My strength showed up the day I stopped running from pain and faced it.
I need help! I can’t quit on my own! I screamed the words in my head as I looked into my wife’s sad eyes. But I couldn’t make my lips say them out loud.
I was too afraid to tell the truth. I was too afraid of being held accountable. And I was too afraid of a life without alcohol.
She’d just told me that, while she wasn’t ready to leave yet, she wasn’t going to stay married to a drunk. I had a choice to make. At that moment, I didn’t know if I’d choose booze over the woman who loved me. I couldn’t imagine ever being able to put down the bottle.
That’s the insanity of addiction: wanting two opposite things at the same time. I loved my wife and kids but was also convinced I loved alcohol. That tug-of-war has ruined too many lives.
So I sat there, mute, filled with shame and helplessness. How the hell did I get here? How’d I become such a willing slave to such a cruel master? Putting down the bottle seemed impossible.
This was my second marriage. My first, to Cindy, ended when she took her own life in 2010. Her suicide was devastating, but it was only the final chapter in a tortured story. The last five years of her and our lives were a nightmare of homeless shelters, locked psychiatric wards, electroshock therapy, rehab, violence, and near bankruptcy.
I watched mental illness slowly strangle the life out of the mother of our young daughters. I had to tell them their mama was dead and was in heaven. When I did, my five-year-old looked at me for a few moments and said, “When is she coming back?”
“Moving On”
As I was driving away from the cemetery after Cindy’s funeral, I remember thinking, thank God that’s over. It’s time to close that chapter and build a new life. I’d gotten the three of us through the worst experience of our lives unscathed. I thought it was that simple.
I thought I understood grief and, after minimal consideration, decided it wasn’t for me. Grief was something weak people had to deal with. While they cry on the couch, the world keeps turning. Things need to get done. And it’s up to the strong people like me to get them done. We don’t have time for grief.
So that’s what I did. I remarried, moved into a new house in a new town, and found a new job. I was a winner and I did what winners do. I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and created even more success.
Except I kept drinking. I drank every single day. I went out for beers at lunch by myself. I stopped on the way home from work. When I walked in the door, the first thing I did was pour myself a stiff whiskey and coke. What started as occasional weekend binge drinking slowly crept into lunches, breaks, and every gap in between. And like most addicts, I jumped through many maladaptive hoops to hide how bad things had gotten.
As my life unraveled, it became harder and harder to deny I had a problem. But our human ability to rationalize and lie to ourselves is almost limitless. I told myself all the lies: I work out hard every morning, so I’m not a drunk. I eat really healthy, so I’m not a drunk. I’m a loving husband, so I’m not a drunk. I’m a great dad, so I’m not a drunk.
I held on to that last one with a death grip. I’d raised and cared for them through their mother’s mental health issues and suicide. I was super involved with my kids. They were the center of my world. How much of a drunk could I be when I was such a great dad?
The Reckoning
I woke up hungover, but looking forward to August 30, 2014. My wife was taking my older daughter out of town for the day. I had a daddy/daughter date planned with my youngest daughter. I don’t remember what we had planned.
It doesn’t matter because, whatever the plans were, we didn’t do them. Instead, I took her to the pub around the corner the moment it opened. She got some fries and I downed three pints. I spent the rest of the day sitting on the couch getting wasted while she played by herself.
My wife was understandably furious when she came home. She saw I was drunk yet again. My youngest daughter walked up to her and told her how disappointed she was with our day. A message that my wife relayed to me in no uncertain terms.
And that was it. Rock bottom. The last lie I’d been clinging to had just been shattered. I was a great dad? Great dads don’t get drunk and disappoint their kids like I just did. I went downstairs, more full of shame than I’d ever been, and passed out on the couch.
I woke up at 2 a.m. and sat up. The room was pitch black and still. My head was pounding but my mind felt clear for the first time in years. It’s hard to put into words, but I knew I was done with alcohol.
I went upstairs and woke up Tanja. I said, “This is going to sound crazy, and you have no reason to believe this, but I think I’m done drinking.” She looked at me and said, “I fucking hope so,” turned over and went back to sleep.
That was five thousand five hundred thirteen days ago. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since. And thankfully, I have never once been tempted.
Grief
It started about six months after I stopped drinking. My life had been getting better in every way. My marriage was better. I was a better dad. My work was going great, and I was enjoying it. I was happier than I could remember being in a long time.
I started missing Cindy more. I spent more time reflecting on everything that had happened to her and to us. I felt intense sadness for all her pain and for what might have been. It hurt in a way I hadn’t felt before.
I started visiting her grave more often. I had never been a writer, but I started blogging about what we’d been through. I started feeling unfamiliar and uncomfortable emotions. They’d show up out of nowhere and grab me by the throat. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I was worried I was losing my mind.
One Sunday, I was sitting in front of my computer, writing a blog article about Cindy, when my wife came up behind me. I turned to her and said, “Do you think I’m going crazy? I’m spending all this time writing and talking about my dead wife. Why am I doing and feeling all this now?”
She looked at me with the stern curiosity only a German can muster and said, “Of course you’re not crazy. You’re grieving, dummy.”
And there it was. As soon as she said the words, I knew she was right. Here I was, five years after Cindy’s death, finally grieving. Alcohol hadn’t just numbed the pain. It had postponed it. I thought I’d “moved on,” but really, I’d pressed pause on grief and drowned out the noise. Sobriety took my finger off the button, and grief came rushing in.
Over the years, allowing myself to grieve was profoundly healing. I stopped being a victim who would tell anyone and everyone about the hard times I’d been through. I became able to acknowledge the tragedy of a life lost, while also embracing the gifts the experience had given me. I helped people in ways I might not have ever been able to without having lived through this.
Cindy’s mental illness and suicide were a crucible that ultimately forced me to grow. But before I could see that, I had to face the pain I’d spent years avoiding.
The Lightbulb
In the five years after Cindy’s death, I poured thousands of drinks down my throat. I embarrassed myself many times. I lied to the people I love to protect my addiction. I hated myself for not being able to quit.
Through all that drama, it never occurred to me, not a single time, that my drinking and Cindy’s suicide were related. Why would I be drinking to avoid pain? I wasn’t in pain because I’d “moved on” long before.
Of course I was in pain. I’d tried to save my wife and I couldn’t. I did and said things I was ashamed of, out of fear and anger. I watched an invisible enemy destroy her for five years. I sat helplessly while our hopes and dreams went up in smoke. I had been deeply hurt and I needed to heal. Even though I was the strong one.
In the end, it’s always about the pain, isn’t it? We’ll do anything to avoid facing what feels intolerable. Even though we know it doesn’t work and only makes things worse. The brief moment of relief from wanting to crawl out of your own skin is all that matters. Consequences be damned.
But if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: facing the pain won’t kill you. It will free you. It’s the only way back to yourself, your family, and your life.
For years I thought I was strong because I could outrun pain. My strength showed up the day I stopped running and faced it.
How about you?
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