My own living hell
My husband is an alcoholic. Last night he put a revolver to his head and tried to kill himself. Lucky for me and him, the gun didn’t go off because it hadn’t been used for a long time and the safety lock was rusty. He broke almost all the dishes in the house and then walked on them bare feet.
I just stood there, helpless and frightened. I watched him cry himself to sleep and then I cleaned up all the mess. He needs help and that too, urgently, but he wouldn’t take it. I cannot force him to go into a rehabilitation facility if he doesn’t want to. The willingness has to be from his side and then and only then can the treatment ever work.
He knows alcohol has destroyed his life. All his family has given up on him. I am also quite close to doing so. Still, a tiny voice inside me urges to hang in there and keep the faith. I believe in miracles and am waiting for one to happen to me, too.
Addiction to alcohol always starts early and innocently. He and his elder brother took up drinking at an early age, probably 18 or so. They would drink with friends and have a good time. The addiction began to kick in when he gave up on friends and started drinking alone. That is the worst thing you can do to yourself. Sitting there, fixing one drink after another, can lead you to depression and anxiety beyond control. It can also drive you to commit acts of violence and insanity which you would never even imagine doing in normal, sober life.
I love him and so I continue to burn in this agony of my husband’s self-inflicted hell. I know there is help out there for such people, but first of all there has to be hope inside his heart that he can get better. Without this conviction, there is really no hope.
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