There are two versions of him that reside in my memories—one I adored with all my heart and the other I barely survived.
This is the part people often misunderstand when they ask, “Why didn’t you just leave?” Because when he was sober, he loved me with an intensity that surpassed anything I had ever experienced.
I met him when he was freshly released from prison—he was broken in some areas but healed in others, and he was determined to rebuild his life from scratch. His sobriety wasn’t just a state of being; it radiated a glow, clarity, gentleness, and purpose around him.
He loved me with an unwavering passion, gratitude, and a profound devotion that made me feel like the missing piece in a life he was desperately trying to mend. He looked at me as a source of safety, a sense of belonging, and as if love had rescued him.
In return, he made me feel cherished, chosen, and adored. He noticed aspects of me that no one else had ever bothered to acknowledge. When he held me, it felt as though the world had finally fallen silent.
Those early years were filled with boundless possibilities. We dreamed grandly, laughed heartily, and made promises that seemed unbreakable.
Perhaps that’s why the pain of his departure was so profound.
Addiction rarely manifests with a sudden and forceful presence. Instead, it creeps in gradually.
A subtle change in his eyes, a minor lie that was too insignificant to dispute, a late-night explanation dismissed with a comforting “don’t worry, baby.”
Initially, it felt like I was losing him inch by inch—one small, unrecognizable piece at a time. I clung desperately to the man I knew—the one who kissed me as if he would never find love like ours again. The one who, when sober, protected my heart with a fierce intensity that instilled in me the belief that we could overcome any obstacle.
However, when the addiction resurfaced, it stole him from me long before I even acknowledged its presence.
People often describe addiction as a monstrous entity, but it doesn’t appear with claws. Instead, it disguises itself as the person you love.
I tried to help him, to support him. But support gradually transformed into enabling, and enabling led me into places I had sworn I would never venture.
Before I realized it, I wasn’t just losing him; I was losing myself.
The girl he loved, the one he had held so carefully in his sober hands, was consumed by the chaos we had created together.
Nine years of our relationship had been filled with highs that felt borrowed and lows that seemed endless. For three years, I had tried to revive the version of him who had once saved me. But three years later, I had watched as the man who had once protected me became the man who had unintentionally destroyed me.
Throughout it all, I kept telling myself, “If he can just get sober again… if he can just come back to me…”
But addiction doesn’t give back the people it steals.
The day he boarded that plane didn’t bring me hope; it felt like grief, like burying someone who was still breathing.
The truth is, I wasn’t leaving the man who hurt me. I was leaving the man who loved me better than anyone ever had—the version of him I still saw in quiet moments, in memories, and in the cracks between chaos.
I left because I had to. Staying was killing both of us. The love that once lifted me up had turned into an anchor dragging me to the bottom.
When the divorce papers were signed, there was no happiness, no victory. There was only silence and a strange, aching freedom.
Healing has been slow. Some days, I miss the man he was. Some days, I miss the woman I was when he was sober.
But day by day, I am learning that walking away wasn’t betrayal. It was self-preservation. It was choosing a future over a fantasy. It was accepting that I can love him and still let him go.
Because someone out there is loving two versions of the same person—the sober soul who loves deeply and the addicted shadow who destroys everything in its path.
And they’re blaming themselves for not knowing which one to hold onto.
If that’s you, listen closely:
You are not weak for staying. You are not selfish for leaving. And you are not responsible for saving someone who can only be saved by themselves.
