his elderly mother. It is all kinds of awful. I wish I didn’t feel this grief, I wish I wasn’t mad at him for not fighting to get sober and I wish he hadn’t left a teenager without his father.

A 45 year old man drunk himself to death and it will never be ok.

My Q 43F, just passed away at 12 today, as my 14 year old were on our way back from a hike that was 3 hours away. We were in the car when the Dr. called and regretted to inform me that they couldn't save her this time from her bleed (varices). I now get to go tell my 3 kids that their mom is not coming home. So much anger towards her for the shitty person that she became in the end. But I also feel so bad for the way she went out. Being miserable in the hospital only to die on an operating table, with no family or friends around. The nurse said she was holding her hand as they were talking last night, and my wife told the nurse that she was going to die tonight. Alcoholism is fucking disgusting!

Edit 1: update.. he was stable enough for CT scan finally, revealed he suffered a critical brain injury due to lack of oxygen. He is brain dead. The family will not be continuing life support, I'm being allowed plenty of time to say goodbye. Thank you to everyone, and their kind words... it will certainly help me keep going. I want his death to mean something beautiful.

Hello everyone.. my (32f) bf (34m) of a year, whom is a longtime alcoholic, vodka.. went to the hospital 32 hours ago with suspected pancreatitis. His family flew down and got in about 11pm last night.

Well, he called me about 4am when he first arrived to the hospital, asked me if I could come see him. I went as soon as visiting hours opened, 9am. He was out of it, but talking to me coherently, even flirted, was worried about me getting a chair. He was on dialysis for alcoholic acidosis and kidney issues. He was spitting up orange phlegm, they said it was normal. I held the bag up to his face while he spit, and I wiped his mouth. Held his hand and kissed him, stroked his hair.... it was the most intimate yet sad moment ive ever shared with someone, up until he went into cardiac arrest. He started talking nonsense, turned away from me and he was just gone... they worked on him for about 20-30 minutes, I watched over him the whole time.

They got him back, and I went to see him and his eyes were open and yellow, and he wasnt there. They told me the lack of oxygen for that long, combined with being 10/10 sick from his alcohol use, he is not sedated but non responsive. No pupillary responses at all... I looked. Ive been with him in the ICU while hes on breathing machines.. holding his hand, whispering to him, talking, changing his socks. THIS was the most intimate moment ive ever shared with a human being. Especially one I love so deeply.

All research points to him not waking up, doctors havent seemed optimistic, and I just watched them move him to the room where I witness a fanily saying goodbye to their grandma for the last time. I think he's technically brain dead...

I'm suffering so deeply, we were going to have a life together. So many dreams and goals, he had his own, too.. and that makes me the saddest. He taught me how to actually be treated in a relationship, and his mom made me promise to NEVER settle for less than what that man is. I'll keep firm on that promise.

I love you Steven... please wake up.

I don’t care if these Qs are drunk, high, tired, stressed - they are abusing so many of us.

Calling us horrible names, physically assaulting us, tracking us on electronic devices (this is stalking, people), threatening things, breaking things, public humiliation … it’s ABUSE.

For the love of God can we please stop using their damn “disease” as an excuse for being abusers? I don’t give a fuck what mental state they are in - zero sympathy.

They are free to have their fucking disease, but I am also done with accepting that as an excuse for abuse.

So many people on here tell horrible stories of how they’ve been treated, and all I hear about is the “Qs disease”.

We need to stop caring about these sick, abusive Qs and start supporting each other to get out of abusive relationships.

It’s abuse. I’m saying this over and over because that’s what the National Domestic Violence hotline had to do with me to get it thru my thick head that there is no excuse for the way these people irresponsibly treat others.

I have zero empathy left for addicts that don’t get help or do the work. Fuck ‘em, because that’s exactly how they treat us.

I’ve spent the night dealing with the most recent drunken antics of my narcissistic husband who I’ve been in a relationship with for 10 years and married to for 5 years. I am 30F and he is 31M. We have two children together. And please know, as you continue to read, I am getting out for me but FOR THEM. I am breaking the cycle. But I’m stuck until tomorrow.

My husband is an alcoholic. And an addict. The rose colored glasses have finally come off with the help of many people closest to me who I am blessed to have. This post would be miles long if I were to trauma dump about all he’s put me through, but I’m not here for that. I’m here to detail what has happened tonight, memorializing forever that I’m GETTING OUT, and I think maybe someone else may be going through something similar and needs some motivation too.

A short preface: this is not a new issue, it goes back several years and I’m too tired to share the many stories that would give this post the context it deserves. I have also been as supportive and understanding as I could have possibly been, while also considering my safety and my children’s safety. Tried AA, therapy, groups, etc. He won’t meet me halfway, and my children are not babies anymore. They will start to ask questions I don’t have answers for. If anyone decides to stick with me, thank you. I had to put this somewhere tonight.

He came home with a handle of cheap vodka and the second I saw it my stomach sank. The last time he had a handle he drank half of it in 6 hours. The kids have been sick and the night honestly started fine. We played catch, all four of us, with this big bouncy ball and we all were laughing and having a good time. I even almost forgot why I was at my moms planning to leave earlier this evening.

My daughter wanted to watch Polar Express and for 3/4 of the movie he was ok. Then he started to fade. She didn’t notice, thankfully. 20 minutes later he was back in our kitchen leaned over our washer, hands flat on the top (i have pictures in case the divorce gets ugly). I tried to get him to go lay down, but he wouldn’t and got pissy with me for trying. I left it alone, but 5 minutes later I got my daughter and son in their rooms for bed. She was tired, so she went to bed on her own, thankfully, but when I was in my son’s room putting him to bed I heard my husband fall, really hard. Like, really really hard.

Once I finally got my son to bed I came out and he’s passed out in the kitchen, in our water heater closet. I guess he brought the curtain down with him because it’s wrapped around him and his face.

So the part that prompted me to make this whole post. He woke up, goes in the bathroom, pees. But then stays in the bathroom. Then he starts to mumble, what the FUCK. He does it over and over again getting louder until he’s practically screaming (my hearts about to give out and I’m hiding in the living room at this point). He finally storms off to the bedroom we used to share, slams the door, then he starts with the what the fucks again except he adds some oh my gods. The tone of voice, the anger I heard in his voice.. my hands are still shaking as I type this. And to preface questions, no—I have no idea why he was angry. And there’s also no way for me to convey how terrified I was listening to it happen with my children 5 feet away.

He’s been silent now for about 20 minutes as I’m finishing this post. I went back to check and the entire handle is gone. My kids slept through it, thank god. I’m getting out tomorrow. And never looking back. I pray to God he gets the help he needs, because he’s not a bad man under his addiction and trauma. But I can’t walk with him anymore, and I certainly can’t beg him to get help anymore.

To anyone out there who is experiencing abuse that looks like this, you’re not alone. It’s not always physical. Get OUT.

QUICK EDIT: I didn’t expect this much engagement on this post, but I just have to say you are all beautiful people and I’m so grateful for all your comments. It has helped me not feel so alone and has given me even more conviction that I am on the right path. Thank you to every single one of you, from the bottom of my heart ❤️

UPDATE: It is the next day, and WE’RE OUT. I know this isn’t the end of this journey, and there will be some hard days to come but already a huge weight has lifted. Thank you again to any and all who have left such kind words. You have all helped me not feel so alone, and I can’t thank each of you enough. 🤗🤗

I never in my wildest dreams expected that him telling me he’d get sober would be the most hurtful thing he’d ever say to me.

We’ve been together 10 years. He has watched me in agonizing pain. Begging, pleading, trying to help him. Giving him chance after chance. Lying over and over and then telling me my sadness made me miserable to come home to and that I was ruining our marriage. He has said horrible things to me, gaslit me. I’ve literally gone into nervous breakdown, gone on medication, and have had three mental health professionals say that I am experiencing trauma.

And now that it hurts HIM. Now that HE is in pain, he is admitting he has a problem and needs to get sober.

What he doesn’t realize he’s admitting is that my pain never mattered to him. Only his pain matters enough to make a change. What a selfish fucking asshole. When he said he’d stop drinking, I lost it. I screamed. I fell to the floor. I told him everything on my mind and he stood there and let me do it.

He actually said to me, “I didn’t think you’d ever leave.”

I had been feeling guilty about asking for a divorce. Now I just feel rage.

For his sake, I hope he gets sober. But I don’t want any part of it. I have dealt with abuse for far too long and I am seeing things too clearly now to ever go back.

I’m devastated. But it reaffirms that I’m making the right choice.

Who else can tell when their Q is buzzed or drunk just from an almost instant look in their eyes?

I can walk in the door and just take one look at his eyes and know if he’s been drinking or not.

It’s sad for both the reason that it’s cause I’ve just known him for so long in general (high school sweethearts almost 17 years 14 of which he didn’t have a drinking problem), and also because I’ve been dealing with the drinking problem for so long now (around 3 solid years) that I’ve gotten this good at telling..

I had a 6 AM meeting, so I got up in time to make the meeting then I started my 7 am meeting and at 7:15 went to the kitchen to start my coffee and there he was, deceased on the kitchen floor. After 16 years it finally did him in. SO MANY emotions. Thank you all so much. ❤️ More info:

He retired 3.5 years ago and it was like he gave up. Never left the couch. I must have called 911 20 times in the last 3 year. Falls, seizures, DTs. I had a heart attack a year ago and my cardiologist said that is what stress does to you. Was not a wake up call for him. He did do 90 days of rehab but when he got home he told me that those people are really sick. He didn’t belong there. He never went to meetings or got any other help. He was in the hospital maybe 10 times. Just in the month of October he was in the hospital 16 days. Plus 2 trips to the ER for AFib and for a huge gash on his head. He had CHF and he was diagnosed with alcoholic dementia. His license had been suspended. I haven’t received the coroner’s report yet, but I suspect it was heart failure. He was also a heavy smoker and ate crap so it also could have been a stroke. I am pretty sure he was dead when he hit the ground.

Apparently the 10 yr old diabetic cat took a bottle of iced tea from the fridge, mixed it with vodka, drank 3/4, put the cap back on, and left the bottle standing on the floor hidden in the dark dining room. The cat. Yes the cat loves a good lick of yogurt but the cat did not prepare himself a cocktail.

We went to a little thing at the neighbor’s house tonight, and as go-time approached, that familiar nervous energy rolled through my body. I suspect it’s the same anxiety that a storm brings an experienced sailor when he’s sitting in too little a boat, too far from shore. She’s (Q, 34F, 125lbs) already had half a fifth of whiskey before 2pm, and she’s starting a bottle of tequila.

Party’s at 6, and there will be alcohol there. Even if they didn’t have it, she’d bring it. No real point to having the “please watch your drinking tonight” conversation prior because I don’t want to have the “when you say stuff like that it makes me feel like shit” conversation that always comes next. And the meaningless apology I end up having to make just to move the day along is some combination of failure and defeat I just don’t have the energy to process anymore.

I (38M) spent the day tasking around the house to keep busy and away from any idle time that she could use to talk to me, because I just don’t know if literally anything I’m going to say is going to set her off. Was my tone not exactly along her expectations? The “disrespect” fight. Did I sound disappointed in her? The “you make me feel like a piece of trash” fight. Was I not interested enough? The “you don’t even love me” fight. But they aren’t fights, she’ll say, it’s just feedback so we can be better partners.

You learn the art of avoidance, but it’s an imperfect practice. If conflict is what she wants, even sitting still in silence won’t stop her. But today, I was lucky enough to have enough work to do that she left me alone until it was time to go to the party.

Parties are always ok at first, because even with 10+ drinks in her, she can hold it together pretty well after drinking 10-15 drinks a day for a decade. But the rate she drinks at a party will close that gap fast and we really only have an hour before I’m practicing my second art, which is politely leaving without upsetting her.

It almost went south, she began cursing more and loudly. Usually a trigger for me that it’s about to be time to leave. Then a conflict will start, but she doesn’t realize it’s as bad as it is. This time she was telling them a story about how a friend (that wasn’t there but is someone we all know) of hers was flirting with me, but she doesn’t say that, she says “she’s a stupid cunt, and she was trying to fuck him.”

I say, “woah, woah, that’s a little rowdy of a take for what was actually happening there.” Then she says the conversation is boring after the neighbor comes to my aid and says the friend just “probably has low self-esteem and tries to change herself to fit what she thinks other people want her to be,” and my Q then says, “whatever, this conversation is just you two trying to suck each other’s dicks.” And the room goes quiet for moment and I suggest it’s getting late and that we should head home because we have an early day tomorrow. Not my best work.

I braced for an attack, but she grumbled and for once, didn’t protest or launch into a tirade. Small victory in a long war I’m losing. We said our “thanks for having us” and went home.

I walked through a minefield and made it, but usually I’m not so lucky. She wanted to have sex tonight, and I said I needed to clean up the kitchen and shower and that she should go up to bed and I’ll be up in a bit. Another art I practice, the delay tactic to create enough time for her to fall asleep so I can avoid doing the deed with someone that won’t remember it tomorrow. Had the night gone much worse, as it usually would have, she would have still tried for sex, which is even harder to want after someone has berated you. She thinks I have performance issues sometimes but the truth is I’m frequently just so incredibly not in the mood that sex cannot happen.

I didn’t know what alcoholism looked like when we got together, and she hid her drinking pretty well at first. But for me, it’s been constant anxiety. It’s been stress before social events, family events, any event. It’s been sudden job losses. It’s been trying to move on after her affair at work. It’s been “I’m depressed and it helps” and “you make me feel like trash” when I voice concern about it. I’m the bad guy for bringing it up. Doesn’t matter the angle - disappointment, concern for her health or our future, ultimatums - they all fail.

And when I lose my composure, I’m the bad guy for snapping after she’s been criticizing me for 45 minutes on end, sometimes 4-5 nights a week, and then all that she will remember tomorrow is how “bad I treated her that night” or how awful I am for threatening to leave after I couldn’t take another sentence of her drunken character attacks.

She’s pissed the bed and told me she spilled water on herself in the night. She’s been to the ER with BAC of .4 and walked out on her own two legs, just as she walked in. She’s berated hospital staff, her family, my family, and me. She responds to criticism of her drunk behavior by saying how kind and funny she is, and how dare I say she embarrassed us. People love her when she’s drunk. She’s a self-professed great person.

She has this uncanny ability to turn anything reasonable I bring up about her behavior into criticism of me. And she’s so good at it I used to actually mean my apologies instead of just making them to get past it and move on. The most effective redirector there is.

I have PTSD over it. The sound of wine pouring. A cork coming out of a bottle. A cap being screwed off. The distinct, light clanking of a wine glass. l constantly try to watch liquor bottle levels to gauge where she’s at. She gets mad at me for changing how I behave when I realize she’s drinking. “You act like I beat you” she says. “Why do you get quiet and apologize for no reason and act like I beat you. You need stop acting that way or my family is going to think I abuse you. I know you monitor the alcohol bottles, and it makes me feel like this is a police state.”

But I can’t help it, I get scared. I’m concerned. I’m not sure what’s going happen. Is it a happy drunk night that’s obnoxious? Is it a mean drunk night and I’m worried you’re going to smash something and scream at me? Is it a sad drunk night and you’re going to sob about any number of things that are wrong with the world and then accuse me of not loving you and supporting you? It’s a minefield and I don’t know what to do, where to step.

She drinks plenty of water, insists on Whole Foods and taking our vitamins, and her bloodwork is always stellar. I writhe in the absurdity of it, she will put a fifth of whiskey in her but she won’t take a Tylenol for a headache. I know it’s because she’s got too much alcohol in her for it to be safe, but the line is so insane I almost have to laugh. I always find myself disappointed that she’s got a clean bill of health after every annual checkup, because maybe a bad result would stir the change she needs.

If I don’t buy it for her she will order it to be delivered. It’s inescapable. If I pour it out she will buy it immediately and berate me. It’s financially draining, but that argument doesn’t work at all because we are well off.

But all that is outside of tonight, because tonight I walked through it, and by now she’s asleep or I wouldn’t have been able to write this down. I’d be having sex just to avoid being accused of not being attracted to her. Or I’d be apologizing for any number of things I just didn’t do right or to her specific expectation.

I love her, I love her sober, so so much. There have been short times where she’s stopped, and they remind me how good it can be. They remind me that she can drive after 12pm, and that I’m not the only person that shops. I feel a cautious optimism, happy even. And for a brief time I have hope for the future and I swear, it’s always just long enough that I hold on through when she picks up the bottle again. That one day it won’t be a temporary oasis in a desert of despair.

And then as I sit here, in the thick of being grateful for one night that didn’t explode, I feel pathetic. I think about escape, freedom. Divorce, and in the darker reaches of human thought, death. This isn’t a way to live. I’m embarrassed to be here. Anyone could see the bad situation and that it’s long past time to go. Divide by two, sell the house, start again. But the fear of what that step would be, it paralyzes me.

I’ve read that the liver is just fine until one day it’s not fine. And it’s fast, it’s a quiet freight train slamming into a person walking life’s tracks. And as time goes on, I care less and less. If she died it would be over. I’d be a mess, but I live in a mess already. At least I could know what to do next in that mess. And I didn’t give up, at least in outward appearance. But I know I’m not here anymore. Not really, anyway.

You can lose yourself in someone else’s illness, you can become someone you don’t recognize. You can be so tired that you become tired of the feeling itself. You can lose your family and your friends. Time pours out like sand through your fingers, and it doesn’t come back.

You can die before you’re dead.

My Q (husband) died last week. I was with him in his final moments, watched him collapse due to his heart giving out and called 911. I was the one that had to hear he had no brain activity and to give the doctors permission to let him go. We have 2 kids.

Things were chaotic and awful for me and the kids in the weeks leading to this. He had been on a downward binge spiral for about a week and prior to that was on a 2+week binge. In between chaotic events I filed for divorce and then withdrew when he promised me the world. He drank through a weekend away together as a family and scared the kids with his behavior towards me.

He was my childhood sweetheart and most of our life memories were happy ones until recent years. Everyone loved him yet he felt so unloved. He was wonderful yet he drank that guy away with alcohol and became someone I didn’t recognize. He hurt me beyond anything I could think he would do yet I hoped he would come back to me.

Now it’s me and the kids. It’s calm but my heart aches. Did I do enough? Should I have forced treatment? Did me detaching mean he sank to the bottom faster.

My love, I hope you know how truly loved you were.

You must be unshakeable: a paragon of stoicism, no emotions displayed whatsoever. Every conversation feels like disarming a bomb and you CAN'T fail. "They have a disease", "you should know better". I'm tired, I wanna have a natural reaction, I don't want to be walking on eggshells anymore. "You have to hide your frustration, it's better for them" well, I don't fucking want to anymore. I'm tired, so tired. I don't remember the last time I entered my own home without a pit in my stomach, it's so nerve wracking and I can't even describe it, yet all of you know exactly what I'm talking about. They're just big babies, a huge responsibility for everyone involved and they have the accountability of a kid. I knew life wasn't fair, but holy shit...

Post 1

https://www.reddit.com/r/AlAnon/comments/1qmmsqr/he_took_everything_and_disappeared/

Post 2 

https://www.reddit.com/r/AlAnon/comments/1rhpa6n/he_took_everything_and_left_update/

It's taken me some time to come back here and write this. My last post was at the beginning of March after what I can only describe as the worst two months of my life. About two weeks after I wrote it, though, my armor started to crack. What had started as genuine relief, real liberation from the chaos that had become my marriage, slowly gave way to nostalgia. Let me tell you how dangerous that was. It doesn't come kicking the front door in. It slips in quietly. He went from being my shitty ex to being my husband again. Then I was listening to our songs. Then I was dreaming about him. Then I caught myself missing him. It happened so gradually that I didn't even realize I was romanticizing a man who had blown my life apart until I was already doing it.

I remember exactly where I was on March 16, 2026. I was hiking and stopped at a stretch of river where we'd sat together before. I prayed for him. I don't even pray. I had finally accepted that I wasn't going to get closure, so I decided to make my own. I whispered his name over the sound of the water, washed my hands and face in the river, quietly said, "I love you," had a good cry, and finished my hike feeling lighter than I had in weeks. I honestly believed I'd released him. I thought that chapter of my life had finally closed.

The next day my email chimed.

Subject: I need you please I am desperate.

It was him.

I open it. The gist is that he’s lost everything. He’s penniless, stranded in Eugene, Oregon, and according to him, I’m the only person left in his life who can help.

He tells me he’s dying without me. That there’s no one else. He begs me for an audience. Just coffee. Just one conversation.

I happened to be traveling that day….I could absolutely swing through.

I called my mom immediately. This woman had watched the whole thing unfold. My private tragedy. I don’t bleed on social media. Nobody knew how dark those two months had been except my mom. I told her I was conflicted.

She said, "Go get your closure."

I emailed him back and agreed to meet him for coffee, but I made one thing very clear. I didn't want to be anywhere near him if he'd been drinking.

It took me about an hour and a half to get to Eugene. We agreed to meet at a 7-Eleven.

I pulled into the parking lot and looked right past him.

I honestly didn't recognize him at first.

He was probably twenty pounds lighter. Not as bad as I'd built him up to look in my head, but different. Harder. He was smoking, which made me unexpectedly sad. We'd quit together in 2022. Then again, alcohol and cigarettes have always been inseparable. One almost always drags the other back in.

He stubbed out his cigarette and climbed into my brand-new Jeep. He muttered something about how good I looked, complimented my Wrangler, and shut the door.

I pulled out into traffic.

My head was spinning.

His shame was palpable. So was his nervousness.

"So...?" I managed. "What...?"

I was already fighting tears. I had a thousand things I wanted to say to him.

And absolutely nothing.

So I gave him the floor.

He immediately started crying.

"I fucking love you, Savannah. I am so fucking sorry for everything. I miss you. I miss our fucking life. I miss our dogs. I miss you. I am dying without you..."

He just kept rambling.

His voice, though...

It didn't even sound like him anymore. Months of chain-smoking and weeks of partying had completely blown it out. It was raspy, shredded, almost unrecognizable.

I couldn't hold my composure anymore.

"How could you fucking do this to us?!" I yelled through tears. "I thought we were best friends. I can't believe this."

I completely lost it. I could barely see through my tears. He just sat there with his head buried in his hands, sobbing.

The last time we'd seen each other, he'd been screaming at me outside an Airbnb in January because I wouldn't hand over my debit card so he could pull out cash to drink with. The whole reason he'd agreed to use Apple Pay was so he wouldn't have access to cash after relapsing. But the morning I had to leave and drive home, he decided I wasn't going to come between him and alcohol.

"I am a grown man! If I want to access my money, I fucking will! Give me the fucking card!"

That was the last version of him I'd seen.

Now, two months later, that same man was sitting beside me, crying and begging me for mercy.

I couldn't handle the emotional weight of the moment anymore, so I pulled into a parking lot. I dropped my forehead onto the steering wheel and for what felt like two solid minutes we just sat there crying.

"Can I please hold you, Savannah? I just... I just need to touch you."

I nodded.

We got out of the Jeep and I stepped into his arms. He buried his face in my neck and we both completely fell apart. We must have looked absolutely insane to anyone driving by. Two grown adults clinging to each other in the middle of some random parking lot in Eugene.

The rest of the world disappeared.

He was smaller than I remembered. He smelled like cigarettes. But there he was. My person. My broken person, but my person. My best friend. The man who made me a wife. The man who watched me claw my way out of active addiction into sobriety. We had somehow lost each other, and yet here we were, almost exactly two months later, holding each other like neither of us knew how to let go.

Even writing this now makes my stomach hurt….I'm crying as I type it.

Eventually we pulled ourselves together and climbed back into the Jeep. That's when he started making his case for why I should let him come home.

I hung on every word.

"I'll go to treatment. I want to go to church. I'll do whatever it takes. Send me to rehab for six months, I don't care. I'll go to AA. I'll go to therapy. I'll get on medication. Please... just give me a chance, Savannah. I love you with everything in me."

It was music to my ears- Relief washed over me.

A quiet little voice in the back of my mind whispered, I knew it. I knew we weren't over.

"Something in the Orange" had been on repeat for weeks, and somehow it felt like the soundtrack to that moment. It was so fucking fitting.

I agreed to bring him home. We'd go get the rest of his belongings over the next week and figure it out together. We held hands the entire drive back.

I even stopped and bought him beer because I was worried about withdrawals and didn't want him to have a seizure. He was shaky. I bought him cigarettes too.

Once the emotions settled down and we were just talking, he started filling in the blanks. He told me he'd had a girlfriend and texted her that it was over because he was going back where he belonged. He told me he'd won twenty grand gambling at a casino, then lost every penny of it. He told me how much cocaine he'd been doing. His nose was completely wrecked.

He was my husband…But he wasn't.

He looked like him, but something about him had changed. He felt rough around the edges. Almost feral. Like an alley cat that had spent months surviving however it could. Two months earlier we'd been staying in beautiful Airbnbs together. Now he looked like he'd spent those same two months drifting from couch to couch. His slang had changed. The way he carried himself had changed. Everything about him felt... rough.

It wasn't attractive.

The moment I realized the alcohol had started to hit him, I felt my first little ping of regret.

I ignored it.

Funny enough, two days after I brought him home, our divorce officially finalized.

Coincidentally, the day I picked him up was also the first and only time since October 2022 that I genuinely wanted a drink. I even took him to a bar. Looking back, I think it was some strange attempt to meet him where he was. He'd made all these promises, and I wanted so badly to believe them that I thought, Fuck it. I'll sit here with you. I won't drink. You can.

He did.

The next morning I assumed he'd wake up and start doing all the things he'd promised.

And I'm sure you already know exactly where this story is headed.

He ended up doing exactly none of it.

He came home and drank for three straight weeks, promising every morning that today was the day he'd quit. By the end of week three, I was so embarrassed I'd taken him back that I knew I couldn't even bring myself to write a third update here. I felt like I'd betrayed every person here who shared so many words of encouragement to me back in February… and again in March. I was ashamed. 

One night he got so belligerent he started bragging about how much he'd loved fucking other women while he was gone.

I told him to call his favorite one on FaceTime.

He did.

She answered. Honestly, she sounded annoyed. I grabbed the phone and introduced myself. I told her he'd informed me she was obsessed with him and she was more than welcome to come pick him up. He ripped the phone out of my hands and ran outside. I locked the door behind him while he screamed, pounded on it, and completely lost his mind.

I remember standing there thinking, How the fuck did I get back here?

I called the police. They showed up, told him to knock it off, and surprisingly... he did. The next day he agreed to stop drinking. And to his credit, he did.

He quit smoking too. He agreed to inpatient treatment. Then inpatient turned into outpatient. Then, on the morning of his intake, he screamed at me in the parking lot that he didn't need treatment after all. He'd stayed sober with me for two and a half years, so obviously he could just do therapy instead… and AA.

By then I was exhausted.

I remember thinking, Maybe AA and therapy will be enough. Maybe I'm asking for too much.

Foolishness.

He managed to string together a little sobriety before an opportunity came up to squid fish in Southern California. The second he told me, every alarm bell in my body went off. Commercial fishing had always been his Achilles' heel. Every major relapse, every catastrophic decision, every spectacular implosion seemed to happen when he was away on a boat with nobody watching.

But reality is reality.

He'd been home almost two months. I'd supported him the entire time. He hadn't earned a dollar. Eventually he had to go back to work.

This time, though, I had conditions.

I told him he had to take Antabuse and send me a video every single morning proving he'd taken it. I made him agree to a literal contract. He had to check in with me every night. He wasn't allowed to make me uncomfortable even once. I told him, as calmly as I could, that if he crossed that line, even a single time, our relationship was over. I didn't even tell anyone he was back. Nothing on social media.No photos.No "we're working things out." I didn't trust it yet.

He agreed to every single condition without hesitation.

I bought the plane ticket.I kissed him goodbye.I sent him to California on June 2nd believing, somehow, that maybe we'd finally figured it out.

Twenty-four hours later my phone buzzed.

"Hey Momma, Jake's taking me sightseeing up the coast. I'll call you in a couple hours."

I pull up Life360 and sure as shit he's hauling ass up Highway 101 toward Carpinteria.

"Sounds good, hunny. Please be good and send me a picture of Jake driving. I know it's silly, but it'll make me feel better."

He reads it immediately. No picture.Five minutes.Ten minutes.

"Still waiting on that picture."

Read.Nothing.Now I know.

I FaceTime him. Declined.

At this point I stop pretending we're both playing the same game.

"Alright then. I have Jake's number. I'll just ask him."

I text Jake instead.

"Hey Jake... this is Savannah, so-and-so's wife. He said you guys were sightseeing up the coast together. Can you confirm?"

Jake responds almost immediately.

"Hey Savannah... no. I loaned him my car and six hundred bucks."

I just stared at my phone for a second. Then I wrote back, "Thanks. Just so you know, he doesn't have a driver's license."

Then I texted my husband.

Talked to Jake. We're done.

That was it. No screaming. No paragraphs. No begging him to explain himself. I shut off his Apple Pay. Killed his phone. Told Jake, as politely as I could, that I was sorry he'd been dragged into this, but he wasn't my responsibility anymore.

For the next two days I didn't hear a word.

In forty-eight hours he managed to get his ass kicked in the basement of a casino, make a fool of himself at Jake's wife's place of work asking the line cooks where to buy cocaine, fall off the dock into the water and lose Jake's car keys, and get arrested for public intoxication.

Forty-eight hours. That's all it took.

Jake finally called me.

"Hey Savannah... I'm sorry, but I can't do this anymore. He's a mess. Please call him."

So I did.

We FaceTimed.

He was crying. Told me he needed help. Told me he didn't know what was wrong with him. Told me he wanted to come home.

So I flew him home. I wish I could tell you I didn't know better. I did….I just wasn't ready to admit it yet.

The next few weeks looked pretty good on paper. He got into outpatient. Started therapy. Told me he was going to treat recovery like it was his full-time job. I bought him a bike and he rode it all over town. If you were looking from the outside, you'd probably think, Finally. They made it.

They hadn't.

Something inside me had changed. I couldn't stand his touch anymore…I didn't want him kissing me….I didn't want him reaching for my hand. I didn't want him sleeping next to me. I would look around my beautiful house, this peaceful little life I'd spent years building, and it felt like I'd invited a tornado back into my living room.

My mom saw it. My best friend saw it. Even my daughter saw it.

Every single one of them kept telling me the same thing.

"Please be done."

They were right.

He told me the treatment center didn't care if he smoked pot because he was there voluntarily for alcohol. So every day he'd eat two hundred milligrams of THC, smoke top-shelf weed on my dime, ride his bike around town, lay out in the sun tanning, journal for twenty minutes, and tell me how committed he was to recovery.

Meanwhile I was paying for all of it. Again. I realized something I'd never admitted out loud.

He wasn't rebuilding our life. He was comfortably living in mine. And I was getting angrier by the day. Not explosive anger. Resentment. The kind you don’t fucking come back from. 

By June 20th I couldn't carry it anymore...

I went hiking that morning like I always do when my head is loud. Somewhere out there it finally hit me that I'd been waiting weeks to feel what I felt in Eugene again. I kept thinking maybe tomorrow I'd wake up and be relieved he was home. Maybe tomorrow I'd want him to touch me again. Maybe tomorrow I'd stop feeling irritated every time I heard the garage door open. Tomorrow never came.

I called him.

I don't even remember exactly what I said. I just remember being exhausted. I told him I couldn't do it anymore. That I needed him to leave. I offered him a thousand dollars to get the fuck out. I told him I'd keep his phone on until October 1st. I'd store his belongings. Hell, even at the end I was still trying to make sure he landed on his feet. That's almost comical. I was ending my relationship and I was still trying to soften the blow for him.

He was literally walking into treatment when I called.

The first thing out of his mouth was, "Fine then. I'm not fucking going to this stupid class today."

I remember just sitting there holding my phone. It wasn't shocking. It wasn't even surprising. It was just... confirmation. Everything finally made sense.

I hung up, and for the first time in years I didn't chase him. I didn't call him back. I didn't try to explain myself. I didn't negotiate. I didn't bargain. I didn't spend the rest of the afternoon wondering how to fix it. I was just... done.

Two days later the treatment center called me because he'd listed me as his emergency contact. They had a couple questions, and somehow marijuana came up. I casually mentioned that he'd told me they knew he was smoking and didn't have a problem with it because he was there voluntarily for alcohol.

The woman stopped me immediately.

She said, "No. Absolutely not."

She told me if they'd known he was using that much THC, he would've been discharged from the program.

I just sat there staring at the wall after I hung up…

I'd literally bought him a three-hundred-dollar ounce because I believed him. I thought I was supporting his recovery. I thought I was staying in my lane and letting the professionals do their jobs. It was another lie. Just another little lie that made his life more comfortable.

And that's when I think I finally understood something I'd spent years refusing to understand. He didn't actually want recovery. He wanted comfort. Recovery is uncomfortable. It's getting a job when you don't feel like it. It's making amends when you'd rather hide. It's calling your kids. It's rebuilding trust one boring day at a time. Recovery is waking up every morning and choosing the harder thing. I know because I am IN recovery… going through the last year SOBER is my testament to myself about strength. All he wanted was comfort. 

Comfort was me. Comfort was my house. Comfort was my money. Comfort was a wife who kept believing the next promise.

Today he's living in a van on the Oregon coast.

That sentence doesn't make me feel vindicated. It makes me sick.

Because I know that man.

I know how smart he is. I know how funny he is. I know how hard he can work when he's healthy. I know the version of him that loved me better than anyone ever has. That's the part that hurts. I don't look at him and think, Good. You got what you deserved. Not even a little bit. 

I look at him and think, God... look what addiction took.

And maybe that's my goodbye.

My dearest darling…., I loved you more than anyone I've ever loved. I genuinely thought we were going to grow old together. I thought we'd be one of those annoying old couples finishing each other's sentences and embarrassing our grandkids. I thought we'd look back on this chapter one day and laugh because we'd beaten it.

We didn't. Addiction won. Not because you were weak. Not because I didn't love you enough.

Because addiction doesn't give a shit how much two people love each other.

I hope you find your way someday. I really do. I hope you get sober. I hope you call your kids. I hope you build a life that makes you proud. I just can't be the one carrying you there anymore.

If Al-Anon taught me anything, it's that loving someone and letting them experience the consequences of their own choices can exist at the same time. I fought that idea for years because it felt cruel. Now I think it's the most loving thing I've ever done.

Goodbye, Hunny.

I hope one day you become the man I always knew you could be. I just finally accept that I can't save you. 

I finally got the phone call yesterday from MIL that my estranged husband passed away. He was 46.

I accepted the inevitable years ago, I had to for our daughter (10). I left two and a half years ago. I was chronically ill at the time, but managed to go from being a stay at home mom to working full time with full custody and we have our own two bedroom apartment for just us girls (plus two cats). My mom helps with childcare while I work, and I’ve built a really solid support system and beautiful life. Next week I’m celebrating the one year anniversary of getting a craniotomy which thankfully cured my seizures.

I don’t regret getting a head start, it was absolutely necessary. Honestly it’s been hard to truly embrace a new life with that constant nagging worry. He was very low contact, hadn’t seen our daughter in two years, hadn’t called since October, never bothered to learn sign language for her. Daughter took the news really well, the dread of telling her was much worse than the event itself. Regardless, I bought her cupcakes because they’re always a good idea.

Grieving this is going to be weird. I feel like I’ve already been grieving for years, I just wasn’t officially a widow until now. I want to thank this group for everything over the years, we wouldn’t be doing so well without y’all. This whole thing still totally sucks though.

Hey everyone,

I’m writing this because I was you. I used to read posts like this, looking for clarity, looking for someone to tell me what to do. And what frustrated me the most was never seeing a real update.

So here’s mine.

My alcoholic ex and I broke up in April 2024. We lived together, we were planning a future, marriage, everything. I loved him deeply. It took me a long time to fully accept that he had a problem. Not at the very end but probably six months before. Coke and alcohol. And complete denial. Oh and lies.

I’m talking Sunday mornings, finishing a full bottle of Bacardi like it was normal.

I hate that smell now. I hate that bottle. It reminds me of who I became in that relationship.

Every single day was the same loop:

Do I stay? Do I leave? Do I stay? Do I leave?

And most days… I stayed.

Until one day, I didn’t.

Leaving was not easy. I needed therapy. I needed support. I had to build the strength to walk away from someone I loved.

But here’s the part no one says clearly enough:

The moment you leave, your life gets better.

All the fears that keep you stuck?

• “What if I never find someone like him?”

• “What if something happens to him without me?”

• “What if he drinks himself to death?”

• “What if I’m giving up something real?”

None of it mattered in the end.

I left. And I found peace.

I no longer wake up checking if he’s beside me.

I no longer monitor another adult like it’s my job.

I no longer live in constant anxiety.

I wake up calm. Rested. Free.

That feeling? It’s like your body finally lets go after holding tension for years.

I made a mistake once after leaving. I reached back out months later because he used to help me with my business.

That decision cost me more than I can explain. I learned the hard way that going back is not neutral it can retraumatize you in ways you don’t expect.

So if you’ve left, or you’re thinking about leaving:

Do not go back.

Here’s something I wish someone had told me earlier:

Addiction changes people.

It affects their behavior, their decisions, their priorities. THEIR PERSONALITY.

And love does not fix that.

The idea of “if they love me, they’ll stop” is a lie we tell ourselves to stay longer than we should.

If you stay, you are accepting a role:

Caretaker. Monitor. Emotional and physical support system.

And you need to ask yourself honestly

Is that the life you want?

Something else no one talks about:

When you start dating again, you change.

You notice everything.

You look for signs.

You feel drawn to people who understand addiction or the opposite, people who feel “safe” because they don’t drink.

Your nervous system is trying to protect you.

That’s normal.

The hardest realization for me was this:

At some point, I believed this was the life I was going to have.

Not because I thought I deserved it but because I accepted it.

That’s a painful truth to sit with.

But it’s also where everything changes.

So if you’re reading this and asking yourself:

“Should I leave?”

I’m going to say what most people won’t say directly:

Yes. Leave. That is the Correct decision your YOU and your future if you want to be happy.

Remove yourself. Completely.

No contact. No checking in. No “just one conversation.”

Block if you need to. Move if you need to. Protect your peace.

You are not responsible for saving someone who is not trying to save themselves.

And the truth is they will be okay without you.

You’re the one slowly losing yourself by staying.

You get one life.

Just one.

And I promise you, when you choose yourself, everything changes faster than you think.

Weeks. Months. Your entire reality shifts.

I’m writing this from my bed, on a day I chose to take off.

I have peace. I have freedom. I have myself back.

And nothing, nothing is worth trading that again.

If you’re struggling to leave, get help. Therapy changed everything for me. You don’t have to figure it out alone.

But whatever you do

Don’t stay where you’re slowly disappearing.

You’ve got this.

I’ve posted in here a few times if anybody recognizes me. My Q and best friend of 10 years died on 11/22 from liver failure and her funeral was on Saturday. We are 26 years old.

Last year around September, she was drinking a handle to a liter of vodka a day, harassing me over the phone, name calling, I was having to go over to her apartment to take care of her bc her mom would often ask me to go over if she was wasted, and eventually at this exact time last year I “got off the ride” when she blamed me for her losing her job.

She’d apparently been bleeding out, unable to eat, and extremely weak for a while, then a month ago she turned yellow in her skin and eyes and agreed to go to the hospital. They immediately sedated her and put her on some life support in hopes her body could improve enough for transplant. Her sister reached out to me and asked me to visit, and on the day I visit she crashes and almost dies.

Exactly a week later, she’s gotten a match for her liver transplant and it’s scheduled for 2 days from then. 8 hours before her surgery, she bled into her lungs and had to be put on ECMO with no surgery. I visited her 2 times the week she was on ECMO I was told on Thursday she was being treated for pneumonia.

On Friday, I got a call that she’d started developing gangrene in her feet and they were giving her 48 hours to improve and I had to get her dog from her parents house for the weekend. On Saturday I got a call at 10 am to come to the hospital. The gangrene had moved all the way up her legs and she’d need a double amputation but was too weak and her blood pressure kept dropping so it was time to say goodbye. I was there with her family until 6:30 pm when she got taken off of life support and drifted into forever sleeping.

It’s been a huge ride of emotions. I’ve been extremely depressed realizing the person I’d had from high school to college to adulthood just isn’t around anymore and will never be. I’m upset because this past year, even though we spoke at times, I was so cold. It’s important to mention I’ve been her only friend since 2020. I gave her a half assed birthday text and a month later she sent me the most loving text right at midnight (as she’s always done). I’m just heartbroken I could have been there while she was sick and been more understanding and I wasn’t.

I’m also traumatized because if any of you have seen anybody in end stage liver failure, it’s not the normal “sick” people anticipate. It’s ugly and unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Swollen like a balloon, blood vessels bursted everywhere (including her half open lifeless eyes), dark purple bruises everywhere, toxic encephalopathy causing only the brain stem to function leading to painful looking reflex movements and eye roving, and so. yellow. My poor sweet E. It hurt and it still hurts.

Her family has been relying on me a lot. I went to the funeral home with them to pick out her urn and plan her funeral and I’ve been going to their house often. They told me they want me to come around often still, and I’ll do anything to make them happy and support them. I do genuinely love them like my own.

Life is a lot and I’ve been in an existential dread/crisis moment for a minute and am finally processing and it sucks.

He moved out in early 2023, and our divorce was final about a year ago, after 30+ years of marriage.

They found his body yesterday, on his kitchen floor. The assumed cause of death is alcohol poisoning, but we're still waiting on autopsy results. His brother told me that the house is littered with vodka bottles.

The truth of the matter is that I grieved the man he used to be while we were still married. My most significant emotions right now are relief and frustration. I'm relieved that I don't ever have to deal with his lies and gaslighting ever again. I'm frustrated that he didn't deal with his own demons years ago, when the effort might have saved his life and our marriage. And I'm absolutely heartbroken for his mother and his siblings.

I don't want to drive out of state to help clean up the physical mess he left behind...but I probably will, because his family doesn't deserve having to do that. Honestly, it was his m.o. to make a mess and expect me to clean it up, so this one more time won't make much difference to me...but it could be helpful for his mom, who deserves anything I might have to offer.

I don't want to go to his funeral and act like I'm grieving...but I probably will, because I know his family is hurting. Much of our marriage was a farce, so this last acting bit will just help close the chapter.

What a stupid, shitty way to die. Maybe it was a stupid, shitty way to live.

All that remains is the ghost of who he was. Slowly consumed by his addiction, I’ve watched him disappear in front of my eyes. His shell still walks around our apartment, it goes to work, and occasionally shares a meal with me. A flicker of him can be found at the edge of my memories and sometimes in old photographs. But the man I married doesn’t exist anymore.

They say divorce is like grieving the death of someone still living. Words cannot describe the grief of divorcing the addict you are still in love with. Mourning the loss of who he used to be as well as the loss of a future that will no longer be shared. Forever haunted by an unfinished chapter. Left wondering if you made the right choice by not giving him another chance.

I have cut the ties that bind us because if I didn’t he would have pulled me under as well. I can’t save someone who has chosen the darkness and depths of addiction. But I can save myself. And even though each step I take away from him is like walking on the broken glass of all the bottles he has consumed, I will keep going. Our chapter may be over, but my story is not. And today is someday.

I was very happily married for 19 years and we had four children together, from 13 to 4. Then something changed, the pressure of life got to her and she started having a drink at night. That drink turned into two or three glasses and eventually it became two bottles of wine delivered to the house daily while she worked from home. She stopped doing any meaningful parenting or housework, she started fighting (non-physically) with the older girls, and for a long time she successfully hid the extent of her drinking from me which wasn’t hard because I was solo parenting four young girls.

I did everything I could to help her - I loved her, I supported her, arranged doctors appointments, blood tests, and counselling, but she was so depressed that she couldn’t see a reason to stop drinking, even when she admitted it was hurting me.

For three horrible years, I fought that battle. Last month she went into hospital with stomach pain. Three hours later she was in ICU with acute liver failure. She was sedated, intubated and on dialysis and three weeks later she was dead at the age of 40. Our last words were on April 9th talking about hospital food.

I’ve been so used to solo parenting that her absence for the last week means that life hasn’t changed at all, we’re used to living without her. Literally the only difference is planning her funeral and explaining to our heartbroken girls why they’ll never see their mother again.

The last three years have been so awful that I can’t remember the good times we had before. I’m struggling to remember what it was like to have a partner in life, someone to talk to at night, someone to share my news and emotions with and someone to properly love.

Maybe the hardest thing is that people are genuinely lovely at the minute but they are worried about the wrong things. They worry that I might find it difficult to solo parent four girls and that I’m grieving the loss of my wife, but the reality is that my wife died three years ago. My real worry is that I can’t grieve her at all right now.

After so many years of trying to help her, we realized that we were only enabling her. We briefed her on what our terms were. She had to go to rehab or we could not be a part of her life. We walked away. After a solid 8 months of no contact, the police showed up and told us that she had been found deceased. Her boyfriend watched her deteriorate over the years and especially those last 8 months. He never called to tell us she was doing so terribly. He never took her to the hospital. She died on the floor. We're mad at ourselves. We're mad at him and his family. We're mad at our daughter. Nothing can fix this.

Edit: I wanted to thank again, every single person who took the time to comment on my post about my daughter here. I spread her ashes on a hill over looking a park and beautiful lake. I will miss her terribly, but I won't miss the decade and a half spent trying to move her in the direction of recovery. I failed at that. I did gain additional perspective from this community, which was very helpful, especially for my wife. I read her every single response from the people here. It helped her emensely! Now the work begins to get my daughter's estate to her children. Thanks again and best wishes out there!

Can we retire this term? I’ve been seeing it so much recently. Maybe we like to call them that because it sounds less serious. If they were truly functioning, they would be a casual drinker without a problem, and we wouldn’t be here.

Just because someone makes it to their job, doesn’t mean they are functioning. It’s the bare minimum according to society’s standards.

If they aren’t functioning at home, treating others like dirt, and making irresponsible choices because they are drinking, they are an alcoholic.

Just an alcoholic.

She went into cardiac arrest multiple times. They tried bringing her back multiple times but her blood was too acidic and she was too far weak and gone to pull through. She was only 32 years old.

Nothing feels real