The Up and Down Side of Change

You may not like him sober, my aftercare counselor warned me, without the alcohol he's not going to be the same person. I naively laughed this off - as if things could be any worse.

The man who went into his third alcohol rehab was a happy, sloppy, juvenile drunk who lied about everything and passed out by nine at night. He saw no reason not to drink while working or driving and didn't mind the regular hangovers or black outs. After a couple of six packs, his needs were minimal and he had adjusted to sleeping alone. The man who came out, although sober, was angry, bitter, resentful and bad tempered. He went to his meetings but refused to get involved, just sat on the sidelines and barely listened. He became impatient and demanding, more silent and secretive than ever, emotionally locked down and physically abusive. The counselor had been right, I didn't like him and I wasn't sure I even loved him. Day after day I watched him sink further into rage, depression and isolation, walling himself off from anyone that might've helped and denying that there was anything wrong. It was a sad and painful process of self destruction and demolition. He made no friends, joined in no activities, and talked to no one, dismissing those who attended meetings as "do gooders" and "nosy". He refused to get a sponsor, turned his back at all offers of help, and began to condemn the world for "not minding their own business". Slowly but surely, he became an island unto himself, shut off from everything and everyone.
Inevitably, he began to drink again - hiding the evidence and lying about it.

I saw it first in his eyes, a tiny spark that had been gone was back by the time he arrived home at night. His mood improved, his humor returned, he began being more patient with the animals. He began to cook again and after supper would disappear into his workshop for hours. His walk was a little unsteady, his smile a little too crooked, his speech off just a bit. All the signs were there - he whistled or hummed to himself and once he tripped on the stairs and laughed it off. Bit by bit, the man who had gone into rehab came back - one or two beers led to six and six led to a couple or three sixpacks a day. He hid the beer cans in a paper bag in his truck, in the washing machine downstairs, in the trash in the workshop, in paint cans on the back deck, in the bag of dogfood on the front porch, hid them and waited for me to find them.

It took me some time to admit to myself what was happening and we slipped back into old routines with precious little effort. I spent more and more time at work, putting off the inevitable as long as possible and trying to fit my own denial to my life. When it finally came, the explosion was loud, frightening and violent. He called me a cold, controlling bitch and I called him a broken down, useless, impotent, drunken parasite. As if words, no matter how ugly, would make any difference.

In the end, words were all we had.