The monster at the door...

For the last few years I have struggled with the idea of loving my husband but hating the addict. It is a very complicated idea. It's often impossible for me to seperate the two. Especially lately, when the man I married is getting harder and harder to remember. It's difficult to support and love the person who is causing so much hurt and destruction to your world.

One night, I came home and he was obviously out of it. I yelled, I raged, I may have thrown the remote control, and finally I cried my eyes out in the bathtub. It was that night that an analogy came into my mind. I dried off and came to my computer and wrote it.

It has helped me in immeasurable ways. I read it often. It feels as though it is the raw pit of my struggle. It is everything I feel rolled into a few small paragraphs. I want to share it with anyone who happens upon this site. Perhaps you can relate to my feelings. Perhaps it will validate your sorrows and your anger. Perhaps it will help you put the addiction in a seperate place than the addict. I have often begged my husband to not open the door, and I think it's put his actions into a different perspective for him as well.

The doorbell rings and her head raises. She knows instantly, and turns to him. His head is hanging and he is struggling. He knows as well. Quietly, she starts to talk to him. She whispers words of encouragement as she watches his internal struggle. She questions him about the fight inside. He says nothing. She is running out of words. The doorbell rings again and he begins to rise. In desperation, her voice raises as well. She begs him not to do it. She tries to think of words that will stop him. He begins to walk down the stairs and in a final effort she yells hateful words and threats. Meant to shock him into stopping, meant to hit him where it will hurt him the most. To make him turn around and come back. The words don’t change anything.

He unlocks the door. He turns the bolts, the keys and the chains one by one. All put into place carefully by her. Each lock thought about and used in the best way she knows how. He is scared and he is angry. He begins to cry. As he releases the last lock the door opens. It comes in quickly. It instantly begins to beat him. He fights it, but it is stronger than he will ever be. It strikes him and kicks him until he is on the floor, bleeding and still. It will destroy him first, it will hurt him the worst, but it will not kill him today.

It begins to climb the stairs to find her. She is cowering in an upstairs room. She has gathered her children around her in an effort to protect them against what is to come. Their large eyes look to her as they clutch their blankets. She whispers words of encouragement and prays that the damage that is done today will not cause permanent harm to them. She prays and then she is quiet. She braces against the attack. The children are crying and while it is happening she struggles to hold them to her. To protect them somehow. She endures it silently. She no longer yells or pleads. It won’t help. She knows it too well. She doesn’t shout questions or seek answers from it. She knows why it’s here. She knows its reasoning. She knows its name.