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“Boundaries are the distance at which I can love you and myself at the same time.” ~Prentis Hemphill
I thought I had seen the worst of it. I thought I knew what it meant to watch someone you love disappear into addiction. My mother taught me that lesson long before I was old enough to truly understand it.
Growing up, I saw her sink deep into heroin. I learned to read the signs before she even spoke. I knew when she was high. I knew when she was lying. I knew when she was gone, even when she was sitting right in front of me. And there was nothing I could do to stop it. I was just a child, powerless in the shadow of a disease that stole her piece by piece.
Now, decades later, I am living that heartbreak again. Only this time, it’s my husband.
It’s a different substance—alcohol instead of heroin—but the same slow disappearance. The same unpredictable moods. The same sense of walking on eggshells, wondering which version of him will walk through the door. And the same helplessness, watching someone I love unraveling, knowing I cannot save him.
But there is one thing that’s different this time: me.
The Moment That Broke Me Again
It was just another night that should have been nothing. That night we had gone out to a comedy show, and at first, everything was great. Good times, laughing, reminiscent of the old times, and yes, drinks were flowing, and everyone was in good spirits.
But as the night went on and he had a few too many, things shifted. He started acting out a bit—being loud, joking in ways that felt disrespectful. There was a couple sitting in front of us, the woman also drunk, and her partner looked embarrassed and frustrated.
Somehow, he and that couple’s energy fed off each other, and before long, he started flirting with her right in front of me.
Later that night, when I brought it up and told him how hurtful it was, he said, “Why are you upset? None of this matters.” He explained that it didn’t matter because, in his mind, I wasn’t going to do anything about it anyway—that I wouldn’t leave or hold him accountable.
That was the moment that really broke me, because it showed me exactly how little respect or value he placed on my feelings and boundaries.
Those words stopped me cold. At first, rage flared, hot and bright. But then something in me shifted.
I heard not just the words, but the pattern behind them—the pattern I’d been ignoring.
I realized this wasn’t the first time he’d humiliated me, embarrassed me, or disrespected me. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten drunk, lashed out, and expected me to sweep it under the rug. And it wouldn’t be the last—not unless I changed something.
Boundaries, Therapy, and the Pushback
We are still together, but the way we are now is not the way we were before. We are doing the work.
Therapy has been instrumental in addressing the root cause of his alcoholism—unpacking generational patterns and confronting the reality of what we’d normalized.
For me, it meant recognizing that many behaviors I tolerated weren’t love but survival mechanisms shaped by my childhood. For him, it meant accepting that seeking help wasn’t weakness but courage.
The first hurdles were admitting the problem and agreeing to seek help—both met with pushback.
As an African American man, my husband struggled with the stigma around vulnerability, especially regarding mental health and addiction. Generational beliefs had taught him that asking for help threatened his sense of strength.
Early therapy sessions were marked by defensiveness and silence, but patience and difficult conversations slowly shifted his perspective, especially when his mother told him that he was mirroring his father. She began telling him stories of how his father’s drinking affected their marriage. Even though she stayed with him, if things were different, she would have left.
She also told him that I am not her, and if he doesn’t make a change, I won’t stay because I don’t have to. He realized that he was choosing alcohol over our relationship, but he didn’t know how to separate it from himself, as it has been a part of how he functions for so long.
It is an inner struggle he is facing, but with honesty, strength, and dedication, he will continue to fight to become the true man he and I know he can be.
The Work We’re Doing
Therapy has helped me understand that contrary to what I experienced growing up, love without respect isn’t love at all.
On my end, it’s been about patience and empathy, without excusing harm. On his end, it’s been about acceptance, accountability, and a willingness to face the truth, even when it’s ugly.
We’ve set clear boundaries. If he crosses those lines, there are consequences.
One boundary he must not overstep is respect. I love my husband, but I love myself just as much. I also told him if it comes to separation, just know I didn’t leave—you did when alcohol became more important than our relationship.
We both understand this is a difficult situation that requires understanding and compassion, but consequences are final and forever life-changing. This mustn’t continue because this isn’t living. It’s just existing, and I choose to live.
The progression is day by day. We still encounter stalemates, and we embrace them and push through them together. I know he truly wants to get better, not just for us but mainly for his own well-being.
We have agreed that the cycle stops here, even if it means rebuilding everything from the ground up.
Choosing Myself Without Leaving
Choosing myself doesn’t mean walking away right now. For me, it means staying without losing myself. It means protecting my peace, even in the same home. It means no longer excusing disrespect just because it comes from someone I love.
I am not the same person who silently absorbed my mother’s chaos. I know now that I can’t heal someone else by destroying myself.
Some days, it’s still heavy. Some days, I still see my mother’s shadow in the bottom of his glass. But I’m learning to separate his fight from mine.
I love him, but I love myself too. And I am finally learning that those two things can exist together—as long as I hold the line.
If you are in a relationship touched by addiction, know this: you are allowed to choose yourself. You are allowed to demand respect. And you are allowed to break the cycle, even if you stay.
About K.A.H. Conway
K.A.H. Conway is a writer whose work explores grief, womanhood, healing, and transformation. Drawing from her own lived experiences, she writes with honesty and depth about loss, recovery, and self-rediscovery. Her voice is raw, intimate, and deeply human—inviting readers to find strength in vulnerability and meaning in pain.
