May 9, 2018:
I lived with a violent alcoholic long enough to nearly get killed a few times.
Hide the knives and scissors, hide the car keys, hide the hammers and power tools and anything else you can think of that might become weaponized in the hands of a blacked-out raging monster who, in the morning, won't remember what she'd done. She broke my shin, detached both retinas, was arrested twice for domestic battery (of me). Sober in daylight she was kind, brilliant, hilarious. Blacked-out at night she was murderous.
She'd rage, froth, pull down bookcases, throw heavy objects at the walls or at me. She'd throw punches, spit, try to tackle me, kick, gouge, bite. She loved to throw food, the stickier the better. She'd roll on the floor, pretend to speak in tongues, pretend to be possessed by devils. She'd weep, she'd accuse, she'd throw blame along with bookends and table lamps and statuettes of the Virgin Mary.
One time she climbed onto a narrow handrail which guarded our deck from a plunge thirty feet into a dry rocky creek bed, and go-go danced. With a smirk, daring me to do anything about it. I couldn't, so I went inside and waited for whatever happened to happen.
I lived in fear that she'd drown in the bathtub. Or fall in the shower breaking a leg or a neck. Or drive her car off the road into the river.
I lived in fear that I'd be mistakenly arrested for battering her. That is the stereotype. That nightmare nearly happened once when a neighbor woman pounded on the door demanding to know what was happening. My blacked-out fiancée was rolling on the floor, shouting, "Stop hurting me!" Nobody was hurting her but I had a black eye. The neighbor woman didn't believe I hadn't touched her. I told her to call the police, knowing the cops would look up the prior arrests and realize what was what. She didn't, and, she never did. Realize what was what, I mean.
One time when the cops came my fiancée hid behind a tree in the dark. Really. She got away with it.
There were bottles concealed everywhere. In toilet tanks, under the fridge, in the oven, deep in closets. I'd find them at random while looking for socks.
She'd been to rehab twice. I sent her a third time. Didn't stick. Rehab's only a temporary reset, not a cure. Veterans call the thirty-day stint "spin dry". Far as I know, she's still drinking.
Her family rejected her, as families of addicts often do. They viewed addiction as a moral rather than a medical issue. They resented her destructive behaviors, her lying, her stealing. Her sisters in particular resented the attention she received and the resources she consumed. "Ten thousand dollars for rehab and she walked away!", they'd complain, as if it had been their money, which I imagine they expected it to one day be. As you can tell I don't particularly respect them.
If you live with an addict, get help. For yourself, I'm saying. Addiction is tremendously damaging for loved ones close to it unless you learn to guard yourself properly. This narrative is as much about codependency as addiction. The relationship sketched here was not remotely healthy.