Quick note before I start
This is my story. It’s messy and true. I’m not a therapist. I’m just a woman who loved someone who drank too much and got caught in the swirl.
The sweet start
He was funny, bright, and kind in small ways that mattered. He warmed my hands with his on a cold walk. He brought me a breakfast burrito after I pulled a late shift. On our first picnic, he packed two bottles of wine “just in case.” I laughed. It felt grown-up and light.
At the time, I didn’t think, Two bottles is a lot for two people on a Tuesday.
Little clues I didn’t want to see
The clues came in slow. He called beer “a snack.” He poured double shots into coffee and joked about “parent juice,” even though we don’t have kids. He kept a water bottle that smelled like mouthwash and wintergreen gum. You know what? I still kissed him goodnight and told myself I was being fussy.
The first night my gut said, Pay attention
It was my birthday dinner. He charmed the server, ordered a round, then another. By dessert, he was loud and loose and trying to tip with a fistful of crumpled bills. I paid the bill while he told the busboy he loved him, like a bit. We took a rideshare home. He snored on my shoulder. The next morning he said, “I was just celebrating you.” I wanted to believe that.
Life on eggshells (and calendars)
I started counting drinks in my head. Three at happy hour. Two more at home. I watched the clock. I watched his mood. Friday tailgates were land mines. So was Thanksgiving, where “just one beer” turned into a wobbly toast that made my aunt stare at her plate.
We missed a hike because of a “migraine,” which was a hangover. We left a friend’s wedding early because he got glassy-eyed during the father-daughter dance. I kept making tiny excuses. I’m good at tiny excuses.
What I tried (and what blew up)
I tried rules. No shots. Drinks only on weekends. Water in between. He agreed. Then he broke them. Then he apologized. Then he brought flowers. Then I cleaned up broken glass from the sink because he dropped a tumbler and said the counter was “crooked.” The next morning he said he didn’t remember, and I believed him, which somehow hurt more.
I bought a cheap breathalyzer keychain. That was a fight. I hid it in a drawer after he called it “policing.”
I suggested AA. He said he’d “check it out.” We went to one meeting. He held my hand so hard my fingers hurt. He didn’t go back the next week. He said the coffee was bad. I laughed, but my chest got tight.
I went to an Al-Anon meeting by myself. I cried in a plastic chair. A woman with a soft scarf said, “You didn’t cause it, you can’t control it, you can’t cure it.” I wrote that on a sticky note and stuck it to my mirror. Sometimes I still look at it.
The good parts (yes, there were some)
This is the part that messes with your head. There were sweet mornings. There were sober weeks when we cooked, watched old movies, and cleaned the grout while listening to jazz. He could be so tender when he was present. He’d send me texts like, “Home in 10. Craving your chili.” He fixed my bike tire in the rain. He kept my favorite tea in his cupboard.
But the good parts were fragile. They snapped under pressure. A win at work turned into a night out “to celebrate.” A loss turned into a long pour “to take the edge off.” Either way, the bottle was the main event.
Red flags I learned to name
- Hiding bottles in the laundry basket
- “I’ll be right back” at a party, then gone for 45 minutes
- Promises that came only after I cried
- Drinking before a hard talk, calling it “courage”
- Joking about rehab like it was a meme
Green flags I looked for (and needed more of)
- Calling a friend instead of a bar
- Blocking off sober time and keeping it
- Saying “I slipped” instead of “You made me”
- Therapy he set up, not me
- Meetings he went to without me asking
Safety, boundaries, and the car keys
One hard night, he reached for his keys. I took them. He got red-faced and said I was treating him like a child. I said I loved him enough to make him mad. I ordered a rideshare and sat on the curb with him while he cried and said, “I don’t want to be this.” That sentence still rings in my ears.
I learned this the hard way: a boundary is what I do, not what I want him to do. So my boundary became simple and boring. If you’re drinking, I won’t get in the car. If you’re drinking, I’m going home. If you’re drinking, I won’t argue.
The break, and the truth I didn’t want
We took a “pause” after he missed my niece’s school play because he fell asleep on my couch with a beer in his hand. I said I needed calm. He said he needed me to not “nag.” We hugged in the parking lot of a grocery store, which felt strange and sad under all those bright lights.
He texted nice words for a while. Then fewer words. Then late-night words. Then silence. I don’t blame him. I also don’t blame me. Both can be true.
Who this might fit (and who it won’t)
- If the person is in real recovery—and you can see it in changed days, not just big speeches—you might have ground to stand on.
- If you love fixing things and calling it love, you’ll get tired. It wears down your bones.
- If you already feel small in other parts of your life, this can make you feel smaller.
What helped me stay human
- A friend on speed dial who said, “Do you need me to come get you?”
- Snacks and a book in my bag. Sounds silly, but it kept me steady during long, weird nights.
- A walking loop in my neighborhood. I walked it when my head buzzed.
- Meetings for families. Hearing “me too” is a soft place to land.
If you feel unsafe, please leave and call someone you trust. That part is simple, and also hard.
My verdict (because this is a review)
Dating an alcoholic (there’s a longer, resource-filled take here) was 2 out of 5 stars. The love felt real. The chaos did too. On good days, there was warmth and wit and soup on the stove. On bad days, there were lies that weren’t even mean—just slippery. I wanted partnership. I got a third wheel: the drink.
Would I try again with him if he chose steady recovery over and over, for months, maybe a year? Maybe. Hope is stubborn. But love needs safety, or it bends into something it shouldn’t be.
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Final thought
Here’s the thing: you can care about someone and also care for yourself. That’s not cold. That’s grown. And if you’re in it right now, I’m sending you a steady breath and a glass of water. Take a sip. Stand up. Check your keys. You’re allowed to want quiet. You’re allowed to want peace.