Tag Archives: Family

Living with an Alcoholic = Lonely

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Living with an alcoholic is incredibly lonely.

Say I had to go grocery shopping.  I couldn’t leave Mike home with the kids because I couldn’t trust that he would be able to care for them. He’d probably pass out and not hear the baby’s cries or remember to change her diapers. He might hide in the bathroom, drinking, for an hour or more, while leaving the TV on something wildly inappropriate for the kids to watch. (Ethan tells stories of how Mike let him watch History Channel documentaries on ghost hunting, Bigfoot, the September 11 attacks – all nightmare-inducing docu-dramas for a 4- or 5-year old.)

But I couldn’t take Mike with me to the store either. He’d just sulk and be pissed off that he couldn’t get a drink. He’d probably yell or throw a fit about something stupid just to cut the errand short. And, he’d probably claim he was sober and insist on driving.

I couldn’t escape. Couldn’t even break free for an hour or two to run errands. I used to look forward to my hour or two alone on the weekends. It was refreshing to me, walking the aisles of Target and the grocery store. Something mindless to take thoughts away from a hectic career and work week. I’d review events of the past week and reflect on what’s coming up. Since the summer of 2010 when I found out what was going on with Mike, my weekend escapes became rare – really, really, really rare. And soon, I came to resent the fact that I couldn’t go anywhere, do anything, because I couldn’t trust him to stay home – or come with me.

But it wasn’t just random weekend errands. Multiply the lonely feeling by 100 when it comes to going to friends’ weddings or planning a family vacation or visiting relatives. I couldn’t go, leaving him alone – but I was pissed that I was confined to my home with him and missing the things I wanted to do with the people I love.

Sidenote: When Lauren was born, Mike and I spent hours discussing godparents. But I kept putting off her baptism. I knew I couldn’t invite friends (and our first choices for her godparents) to come share our day because Mike’s alcoholism was obvious. Finally, I felt like we had to move forward and just get it done, so we named my mom and Mike’s brother as godparents. It would keep things confined to the few people who knew what was going on. Don’t get me wrong, my mom is a fabulous godmother and I think she was genuinely touched that we asked her to play that role in Lauren’s life. Mike’s brother, on the other hand, well, I haven’t talked to him since the funeral…

I also didn’t tell anyone what was going on. Afterall, I was so hopeful that he’d get better. I KNEW he’d get better. That he’d wake up one day and realize that he had the WORLD to live for – a good education, a good job on the horizon, a fantastic wife ((patting myself on the back)), and two wonderfully awesome kids. If I told people – family or friends – I worried that they’d change their opinions of him, maybe think poorly of him. I didn’t want them to think badly of him because DAMMIT! he was going to sober up and be the man I fell in love with in college.

It didn’t happen.

I didn’t tell friends until I had Mike removed from our house by court order in August. I’m sure people realized that I wasn’t around, that I cancelled plans or just didn’t show up. They might have chalked it up to having a new baby or a crazy work schedule. I don’t know. But when I finally told friends, I felt an immediate sense of relief. I’m not a pity person, but having the people I care about know what was happening brought peace to me.

But I was scared to tell college friends. Mike and I met in college and starting dating my senior year. It was a very small school, and everyone knew us as a couple.

I called my friend, M, a few days before homecoming. She had Facebook messaged me, asking if Mike and the kids were coming. There’s no easy way to have that conversation over the phone, so I just launched right into it. “Mike and I are separated and I’m filing for divorce,” I told her. I explained how I learned about his drinking and how he didn’t want to get better. That we tried AA and rehab. That it was starting to get bad for the kids. I cried as I talked to her.

She was incredibly supportive. “I’m on your side,” she told me.

“Don’t be on my side. There are no sides,” I said. “Mike needs friends. He needs to know there are people supporting him, wanting him to get better.”

“I’m still on your side,” she said. I smiled.

I told more friends at homecoming. One friend, who went to college with us but also high school with Mike, asked, “What do you want us to do?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He asked if I wanted him to take a side, to not talk to Mike anymore (not that Mike had talked to any of his friends in years). “NO!” I said. “Mike needs friends. He needs you to be there for him. Call him, email him, Facebook him, go see him at his parents’ house. I just want him to get better and I want him to know there are people who love him and want him to get better, too.”

At Mike’s funeral, several of his friends told me that they tried to reach out to him, but he didn’t respond.

I think alcoholism made Mike lonely, too.

“Poor Thing”

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I closed on our house three days after returning from Fort Wayne for the funeral. It was tough, wrapping up those last-minute details from six hours away, but when I packed our suitcases in the car, I included all my paperwork and documentation. Just in case. And I definitely needed it – the entire mortgage had to be reworked (and approved) following Mike’s death. Something about state law… Dumb community property state.

It was important to me to be able to close on the house as soon as possible. We had been living out of boxes in a temporary corporate apartment for six weeks. We had Christmas in the apartment. Celebrated New Year’s. Ethan started school while we were there. But we needed a home. We needed our “stuff” which had been in storage since we moved out of our house in St. Louis. We needed to be settled.

Since closing on the house eight weeks ago, I haven’t had as much time as I’d like to really get settled – after all, three days after the movers came, I as on a plane to Orlando for a four-day work trip. There are still a few boxes lying around. Things to hang on the wall are still leaning against furniture or are wrapped in layers of tissue paper and thick cardboard boxes. The basement storage area is quickly filling with stuff I don’t know what to do with, and the garage is still a mix-match of things I’m saving for a spring yard sale as well as some things of my mom’s from her storage unit in St. Louis (mostly big, giant furniture that we can’t move to her new storage place).

I haven’t met many people in the neighborhood yet because of my crazy work hours, but I feel like I know them. Or, more accurately, they know me.

A couple of times a week, my mom will tell me about some of the neighbors she’s met:

  – “Her THIRD husband was an alcoholic. She left him because of it, so she totally gets what you’re going through…”

  – “She’s a therapist. Now, she doesn’t work with people who have insurance, but she said if you ever need to talk through your grief, she’d be there for you and the kids.”

  – “His daughter was married to a doctor. They had a little boy who was about four years old when her husband went on a trip to Mexico. She didn’t know that he was an addict. Killed himself, well OD’d actually, in a hotel room in Mexico, can  you imagine?”

I’m sure my mom means well, but really? How do things like this come out of a 10 minute “Welcome to the Neighborhood!” kind of conversation?

They don’t. Unless they’re being offered up as part of the intro.

I’m not sure why she feels the need to air my dirty laundry to all the new neighbors. I’m certainly not hiding the truth from the neighbors, but it isn’t how I thought I’d “meet” the neighbors. I mean, if it came out in conversation over a summer BBQ or while watching the kids ride their bikes up and down the street, I’m okay with that. But, I’m kind of not okay with the new neighbors knowing that I’m a widow, a wife of an alcoholic who was going through a divorce and is now left with two small kids. I’m not okay with them knowing all this before I actually get to meet them.

I can only imagine what they think, and from the looks I’ve gotten from a few of them when I’ve taken out the trash or waved while getting into my car in the morning, I’m thinking it’s something along the lines of, “Oh, you poor thing…”

I’m not a “poor thing.” I don’t want to be a “poor thing.” I appreciate the sympathy, but it’s not what I need or want. Especially from people I don’t know, who don’t know me or my situation or my kids. I’m not sure exactly what my mom has told them or how it was worked into conversation. And, I’m not sure how to get her to stop mentioning it – or even if it makes a difference now. Apparently “third husband was an alcoholic” neighbor is the village gossip, so my story is as good as told around the neighborhood by now.

I guess until I get to meet everyone (maybe when the weather is warmer), I’ll just be the “poor thing” on the block.

Roadtrip

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The last time I drove south on I-94 , I was racing to Fort Wayne, my mom at my side and the kids in the back seat. I just wanted to get there, figure out what was going on, get it over with. I was racing, speeding. I was crying.

I went through an entire box of tissues on the drive.

Yesterday, I was driving south on I-94 to pick up my niece. I promised her years ago that I’d take her on a tour of her top college picks during her junior year. It was time.

Tunes were ready. A cold bottle of water sat in one cup holder. Change for the tolls clanged in the other cup holder. It wasn’t until I was rolling down the road that I realized I probably should have brought a hanky.

It’s just a road – a way to get from Point A to Point B. It’s a road I hope to travel often in the coming months – it’s the way to get to my alma mater, to visit friends in Indy, to get to Chicago.

I didn’t realize it also held that memory of driving to Fort Wayne to plan the funeral. It’s just a road. Except now it’s more than that.

RANDOMNESS: Pointing Fingers and Greater Understanding

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There are times I let my mind to go a bad place in which I want to question people for not seeing what was happening with Mike, and for not stopping it.

Like his parents. I never had a good relationship with them. And neither did Mike. But that’s where he lived for the last five months of his life. (To the end, Mike never let me forget that he hated it there. He blamed me for “making” him stay with his parents. I told him to get a job and then he could live anywhere he wanted. That message was NEVER well-received.)

How could they have missed the signs of liver failure? From what I heard from the coroner’s office, he was pretty yellow.

How could they have overlooked the seriousness of his lack of muscle tone? From their own accounts, Mike was extremely weak in his last week. He couldn’t walk from the bedroom to the bathroom by himself – rooms that were right next to one another in their small house.

How could they have missed the severity of the flu-like symptoms, also self-reported by his parents?

His mom told me that she wanted to take him to the hospital, but that he didn’t want to go. She told me, “As a mom, you know that if you’re child doesn’t want to do something, you can’t force them?”

Excuse me? Isn’t that the JOB of a mom? To act in her child’s best interest, regardless of if they’re 4 years old or 38 years old? If things were that bad, why didn’t she call an ambulance?

I wonder how I will explain someday to Ethan and Lauren that these very obvious signs were grossly overlooked by two capable grown-ups who should have known better and should have taken action.

__________________________

When I start going down the finger-pointing-path, I realize that if I question others, I also have to examine my own actions.

I discovered the severity of Mike’s drinking when I was on maternity leave with Lauren. Until that time, I knew he drank – he always drank. Drinking wasn’t the issue – a beer after work, a martini or two on the weekends. When I look back, I really didn’t know what was happening in my own house.

Was it because I was working so much? I held a senior leadership position and put in very long hours, especially after Mike lost his job in December 2009 and before I was going on maternity leave. If I didn’t work 60+ hours a week, would I have seen the signs?

Why didn’t I question why we were getting so many calls from 800-numbers? I didn’t know until maternity leave that these calls on my caller ID were from creditors, most of whom hadn’t been paid in two, three, four months. Still, I looked at the ID and rarely questioned why . (The cordless phone was almost always dead or hidden from me, so I didn’t retrieve the messages.)

Why didn’t I push harder for why he was spending so much time in the basement? He said he was having trouble sleeping, so he wanted to sleep on the couch down there so he didn’t disturb me. He very rarely came upstairs to bed in the last few years, maybe once every three weeks or so. I asked him about it, but he held onto his sleep story.

I look back at the photos from these last few years – the few there are of him, since he was rarely with us – and the look in his eyes is distant, funny, out-of-it. You can tell by his eyes – the expression, the amount they’re open or closed, the lack of spark – that he’s drunk. Why didn’t I ask more questions?

Mike was very, very good at lying and hiding what was going on. He was also very clear on what he wanted: “I want to drink. I’m going to drink. You can’t tell me what to do.” I heard him say this at least 500 times in the last year of his life.

____________________________

I’ve learned a lot in the past few years: I can’t control others. I can’t change them. People who don’t want to change, aren’t going to change. There isn’t enough guilt, screaming, uber-niceness, threats, overly accommodating, or anger to make someone do something they don’t want to do.

And I’ve also learned to be less judgmental of others. When Ethan acts up because he’s having a rough day missing his dad, and the other moms and kids are looking at us critically, I realize that they don’t know what we’re going through – this little kid has no dad, and sometimes that confusion and anger and frustration are going to come out in inappropriate ways, and I might turn the other way, knowing that he’s having a tough time, and let him get away with behavior that I would normally not tolerate. In turn, I don’t realize what other moms are going through when they’re in similar situations.

Understanding has been one of the best things to come out of this.

Breakdown on the Playground

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Ethan had a major breakdown yesterday.

He was playing outside at Kids Klub, the after care program at school (don’t even get me started about the use of the “K”s and the lack of punctuation), when he lost it. Tears flowed. Fists balled up. And piercing screams came out of his little boy body.

The college-aged counselor supervising the playground had no idea what to do.

Luckily, on Thursdays, the program supervisor is at the school. She was able to pull Ethan aside, hug him, and comfort him.

Apparently, the cemetery set him off. When I first visited the school, I thought it was a little unsettling that the church cemetery butts up against the playground. You can’t miss the gigantic tombstones just off the rock wall or the huge monuments near the swings. The living and the dead play near one another at St. B.

Interestingly, he was crying about his grandpa more than his dad. He told Mrs. B that he was sad about his grandpa. Why did he have to die? Mentioning his dad was almost an afterthought of his grief. Kind of an “oh, yeah, and I’m sad about my daddy, too.”

Last night, after his shower, I held Ethan for a long time. We read parts of a grief book that my mom bought last week. Some parts don’t apply to our situation, but others seemed to resonate with him. Ethan asked why he didn’t have anything of his dad’s to remember him by – unlike the photos and hanky and keepsake box and some other small things that he has that belonged to his grandfather and that Ethan keeps near his bed.

The truth: I don’t really have anything of Mike’s anymore. Mike either took his stuff to his parent’s house (and I haven’t gotten anything back except two broken laptops – even though I asked for a few things specifically) or it’s in storage in St. Louis (which I can’t access until I’m officially named trustee of his “estate”). I started explaining that daddy didn’t live with us when he died, so there really isn’t anything of his around. Then I remembered the shirts.

When Mike came to get his clothes in September, he left behind three button-down shirts. I don’t know if he purposely left them or if he just didn’t notice them in the corner of the closet. But I have these three random shirts – a white dress shirt, a striped Ralph Lauren shirt that he never wore, and a casual shirt from his law school days. “Ethan,” I said, “how would you like one of daddy’s shirts?”

Ethan ran down the hall to my room. He picked the casual shirt and immediately he put it on. “Look how BIG this is!” he said. “It’s down to my ankles.”

He giggled as he struggled with the sleeves which practically drug on the ground. He wore the shirt around last night, during Lauren’s bath time and during story time. Then he took it off and placed it on top of his stuffed animals, next to his pillow. “I want to sleep with it here,” he said. “This is the stuff I cuddle.”

Heart. Broken.