Of my alcoholic marriage.

I like to say all alcoholic marriages are alike in different ways and as I meet more and more women married to alcoholics, I am discovering that my marriage to an alcoholic does indeed, have it’s own unique “twist.”

My husband’s compulsive drinking has manifested itself in the form of his near utterly complete withdrawal from family life and me in particular.

I mean he does nearly NOTHING around the house and interacts with me to the point that “roommate” would be a generous title. There are days he comes home from work and I would say we literally exchange no more than ten words. He doesn’t greet me hello; he doesn’t kiss me good night. Forget family dinner. We are a family of individuals living together separately. Anything I do with the kids, I do solo. He does attend sporting events or other such events that are “mandatory” appearances for a parent. He supplies any necessary back-up taxing I may need but other than that, he lives like a boarder who comes and goes according to his own (and his only) needs and wants.

I can’t even say we are “just” raising children together.

It’s more like we are each raising our children seperately.

I’ve spent a long time (LONG! TIME!) being justifiably hurt and saddened by this.

But no more.

Everyday I am making a conscious effort to let that pain, anger and expectation go.

I didn’t get the marriage I thought I was getting.

The one I wanted.

It’s a hard pill to swallow, as my mother would say.

But each day I recite things to myself like,

“That is his choice for living.”

“That is how he chooses to be in the Universe.”

“I do not choose to live in that manner.”

“His anger does not enter my life.”

“I choose for my life to vibrate in a higher frequency.”

Yes, it’s that sort of “hippie,” “Zen,” metaphysical stuff but turns out the hippie, Zen, metaphysical stuff is incredibly powerful against the erosion of your soul because each day, I believe it more and more. I heal more and more.

And, I dare say, I get back to living more and more.

I read a theory once that happiness is actually a genetic trait.

Yes, a happiness gene!!

And when I read that, I remember thinking,

“Wow, I’m glad I got that gene!”

I always (used to?) consider myself a happy person.

And I recognized that being a happy person and being happy at a given moment in time are two very different things.

No one is happy when they are stranded on the side of the road with car trouble or when they lose a loved one or when they don’t get the job they’re sure they aced the interview for. Conversely, (nearly) everyone is happy when they buy a new car or get a pay raise or meet the love of their lives. But whether it’s a negative event or a positive one, that type of happiness is cicumstantial happiness. It’s dependent on, yes, the present moment’s circumstances. But what happens when the pain or the delight of that moment passes? You can be a happy person who is not happy in the moment and you can be a miserable person who is temporarily happy.

I am not a happy person these days.

Truth is, I haven’t been happy for a long time.

My house overwhelmes me.

My marriage depletes me.

My husband hurts me.

And I myself disappoint me.

But am I a happy person who is only temporarily unhappy?

Or have I become a truly unhappy person, destined to know only fleeting moments of happiness?

If there really is a “happiness gene” and if I once recognized myself as a person with that very gene, I still must have it, right?

We don’t change our genes like we change our jeans.

I think when you live in any sort of “chronic” state – be it chronic illness, sustained financial difficulities or the addiction of a family member – happiness isn’t necessarily elusive but it does require effort.

One of (One! Of!) the tragedies of living with an alcoholic is that things that once brought you joy can become a source of irritation. Not because those things have changed but because the alcoholic changes you.

We have two big, loud, exbeurant black labs! (Because who can pick “just one” black lab puppy when there are only TWO left and you have several pairs of great big eyes looking up at you and saying, “We can’t leave one all alone!) Now, I love dogs! I used to walk my dogs and play with my dogs and take delight in their unconditional love (even if it was delivered with unbridled enthusiam) when I walked in the house. And I still love dogs and I love my dogs but I don’t enjoy my dogs anymore. I yell at them to “get away” when they come bounding at me with endless energy; I feed them with all the affection of a guard shoving food at a prisoner and instead of morning and evening walks, they are simply “shown the (back) door” for the necessary potty and poop outings.

So today I am going to walk my dogs.

Today I am going to hug them when they come bounding at me, loving me for simply coming home.

Today I will add a treat to their dinner, pat them on the head and be grateful I have the means to give these two lovely creatures a safe and warm home.

What will you do today to court joy?

What did you once love, take delight in, before the beast of alcoholism took up (uninvited!) residency in your soul?

I think in life we can know things but not know we know them.

One of the reasons (the reason?) I have been reluctant to blog, I think, is because on some level I knew my life – my energy, my thoughts, my days – could no longer revolve around or be centered on my husband’s drinking and accompanying behavior.

It sucks being married to an alcoholic.

It SO sucks.

But there are a lot of things in life that suck.

A lot of things that can kill our spirits.

Life is hard on the human soul.

And so there comes the day when no matter what the particular trauma or challenge – death of a loved one, chronic illness, financial ruin…your husband’s alcoholism – the “formula” for living a life that is fulfilling, rewarding and joyful is the same.

I am reading the book, “Miracel Morning” by Hal Elrod. He was in a horrific car accident – ironically or not – caused by a drunk driver – where virtually his entire body was crushed and he had to put his life back together again. Physically, emotionally, spiritually and financially. In that effort, he came to recognize the profound power behind getting up every morning with purpose and direction.

Last night as I was getting ready for bed, I was thinking about how I “planned” to start my miracle morning routine today. I was going to get up at 6 am and commit myself to the routine Elrod recommends in his book. Except as I was telling myself this, I was also telling myself,

“UGG! I can’t do this! 6 am is SO early.”

Etc., etc., etc.

But then as I was telling my son good night, he snapped at the dog for some minor dog infraction and in that instand, I knew I HAD to get up.

I HAD to get up because my entire household is angry and short with one another and even the dog.

I HAD to get up because there is no one else in the house that is going to work on changing the energy in the house except me.

I HAD to get up because I can’t spend one more day planning for “tomorrow” to be different.

But most of all, I HAD to get up because…

I want to.

I want my life back.

I want me back.

I think about this blog more than anyone might think.

Seeing how I don’t actually post on it with any kind of regularity.

I read this fable once. (I can’t remember where but it was probably in reference to alcoholism.)

The tale is about two frogs that fall into an churn of buttermilk.

No matter how hard they try, they can’t climb out as the sides are too slippery.

One frog says,

“It’s no use. We are going to die.”

And he sinks to the bottom and drowns.

The other frog says,

“I dont know how I am going to get out but I’m not going to quit.”

And so she swims. She swims and she swims and she swims. All through the day and into the dark of night, she swims. Round and round she goes with no idea as to how she is going to escape but with a detemination to escape. By morning’s light, her little swimming frog legs have churned the buttermilk into butter and she hopes out!

Being married to an alcoholic is a lot like this!

We’re stuck. We’re trapped. There’s no way out. We sink to the bottom to drown.

I’ve sunk to the bottom.

I’m drowning.

But not a violent drowning. Not a drowning where I am flailing about, gasping for air, trying to grab hold of the nothingness of water. (Buttermilk.) No, my drowning is more lethargic. Just laying here.

I think as wives of alcoholics, this is our trajectory:

We yell, we scream, we rage against the beast – eventually more internally than outwardly.

We talk, we cry, we try to fix. We hope.

We hope and we hope and we hope some more. We hope when no reasonably human being would expect us to hope. We hope when we know there is no point in hoping. We hope after we declare we are done hoping. Every morning we get up and we hope.

First, we hope he will be different. He will change or seek help. He will see his drinking for the issue it is.

Then we hope for ourselves. That we will change. That we will stop expecting him to be different.

We hope we will stop hoping.

Until finally, all the rage, all that anger, all the grief, all that hope weighs us down and we sink to the bottom.

Some of us will indeed drown.

But something has caught my eye.

Is it the little kicking legs of a frog-sister?

I don’t know what I’ll do.

Or how I’ll do it.

But I can’t let myself drown.