In my initial blog, I focused on catching you all up on my 26 years of life. Shortly after my birthday, however, my life took a dramatic and unexpected turn. Which is why I’ve been MIA for a while. The purpose of this article is to explain to my friends and family who don’t already know what the fuck is actually going on. You’ve probably noticed a drastic change to my social media pages, there’s a reason.

Unless you’re one of those people who have been wondering if I’m okay, or you’re someone who has been personally affected by addiction, or if you’re like me and you’re just nosey, then this one may not interest you.

I’ve been very open about my struggles with infertility. I am now so thankful that I didn’t get pregnant; it was God’s way of saying,

“This is not the man you’re supposed to have a family with.”

I didn’t know it at the time, but I married an opiate addict.

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Talk about Bless her heart. Right?

It started innocently enough, a couple pills would go missing because he hurt his back at work or he had a toothache. That quickly escalated to 12 pills missing at once — the equivalent of 4 days worth that I’m prescribed.

I told you I have Rheumatoid Arthritis. These drugs help me to function as a normal human being in society rather than bedridden in excruciating pain. Every pill that was stolen was 1 less opportunity for me to live in (somewhat) comfort.

Let’s think about this for a second: my husband, the one person who is supposed to take care of me in sickness and health, the one person I should be able to trust above all others was stealing from me. Not only that, he was forcing me to be in physical pain so that he could get high. He never hit me, but in my book, that’s abuse.

I bought a safe; that worked for all of 2 weeks before he figured out how to break into it.

I found out he was taking pills from my bottle and replacing them with zinc vitamins, which look almost identical. I was unknowingly taking 200mg of zinc per day. In case you’re wondering, 225mg is toxic.

My husband was poisoning me so he could get high.

I counted my pills morning, noon, and night. I was constantly on guard in my own home. I never felt safe; I slept with them by my bed. I carried my pill bottle to the bathroom with me so he would never be alone with them, and still, he found ways to sneak them.

I woke up one morning at 5:00 am to him standing over me pouring the pills into his hand. I thought I was dreaming. How many times has he done this while I was asleep and at my most vulnerable?

I confronted him every time. Usually, he denied it. Sometimes he fessed up. Always we fought.

I wish I could say I was stronger and I put my foot down. I wish I could tell you I walked away. The truth is I stood by him. I prayed every single day that I would be enough for him and he would agree to get help. I thought as long as I love him enough we can get through anything.

In my mind, I was being a good wife by keeping his secrets and not betraying his trust no matter how many times he betrayed mine. As long as I’m the only one he’s hurting, it’s no big deal, right? Eventually, I can get him into a program and he’ll get better.

He isolated me. I wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone, not either of our families, not my friends. He wouldn’t even let me see a family addiction therapist.

In February, he asked for a divorce. I begged him once again to get help: rehab, NA, therapy, anything. I asked to see a marriage counselor. He refused it all assuring me he has it under control. He kept saying he didn’t have a problem despite opening up to me about his addiction countless times before.

Shortly after he asked for a divorce I found marijuana in my house. Now, I’m a reasonable, logical woman. Normally, this wouldn’t be that big of a deal. But, it was as if I audibly heard God telling me,

“No matter what you do, the drugs will always be more important.”

It was the final straw. I told him to get his drugs, give me his keys, and get the hell out of my house.

I wish I could say I was serious and I meant it for good. But the truth is, I was hoping it would scare him straight and he’d finally agree to get professional help. Spoiler Alert: He didn’t.

On Wednesday, March 22nd, I filed for divorce. On Monday, March 27th he signed the papers.

It took me over 4 years to get this man I so desperately loved to marry me. It only took a matter of weeks to get divorced. I’m 26 years old and divorced after a marriage lasting less than 2 years. What the actual fuck? This is not the life I planned for myself. I would never have married this man had I known who he was or what he would turn into.

I wanted nothing more than to be a wife and a mother. But I wanted that life with the wrong person. He wasn’t ready for that. He still isn’t done partying. Some day he’ll have to face his demons and I pray he comes out on the other side, but it’s out of my hands now.

I had to be his mother when I wanted to be his partner, and that wasn’t healthy for either of us. This probably seems all very sudden to most of you, but it’s been going on behind the scenes for a very long time. I hid it very well, but I’m exhausted. I’m tired of hiding this part of my life, so I’m sharing it with all of you now.

I married the wrong person first. I pray that God sends me the right person next. I still have a dream of being a wife and mother; I’ll never give up on that. I have to put this nightmare of a chapter behind me. For now, I’m going to focus on my family, my friends, my career, and myself. Whether Mr. Right shows up in 5 days or in 5 years, I’ll be ready. I refuse to shut any light out of my life; I’ve been in darkness for far too long.

If you are suffering from addiction please call the helpline: 1–888–297–4281.

Blogger | 2x Gold Pyramid Winner | CMI Award Finalist | Lifetime Learner | Crafter of Words | Feminist | Liberal | LGBTQIAPK+ | Spoonie | Follower of Christ

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