It was a Sunday night in July. Summer in New England. Quiet. Ordinary.
And then. everything changed. I answered the phone expecting bad news. What I got was worse than I imagined. “You need to come,” his sister said. “He’s ready to talk.” By the time I pulled up to her house, I knew that the life I had woken up to that morning was over. I stepped into her living room and saw a broken man. The same man I’d loved, lived with, and laughed with. The man I thought I would build a life with. He was expressionless. Ashen. Hollowed out.
Heroin. That word wasn’t spoken, not right away. But it didn’t have to be. I finally saw it in his eyes. In the shame. In the way his sponsor hugged me on the front lawn and said, “You can leave. Just… not tonight.”
This isn’t a story about him. It’s not about addiction in theory, or recovery as a bullet-point plan. It’s about what it does to a marriage. To a woman. To a heart that loves deeply and keeps hoping too long. Because not enough people talk about what it’s like to love someone in addiction... not from the inside. Not from the partner’s perspective. And certainly not from someone who’s still learning how to love herself after the wreckage.
When Love Felt Easy, Until It Didn’t
We didn’t have a big love story. It started slow. Casual. Familiar.
We were part of the same friend group. I had just moved home after years away. He was a friend of my cousin’s. Someone who always showed up at the cookouts, and the neighborhood bar. He made people laugh. He was kind. He felt safe.
We started spending more time together. Just us. It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t fast. But it felt easy. And after all I’d been through as a teen, easy felt like a miracle. He started coming around my family. Got along with everyone. We made plans. He showed up for me. I showed up for him.
There were signs, of course. Moments where he drank too much. Times when things didn’t add up. But I believed him when he said he wanted to change. And when his family held an intervention, I stood beside him. He got sober. Went to AA. Did the work. Ninety meetings in ninety days. I watched him build a life that looked stable. I bought a house. He proposed in 2008. I left my job after a corporate layoff. He picked up hours working second shift. We got married in 2009. We got a dog. It wasn’t perfect, but we were figuring it out. Or so I thought.
There was never enough money. He became distant, cold. We lost our physical and emotional connection, but I still believed we could fix it. That love could carry us through. Then he got arrested for stealing from his job. I helped him get an attorney. Found him another job. And tried to hold things together like I always did. But the cracks were getting wider. And in July 2012, they split wide open.
The Moment the Truth Couldn’t Be Hidden
He had been using again. But it wasn’t alcohol this time. His sister and sponsor planned the intervention. They asked me not to come. They were right. If I had been there, he wouldn’t have admitted it. I got the call when it ended.
He had shot heroin in a parking lot before heading over to fix her screen door. That was the plan to get him to the house, “Can you come fix this for me?” That was the moment the truth came out.
I drove him to the hospital. Left briefly to search the house while he was under observation. I filled a sharps container and got rid of what I could find. I stayed up all night. By morning, I had no idea what to do next. I went to my father’s office in a daze. I sat on the edge of panic, waiting for someone to tell me how to save him. No one could.
I picked him up from the hospital and got him to the detox center. We went home just long enough for him to pack a bag and say goodbye to our dog. He would never return to our home.
During his detox week I found a live-in program and prepared. I bought him a shower caddy and a bed-in-a-bag at Walmart. It felt like sending someone off to college. Only it wasn’t a milestone. It was a survival plan. The program he was going to, without his knowledge or input, wasn’t rehab the way people think of rehab. We couldn’t afford that. It was an old Victorian house in a nearby town that housed men in addiction recovery. Shared rooms. Strict curfews. Group therapy. Required work and rent due every week.
The Day I Chose Myself
He seemed to be doing better. I visited a few times. We talked about how he was doing and other things like money. I told him how scared and overwhelmed I felt. He looked me in the eyes and said, “You should just divorce me. I never loved you anyway.”
That was it. That was the moment everything snapped into focus. He went on to describe success as getting a job that paid cash each day. So, he could get high after work. No paper trail. No accountability. Just escape.
After that, more truth surfaced. He had faked break-ins to our home to pawn our belongings. He had stolen thousands from our bank account. He had taken my handbags, my jewelry, our electronics. I moved forward with the divorce process.
He sat next to me in the courthouse on Valentine’s Day 2013. We drove there together. The marriage ended with just about as much fanfare as our relationship began. Just him and I. He vanished after the divorce. I saw him only once since, shortly after another relapse. I believe he’s still alive, I hope he is. I hope he's happy and healthy.
How I Started Becoming Me Again
There was no grand moment of clarity. No breakthrough. No fresh start. There was just the silence of my house. The ache of what was gone. The shock of losing a life that I had planned and protected.
The healing came in waves. At first, I focused on my physical health. It gave me a sense of control. I lost weight. I started dating again. I made progress at work. I smiled in pictures. But it would be years before I did the deeper work. I had to relearn how to trust my gut. How to stop confusing chaos with love. How to stop mothering men to feel safe. How to stop blaming myself for the ways I had been betrayed.
When he said, “I never loved you anyway,” I believed him for a long time. I thought it meant I was unlovable. Another failed relationship. Another reminder that I wasn’t enough. Now I see it differently. That sentence was a gift. He gave me permission to let go. And buried deep beneath the manipulation was the same man I met all those years ago; the one who, even briefly, wanted better for me.
In the Shadows of Addiction
For a long time, I carried a tremendous amount of guilt and shame believing that I should’ve known better. That I missed the signs. That I somehow allowed all of it to happen. But the truth is, what I experienced isn’t rare. It’s just not talked about. At least not openly. Addiction still lives in the shadows – in silence, in shame, in whispered what-if’s. And if you’ve loved someone in active addiction, especially a spouse, you’ve probably been made to feel like it’s your fault. Like you should’ve saved them. Or left sooner. Or stayed longer.
Research shows that spouses of people suffering from addiction often experience emotional turmoil, social isolation, and long-term distress, especially when the it is hidden, minimized, and surrounded by stigma. One spouse described it as “being stuck on an unsafe and unpredictable rollercoaster,” a feeling many of us know all too well.
Financial chaos is common too. Many of us are left cleaning up messes we didn’t make – drained bank accounts, stolen property, debt we didn’t sign up for. That’s not drama. That’s documented in research showing that economic strain is one of the most damaging and destabilizing consequences for women married to men in active addiction.
Even when someone gets clean, the road ahead isn’t simple. Heroin and opioid relapse rates are as high as 40–60% in the first year after treatment. That means if you’ve felt stuck in a cycle of hope and heartbreak, you’re not overreacting. The fear is real. The patterns are real.
And still… we stay. We hope. We fight for a version of the person we remember. That doesn’t make us foolish. It makes us human. But shame keeps too many of us silent. We tell no one. We manage the mayhem in private. We minimize the damage and carry it alone. If this is your story, any part of it, you need to know: you are not the exception. You are not weak. You are not failing. You are responding to an impossible situation in the most human way you know how.
If You’re Loving Someone in Addiction, Read This
I wish someone had the courage to say these things to me back then. Truth is, I didn’t know any other women going through something like this. And if they were, they were just like me, carrying the guilt and shame in silence. The kind of silence that makes your stomach knot.
Maybe hearing a few simple truths would have saved me years of second guessing and self-blame. I think about that a lot. Looking back now, I can see so clearly what I couldn’t see then. So today, I’m going to do what no one could do for me. If you love someone in addiction, here’s what I want you to know.
Loving them isn't wrong. But love alone doesn’t fix addiction. It’s okay to grieve the version of them you miss and still protect yourself.
Their addiction isn’t their fault. Their actions are their responsibility. Separate compassion from consequences. You can support recovery without tolerating destruction.
People treat you based on what you tolerate. You have to love yourself first. Make a list of your non-negotiables. Stick them to your bathroom mirror, keep them in your purse. Just don't compromise. Let love begin with you.
Not making a choice is still a choice. You could love them to death. But only they can get clean. If you’re waiting for certainty, you’ll stay stuck. Choose what protects your peace, even if it’s messy.
Getting clean is only the first step. Healing takes a lot more than abstinence. Watch their actions over time. Recovery is a long road, and you don’t have to walk every mile with them.
If you stay or leave, your entire social world will change. Expect loss. Expect discomfort. But know this: peace doesn’t come from the crowd. It comes from honoring yourself.
Going from chaos to quiet is deeply unsettling. Recognize it. Breathe through it. Learn to sit in the stillness. And when the stillness is overwhelming take action – workout, have a coffee with a friend, scream. Do what ever is necessary to avoid reaching for and inviting chaos back in.
Don’t confuse dependency with love. Real love is steady. It doesn’t ask you to shrink or self-abandon. Let that be your new standard.
I hope you find some comfort in these words and that, even for a moment, you feel seen and understood. More than anything, here is the advice that carried me through.
Tie a Knot
People asked, “How are you?” I wasn’t okay. But I smiled anyway. People said, “It’s going to be okay.” They meant well. But I didn’t believe them. What helped most were the ones who didn’t ask. They just showed up. Sent flowers. Took me out. Gave me space to breathe without having to talk or explain. And when I thought I couldn’t take one more step, I remembered what my father told me, "When you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.“
That’s what I did. Not with grace. Not with ease. But with everything I had left. And slowly, over time, I built a life that feels like mine.
