I suppose it’s hard to say what exactly is THE saddest thing about being married to an alcoholic but what your home – I mean your physical space – does to you would be a worthy contender.

I walk in my house and I am instantly someone different.

And not in a good way.

Isn’t your home suppose to be your safe place?

Your haven?

Your salvation, sanctuary, retreat from the world?

The place you most want, need to return to when the world has had its way with you.

Or just a bad day “at the office.”

But my home assaults me.

I walk in and I feel the pressure, the resentment, the anger as my every part of my being registers what is going on.

Dishes left everywhere.

Food wrappers left on the counter.

Half eaten food on a plate in the sink.

My husband drinking…

I could have – probably was – just been smiling and happy and laughing with friends or even a complete stranger but the minute I walk into my house…

It’s as if I am a shape shifter and Resentment is my new shape.

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