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I left the love of my life, a high-functioning alcoholic (hardworking, responsible, honest, smart) about a week after he'd gotten an alcohol-related 325 cholesterol reading and had reacted to that by going on a three day pot-and-alcohol bender. Our breakup nearly killed me. I fell into a suicidal depression, especially since I still loved him. He was my friend, my confidante. We connected on soul levels I had never known before. But I was getting sadder and lonelier by the month, watching him party with friends. Maybe it's due to the fact that I'm an aerobics instructor, but getting plowed has never held any interest for me.
Frankly, I don't know how I found the courage to leave. There was no one waiting in the wings. I knew I'd be consigning myself to a thousand lonely nights without the pleasure of his company. But wasn't I already lonely, one sober chick in a roomful of educated winos? When I finally did it, I was sobbing hysterically, explaining over and over how I knew he didn't see his lifestyle as a problem and how I realized he wasn't going to change. I already knew, you see, that you don't change alcoholics. You will always, always, ALWAYS come in second to their addiction.
He gave me this detached, curious stare and asked me what all the drama was about.
Lesson learned: water is wet. An alcoholic is an alcoholic. Escape is offered to us in many forms--surfing the Internet for mindless amusements, or porn, or Instant Messaging to the exclusion of relating to live humans. We use LOTS of things to keep from feeling our pain. But I felt my pain during that season of my life. Every minute of every day. It almost sent me down the rabbit hole. Yet I never regretted my decision to leave.
