By Her View From Home 
Why cry? As the wife of a middle-stage alcoholic, I’m often asked this question. On the outside, I probably look like the wicked witch. The one who is always complaining about “something stupid” or evoking misery in those around me simply because “misery loves company.”
The truth is that witnessing the emotions of a woman dealing with her husband’s addiction is much like seeing an iceberg: What is visible on the surface pales in comparison to what lies beneath.
It may look like I cry or blow up over trivial inconveniences or minor disappointments but I can assure you that for me and many other wives of alcoholics, there’s something deeper that drives our sadness. You see, I’m not crying because he didn’t do the dishes. I’m crying because he isn’t the person he used to be because that person would have done the dishes.
I’m crying because yesterday he said “those days are behind us” and he has a one-liter Pepsi bottle full of liquor hidden in his closet, so I don’t know how he can look directly into my eyes and say that without hesitation. I’m crying more because he believes himself, and I also want to believe him, but I don’t have it in me to pretend anymore.
I’m not crying because he went back to bed this morning. It was only 6:23 a.m. when I woke him up with the loud bang of my voice, the kind of bang only a woman dealing with an alcoholic for almost a decade can produce. I’m crying because “going to lie down” is symbolic of how he lives his life now. Sleeping through family functions, game night with the kids, homework, the show we promised we’d watch together. He’s not just going back to sleep; he’s going back to a dark place where I know I’m not welcome. There’s a difference.
I’m not crying over the full litter box begging for attention. I’m crying because it’s yet another thing I have to add to my list, because how can someone who can’t remember what they said they’d do yesterday remember to do it today? My tears are multiplying not because I hate cleaning a litter box, but because I know confronting him with my frustrations is ultimately pointless when he can’t remember what he committed to less than 24 hours ago.
I’m not crying because half of the backyard fence still isn’t stained after two years. I don’t much care what the fence looks like. I’m crying because it was something I thought we’d do together, and now we aren’t doing it at all because I’m almost always last on his list. It’s much easier for him to hurt the person who loves him unconditionally, and that person is me. His job might fire him. His family might stop speaking to him. But me? I’m the soft place to land, and he takes advantage of it.
I’m not crying because he decided not to come to the grocery store. I can make a list and follow it like a big girl. I’m crying because when other people see us grocery shopping together, they assume we’re a happy couple just whisking through the aisles. In some form of emotional osmosis, we become that couple, even if it’s just for 38 minutes while we grab our essentials. I’m crying because I want my 38 minutes of suspended reality with him, the one where my biggest concern is brown spots on avocados and the price of cottage cheese, and I won’t get it if he decides not to come to the grocery store.
I’m not crying because he went to work. I’m crying because he doesn’t understand that every time he leaves for work, I pick up my house in case the police have to come in and tell me he hit a pole. (Who wants to hear horrible news in a messy house?) I mop my floors and clean the fridge in case he dies that day and my family brings over a barrage of sympathy food. To me, he isn’t just “going to work.” He’s taking a risk by getting behind the wheel of a car, a risk where the odds aren’t always in his favor.
I’m not crying because he went on a trip for work, hundreds of miles away. I’m crying because he doesn’t realize he’s always hundreds of miles away. When he’s up in his bed, when he’s next to me on the couch, when he mechanically holds my hand . . . he may as well be across the world. I’m crying because when he’s here, he’s not really here, and it’s easier to cry and yell and scream about him being far away when he’s physically far away.
I’m not crying because of the dog hair on the steps, the towels left in the washer for three days that smell musty, or the tall grass that crowds the yard.
So, why am I crying? What’s the real reason? I’m crying because it hurts to grieve someone who still walks the earth and to say goodbye to the life I thought we’d have. Not because of a dish or a trip or a nap—I’m crying because of the loneliness that plagues me daily.
by Dana Brady 
by Carissa Garabedian 
