Loving an Addict: The Monster in Our Home

Posted: April 8, 2015 in Addiction, Domestic violence, Marriage, Love, Dating, and, yes, Sex!
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The story of my life with, and love of, a man who life was consumed with an alcohol addiction is a long and complex one. It can’t simply be told in one story. It is a hard story for me to tell, as the scars of this relationship have yet to heal and I am not sure they ever will. Our story began in a previous post Loving an Addict: In the Beginning and will span over many posts in a Loving an Addict series. Not all of these stories are pretty, as addiction never is. But if one person reads them and realizes they are not alone, and that there is a way out, then all the hurt that is recalled in these stories have been worth it. 

When Jay returned home, shortly after that first night, he came to meet my son at my moms house where we were living. I’ll never forget the feeling that swept over me as I watched him approach my toddler who was trotting out of the hallway from his room with a baby bottle caught between his teeth, a huge grin across his face. 

“Hey little buddy.” Jay said as he reached out his arms and my son willingly climbed into them. Little buddy. He would call him that for years to come, and still does on the rare occasion that they talk. 

From that day on we slowly became a family and it seemed that finally the stars were aligning. Jay and I were together again, he wanted to be with me and be a father to my son. We were going to be a family. 

Things started out okay. We got our own place, a small, 2 bedroom basement apartment, and we were going through the motions of a normal, functional family. We cooked together, Jay spent time with Big K, taking him for walks in the yard and playing with him, we visited family and friends, Big K becoming a welcomed addition to Jay’s family, his parents quickly becoming grandparents. Everyone doted on my son. He was cheerful, loveable, and simply adorable. Jay, Big K, and I were falling comfortably into a routine. 

During those early days Jay’s drinking was under control for the most part. He did drink too much from time to time, usually when he was with his friends, but he would always come home to us at the end of the night, crawl into bed next to me, and wake with a hangover the next day. Many years later I would miss those hangover days where him and I would cuddle together with Big K and eat junk food and spend the entire day relaxing. But it wasn’t just those lazy days together that made me miss the hangovers. What I missed the most was these hangovers kept him sober for at least a couple of days. 

We had been in our own place for a few months when things began to change. Jay began drinking more often and hiding it from me with lies. So many lies. I didn’t drive at the time and  Jay was my means of transportation. Our apartment was a fair distance away from town and too long of a walk in the hot summer months. Big K and I began spending day after day at home alone in that little apartment while Jay was running off and drinking with his friends. After 3-4 days he would wander home, smelly and sick, having not showered the entire time he was gone, and barely eaten. Most times he would tell me where he had been, other times he wouldn’t. The worst was not knowing, spending days at home having no idea where he was, what he was doing, who he was with, or more important, if he was okay. It was during this particular period in our lives, in that very same apartment, when violence was born from Jay’s addition. 

It was a hot July day and there was a festival happening in town. Jay and I had planned to take Big K to the kids day activities during the day and then go to the outdoor dance together that night. Jay bailed on Big K and I at the last minute to go drink with some of his buddies. Big K and I got ready to go anyways, and a mutual male friend of ours tagged along too. I spent the day at the festival with my son and got a pretty sizeable sunburn on my chest, and cleavage. That evening Jay arrived home, already pretty intoxicated but wanting to go to the dance together that night and I agreed. I didn’t get upset because he had let us down that day. I never got upset with him. I was just thankful for the time he did spend with us. 

That night we went to the dance as planned, both drinking, and walked home together at around 2 am. I dressed in a satin shorts and tank top sleep set and climbed into bed, moving inside for Jay to sleep outside, while he was in the bathroom. I was settled comfortably in bed when he came back into the room…

And hell broke loose. 

Suddenly he began yelling at me, furious that our friend had hung out with me that day, that I had worn a tank top (despite the more than 30 degrees of heat). Apparently I had been flaunting my breasts in the top for our friend, and every man at the festival to see. In one swift movement he was gripping my hair in his hand and pulling me from the bed, then ripped the straps off of my top, before throwing me to the floor, where I landed against the wall, shocked and terrified, and knocked senseless when, seconds later, he was once again gripping my hair as he pounded my head into the wall, going through the drywall. He screamed at me as I lay there, crumpled like a paper doll, dazed and shaking, the tears falling without my even realizing. The sound of our landlord pounding on the door ended the screaming. Jay told him everything was fine, and then, without a word he ran, out of the room and out of the apartment. 

Head throbbing and the tears coming in broken sobs and heart wrenching cries, I climbed back into bed, praying for the first time that he wouldn’t return. But he did, an hour or so later, but he didn’t come back into the bedroom. He spent the night on the sofa and the next morning nothing was said as we prepared to go to his parents home for dinner. The entire day was silent for both of us. Later that night, when all 3 of us were at home and Big K was settled into bed for the night, I lay on the sofa watching television. After a few minutes Jay lay on the floor in front of me, fixated on the tv at first, but eventually reaching up for my hand as he broke down into tears, apologizing again and again. My heart, the very one that he had broken just hours before, ached for him. 

I forgave him. I always forgave him. Years would be pass and although the abuse and violence was not a regular part of our lives, it did surface several more times. Always when he was drunk, usually after drinking the harder booze, and always in a jealous rage. Alcohol and his addiction to it had already become, in those early days, the monster in our home. 

  1. jossduncan says:

    Very interesting to read!
    I would really appreciate it if you could take the time to look at my blog and comment on any thoughts or feelings you may have on various issues regarding domestic violence. It is part of my University degree so I would really appreciate the support, thanks!
    This is the link to my blog, thanks again! https://menwomenandviolence.wordpress.com


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