We met on a snowy March evening, at a theatre event. So I was already in the drama mindset when this member of the crew was flirting with me between scenes. We had instant chemistry. I was smitten from the first flash of his blue eyes.
Our courtship was a whirlwind. He swept me off my feet, the way I had always secretly hoped someone would do. With gifts, meals, travel, compliments, romance. He charmed everyone he met.
Until he didn’t. But I was seeing him through different lenses than everyone else. “Why is he so misunderstood?” I often asked myself. When my mother laughed at his asking for permission to propose. When my close friends told me they didn’t feel like they trusted him. When he was “let go” from job after job.
Red flags. All over the place. But through my particular lenses, they were muted. More like pink flags. With hearts on them.
7 months after we met, he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. The ring was gorgeous, his smile lit up the sky that evening. His happy cheer when I said “Yes!” reverberated through the trees.
I started planning the wedding, gushing about marrying the Man of My Dreams.
And he was.
Until he wasn’t. I caught him locked in his apartment, having missed an obligation. His shower running, I panicked that he had fallen, or worse, committed suicide. (I knew enough about his abusive/neglected childhood that I knew it was possible) When he finally opened the door, the blue of his eyes covered in dilated blackness, it hit me like a ton of bricks. “I’ve done a very bad thing,” he said to me, with some explanation of how crack cocaine had wound up in his possession. After my tears and his promises, I left to clear my head.
I went that day to sit by a river. I took off my simple, yet elegant solitaire and left it in the car. I prayed like I had never done before. I knew I was at a crossroads. My choices were clear. Get out now, and leave behind this otherwise perfect man, or choose to trust that it will work out, and stick with him.
Three months later, we were married. The rehearsal dinner was fantastic (even though he was enebriated). The wedding was beautiful (even though I had worried that he would smoke pot beforehand, and nagged at him to not show up high).
For our honeymoon we went to Jamaica. It was relaxing, gorgeous, and lovely (even though as soon as we got off the shuttle bus, he struck a deal in the mens’ bathroom for some pot, and later snorted cocaine with a hotel maintenance worker, which I found out much later)
We moved overseas for a job the fall after our wedding. The novelty of the job and location distracted me from the growing evidence that I had married a drug addict. He still showered me with gifts, dinners, trips, and had warm baths waiting for me when I would get home late.
We decided to start a family. I was instantly pregnant. He was the most attentive husband for those nine months. I was so distracted by his doting on me, that I barely noticed the way other people reacted to him. Once the baby was born (the most beautiful baby in the whole world), he started to not be home. And he stopped doing normal things, like showering. He was always stressed. I found a ton of old medicine containers in his bedside table one day, while looking for something innocent, like the baby’s binky. It hit me that day. “My husband is addicted to pharmaceuticals!” But I was too busy being blissful with my baby to think much about that.
Another baby on the way, and he was just getting worse. I realized that he was about to get fired from this position, our (well, MY) dream job. So I decided that it was time for us to leave on our own. He was relieved. We moved back to the states.
My family was disgusted with him. Everyone fought. Everyone tried to convince me that he was crazy, or bipolar, or an alcoholic. My mother guessed it (as only mothers can) that he was on drugs. I was so deep in denial that I laughed at her accusation. At one point I felt I was going to have to choose between him or her. And I was leaning towards him.
We moved again. Far from my family. The second baby was born, and I stayed home with both of these miraculous, perfect, gorgeous little humans. They filled me with such joy and love. It was enough. And he was so busy with his new business, that I did not see him much. And that was fine.
Until one day it wasn’t.
I woke up to a sick baby, who couldn’t breathe well. I knew I needed to take my baby to the emergency room. I tried to wake up my husband to tell him that I was leaving, and that the toddler was in his charge. So, wheezing baby in arms, I shook and shook that man silly. But he did not wake up. Just kept snoring. So I woke up the toddler and took them both out in the middle of the night. When we returned home, he was still passed out, oblivious to the whole scene.
And one night he never came home. I woke up in a panic, and called the hospitals nearby, thinking he had been in some sort of an accident. 2 days went by, I think. Then he called me. “I’ve done a very bad thing, Jen.” he said.
So I packed up and left for my parents’. Drove 10 hours with the kids in the car, just to try and get some peace. Only to return a few days later, his promises hopefully filling my heart and mind.
This scenario replayed several times over the following year or so. I wasn’t telling anyone what I was going through. Isolated and alone, I was trying to stick it out. Keep my little family together. I drove him to the meetings, only to find out later that it was at the meetings where he would get more drugs.
We made a deal. I was moving back to NE. He could come after he went through rehab. So he reluctantly agreed to do it. Rehab for a month. That was supposed to be the cure. The best rehab money could buy. He won the equivalent of the valedictorian for his group. Posterboy for recovery.
Within 3 months he was abusing pain medication again.
FINALLY my mom helped me come out of my protected shell. I started getting some help, reaching out to friends, therapist, Al-anon meetings. My heart broke when some of my old friends weren’t there for me when I needed them. And I was surprised to find new friends who were reliably there.
There are so many details, and someday I will write the book. “The Splatter Zone.” It’s that area around the target (aka: the addict) that suffers the collateral damage. It’s where I lived for 7 years.
Finally one day I had the certainty that I had had enough. Passed out on the bed, he had lost control of bodily functions, so I found my “out.” I set the kids up in our finished basement, with videos and snacks and juiceboxes galore. Then I called 911 and reported an overdose. They came and took him away, with my instructions to let him know he was not to return.
It took the kids months to realize he was even gone. That’s how little they saw their father.
I protected them through it all, the best that I could. I took all the splatter, so that they could be blissfully unaware.
Now my older child is in the splatter zone. She knows about her Dad’s addiction issues. I had no intention of telling her just yet, but when he ended up in jail for DUI last month, and all she knew was that he stopped taking her calls and texting her, her tween mentality was that he stopped loving her. I intuitively knew it was time for her to learn more.
It will be a long road. I hate that my kids will likely have to deal with the death, incarceration, or prolonged unraveling of their father. I try to tell them about how loving he is, and how much he adores them.
And he does. To the best of his ability.
I think of the young boy that he once was, and my heart breaks. Abused by his addict mother. Taken in by his busy CEO Manhattan father. Left to his own devices in the big city, with freedom, time, and money, and a broken spirit. OF COURSE he would turn to drugs. If only someone had seen it happening and been able to help him. If only….
I have learned some vital lessons through this all. First of all, is that the only person I can control is myself. Also, that I am much stronger than I ever knew.
I have no regrets. I didn’t marry the wrong man. I don’t wish I had seen the red flags more clearly. I was in love! I experienced something real and wonderful. I gave our relationship so many chances. I gave him an abundance of opportunities.
And most importantly, our two children were born. My daughter is an 11-year old activist for social justice, who will be a famous pop star/actress some day, and use her fame to help everyone that she can. My son is a 10-year old kick-ass athlete who can read emotions and intuitively know how everyone is really doing just by looking into their eyes.
Addict or not, I have much to be grateful to him for.
