The tears of the alcoholic within

As I lay here in bed late at night, I hear every twist of the cap. And with every single one, it strikes my heart just a little bit deeper. Hurt, anger, a disregard for my long-time wishes. A disregard for yourself.

You are in your office “working” (aka: an excuse to drink a 12 pack before you go to bed). Same with “working in the garage.” You fool no one.

I hate watching you slowly kill yourself as you refuse to acknowledge a problem. Night after night after night. It breaks my heart and disgusts me at the same time. If I only had myself to think about I would have been gone long ago. But there are sweet innocent little hearts sleeping in the next room that have no idea.

They have no idea their hero “just drinks beer” every night until he needs a giant glass of water and ibuprofen before bed to be able to function in time enough to go to work in the morning. You know every loophole, every solution. You bought the economy size ibuprofen “for me.” The NyQuil in the bathroom disappears bit by bit when no one has a cold.

Our children have a hero that regularly calls in sick to work because of serious “allergies” when you need a few more hours to sleep it off. A hero that once said he was staying home from work to help with our newborn but instead slept it off all day. A man that can hardly wait to get the kids to bed so the drinking can start. A hero that fills the garage with piles of aluminum cans.

One that drowns the air in the bedroom with an alcoholic stench and a heavy sleep next to his wife. The hero with bloodshot eyes every morning. And the hero that comes home after work and swings his kids around on his arms and play wrestles with them on the floor to their squealing delight.

But I see you. The real you. And I hate you for making me choose. I have to choose when to break their hearts. And whether or not to free mine of the dark cloud you and I will never truly be free of.

I’ve stopped looking for the hidden whiskey bottles, but I smell it in your bedtime breath at 2 AM, not even close to being masked by mouthwash. I see the beer cans spread throughout different trash cans in the house and the trash bin outside. It started small, so I told myself it would get better and I stayed because the kids deserve the father they think they have.

My prayers for you, my willingness to love you through it and the love of our “smiling Facebook family in theory” have kept us together for over a decade. Something good always happens in between that keeps us hanging on. The quiet turmoil stays quiet. But I simply can’t do it anymore.

I don’t even think another rehab ultimatum is in order. Insurance red tape prevented the first one, and “taking too much time off of work” is preventing this one. You’ll only choose help if you’re forced to.

So now I have to choose. Do I continue to eat shit with a knife and fork, enabling an otherwise good man, or do I say enough is enough? The buck stops here. And shatter my children.

You have to want it for yourself, and you don’t want it for yourself. You are happy with the way things are. You don’t choose you. And you sure as hell don’t choose me.

“Just leave” will be the advice of many. When is a good time to break up your family and the hearts of your young children that truly don’t know anything is wrong? Because a birthday will be happening soon. Then money is going to be tight until XYZ. Then things will get better before an anniversary. Then there’s such-and-such event. Then Thanksgiving. Then Christmas. Then the New Year where everyone turns over a new leaf and does better for a time.

But it always happens again. And then you’re 10 years in.

Do I continue to live under this dark cloud of brooding resentment as we walk into church on Sunday with our plastic smiles and hidden dirt? As we hold our children’s hands. As you stand in the sanctuary in silence and listen but do not try to hear.

Do I break their little hearts now by leaving you and turning their perfect sheltered world upside down and inside out and worry about what I’ve done? If they resent me, do I explain that I had to be the bad guy? Or do I allow them to continually live with you and worship you until they one day see who you really are? Will that not break their hearts, too?

Do I continue on with the touch of a man that makes my skin crawl? In bitterness, do I honor my vows and stand next to a man in sickness that won’t choose to get better? A man that will one day come to me with serious health issues because of his own choices. It’s easier and more convenient if I just keep quiet. Isn’t it?

I really want to see you choose help, because you also deserve freedom from your vice. But I’m tired of waiting. I have to remove this silent, heavy blanket. My heart is silenced and closed to you with every twist of the cap. And I hate you for making me choose.