This is a record of experience that has been de-identified, risk-screened, and linguistically organized; the original author's identity, geographic location, or identifiable details are not retained in the text.
The hardest part is not knowing when the next episode will happen
Before we got married, I never imagined that "alcohol" would become the biggest shadow between us. He seemed perfectly normal in daily life—hardworking at his job, gentle with people, and his colleagues all said he was someone who never touched a drop. But only I knew that the man behind closed doors was a different person.
He was only sixteen when he first drank baijiu (Chinese white liquor). He said the taste was so awful it made him want to vomit, but it was after that very first time that he could never forget the feeling. In his younger years, he could still control it, but after turning forty, everything changed. He started drinking secretly—when I wasn't paying attention, or after the kids had gone to sleep. At first it was just a little before bed, but later it became a need to top up every three to five hours. At his worst, he could drink about two jin (roughly one kilogram) a day.
I asked him why he couldn't just not drink. He said it wasn't that he wanted to drink—it was his body calling for it. When he stopped drinking, he experienced severe withdrawal symptoms. He said he felt like he might collapse at any moment. Watching him tremble, sweat, and lie awake all night, I felt both terrified and anxious. What scared me most wasn't him getting drunk, but not knowing when the next episode would begin.
Every time I thought he was better, we ended up back at square one
Over the past few years, he has gone to the hospital for alcohol detoxification at least once a year. The doctors and nurses in the psychiatric department almost all know him by now. Every time he comes home from the hospital, he does improve for a while. With the help of medication, the withdrawal symptoms can be managed smoothly. He himself has said that physical dependence is actually not that hard to resolve.
The hard part is the psychological craving. He said that after being discharged, every single day is about enduring. He endures for three to five months, sometimes seven to eight months, but the moment he lets his guard down even slightly and takes even one sip of alcohol, everything is wasted. He immediately reverts to drinking at least one and a half jin of high-proof liquor a day, and then drinks himself right back into the hospital.
Watching him go through this cycle over and over, I went from initial encouragement and support to gradually becoming numb. Every time he comes home from the hospital, I silently count the days in my heart, hoping this time will last longer. But every time that hope is dashed, I don't know how to face it. It's not that I don't care—it's that I'm just too exhausted.
When he drinks, I feel like an invisible person
When he enters a state of heavy drinking, he always drinks alone. He hates being disturbed by anyone, including me and the kids. He locks himself in his room, and once he's had enough, he lies drowsily in bed scrolling through his phone or listening to music. Every few hours, he tops up again. In that state, although he has never caused any trouble, he seems like a person whose soul has been drained away.
I've tried talking to him, tried persuading him, tried hiding the alcohol, and even tried getting angry and arguing. But none of it worked. He says he always remains rational when he drinks and never causes trouble after drinking. But to me, this kind of "rational alcoholism" is even more despairing—he isn't out of control; he is consciously choosing to sink.
What frightens me most is that he barely drinks at social occasions. His colleagues even think he's someone who never touches alcohol. But every time he takes just a small sip at a social gathering, he comes home and drinks desperately until he ends up hospitalized again. I gradually came to understand that his drinking has nothing to do with people outside, and nothing to do with me either. It's a tug-of-war between him and alcohol. And all I can do is stand by and watch.
I finally learned to take care of myself first
For a long time, I thought that as long as I worked hard enough and was patient enough, I could help him quit. I looked up a lot of information and even considered quitting drinking alongside him. But later I realized that I cannot change him. It's not that he's unwilling—it's that alcohol dependence truly cannot be resolved through willpower alone. He himself has said that psychological craving is the biggest enemy.
Later, I began to learn to set boundaries for myself. When he drinks, I no longer knock on his door again and again. When he is hospitalized, I go to work as usual and take care of the kids as usual. It's not that I love him any less—it's that I came to understand one thing: if I collapse first, there will be no one left to hold this family together.
I still accompany him to follow-up appointments, and I still nod and say "okay" when he says "this time I will definitely quit." But I no longer pin all my hopes on "this time." I have learned to protect myself while still loving him. This is not giving up—it's finding another way to continue.
If you are going through a similar situation, you might want to look at ways for family members to provide support—it may help you find some direction.
Companionship is not about rescuing someone, but about learning to hold your own boundaries while loving.