This is an anonymized experience record that has undergone risk screening and language refinement; it does not retain the original author's identity, location, or identifiable details.
The Hardest Part Is Not Knowing When It Will Happen Next
I've been with him for ten years. In the early years, his drinking was just occasional social drinking—he'd come home drunk and pass out. Though I complained, I thought it was just a man's social necessity, something to endure. Later, the frequency increased from twice a week to almost daily. He started drinking at dinners, at construction sites, at roadside stalls. When I asked why, he said, "The stress is too much; drinking makes me feel better." But I didn't feel better. Every day I wondered: What time will he come home tonight? Will he be sober or drunk? Will he get into another fight?
Once, he still hadn't returned by midnight, and I called over a dozen times with no answer. I rode my electric scooter searching street by street until I found him slumped in an alley, broken bottles beside him. When he saw me, he mumbled, "I'm fine, I'm fine," but couldn't even stand. It took all my strength to get him onto the scooter. On the way home, he kept cursing, saying I looked down on him. I didn't speak, just cried silently. It wasn't anger I felt—it was exhaustion, the kind where you don't know when this life will end.
I've Been to the Emergency Room Too Many Times
What scared me most wasn't his drunkenness but the accidents afterward. Once, he got into a fight, and the other person called the police. When officers arrived, he was still rambling incoherently and was taken to the station. I rushed over after the call and saw his face bruised, clothes torn. The officer said he'd been banging his head against the wall in agitation. My legs gave out from fear, and I begged them to send him to the hospital. In the ER, after checking his vitals, the doctor said he was stable for now but needed observation. I sat in the emergency room chair all night, watching him snore in sleep, but my heart never settled.
The doctor said drowsiness and snoring in drunk patients could indicate intracranial bleeding, but intoxication alone also causes unconsciousness. They couldn't be sure—only observation would tell. I later learned many people deteriorate during such "observation." After that, whenever I heard he was drunk, my first reaction wasn't anger but terror. I feared he'd fall, fight, bang his head, or never wake up. This dread tormented me more than any argument.
I Learned to Stop Cleaning Up His Messes
I used to scramble to cover for him. If he argued while drunk, I apologized; if he vomited everywhere, I cleaned it up; if drinking made him miss work, I made excuses for him. I thought this would minimize trouble and help him recover. Instead, he grew more dependent—on alcohol and on me. He often said, "I feel safe with you around," but those words weighed on me like a mountain.
The turning point came when he fought again, and the police were called. I was working overtime when the call came, and suddenly, I didn't want to go. I told the officer, "He's an adult. Handle it as you see fit; I can't manage this anymore." After hanging up, I cried for hours. It wasn't cruelty—I was just spent. He was detained for days and later yelled at me for abandoning him. I said, "It's not that I won't help—I can't. Quitting drinking is your choice. I won't carry this for you anymore." Slowly, he began to change. Progress was slow, but at least he admitted there was a problem.
Support Isn't Sacrifice—It's Finding Boundaries
Many friends urged me to divorce, saying, "Why keep such a man?" I'd considered it, but ten years isn't severed by words. I stayed but stopped being the endlessly accommodating partner. I set rules: No arguing when he's drunk; no picking him up—let him find his way home; only discuss issues when he's sober. If he showed danger signs like head-banging or unconsciousness, I'd call an ambulance but wouldn't handle it myself. This wasn't coldness—it was self-preservation.
I also started tending to my emotions. I used to see myself as a victim, but that mindset only drained me. I confided in trusted friends and researched alcohol dependence. Gradually, I understood it's a condition needing professional help, not just love and patience. He needed medical support; my role was to walk beside him, not for him.
Others' Stories Showed Me I Wasn't Alone
Once, I read about a drunk man who died after banging his head in police custody. Commenters called him "trash" and "a burden to society." But I saw another story—what about his family? His wife? Had she, like me, spent countless nights in fear? Tried pulling him back, only to be pushed away by alcohol? I couldn't pity the drunk man, but I understood his family. With alcohol, there are no winners. Those who joked about "liquor tycoons counting cash" likely never waited in an ER at 3 a.m.
I write this not for sympathy or to advise divorce or forgiveness. I just want others in my shoes to know: You're not alone. Your exhaustion, fear, and anger are real. But save some strength for yourself. Support matters, but it isn't sacrifice. If you're in this situation, draw a line—even a small one, like "I won't fetch him tonight" or "I'll have coffee with a friend tomorrow."
The road is long, but we don't have to be dragged by alcohol.
Those who support must first care for themselves. Setting boundaries isn't surrender—it's facing reality with clarity.