The Lasting Relationship Between Divorce and Relapse
Posted on 2025-06-05
Category: Lifestyle
I've experienced the heartbreak of losing my husband and then my sobriety. Over and over again.
When youʼre going through a divorce, people donʼt know whether to say “Iʼm sorry” or “Congratulations.” Youʼre single again but now youʼre a divorcée—somebody good enough to marry but too damaged to stay married to. People kept telling me not to jump into a relationship right away. Nobody wants to hear about your “ex” all the time. His name was tattooed on my ring finger and every time I typed, every time I smoked, every time I got a manicure, there it was glaring back at me, an indelible reminder of my past life, my past love.
When youʼre divorcing you feel as if the rug has been pulled out from under you, and youʼre bare, on new ground, tripping, stumbling. You want security and you seek it out everywhere and anywhere from any thing and any body.
Divorce is a heady mix of heartbreak, loss and the terror of abandonment. But it doesn’t kill you. It just makes you want to die.
It’s hard to describe the sadness or sense of betrayal a divorce evokes. It brings you to your knees and then down some more. It is a heady mix of heartbreak, loss and the terror of abandonment. But it doesn’t kill you. It just makes you want to die.
When my ex and I met in the rooms, he had four months of sobriety and I had nine. We dated for two months, broke up for six, got back together and married four months later. It was a whirlwind romance and a rocky marriage from the start.
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At three and a half years of sobriety, I attempted suicide with a pill overdose after a heated argument. I was promptly thrown in the psych ward. After that incident—as it was an abuse of medication—I restarted my sober time. I then managed to cobble together a year and half of sobriety. I relapsed again during my marriage on oxycodone for a shoulder injury. It quickly led to drinking. The marriage was unraveling and instead of addressing it, I retreated deeper into my addiction. One night, high on oxy and enraged, I pulled a knife on my husband. I never intended to hurt him. It was just a drug-infused dramatic move that backfired horribly. He called the cops. That was the grand finale.
After I detoxed, the binge drinking continued. I had separated from my husband and was staying with my best friend. When she was around, I went to meetings and cried. A lot. When she was working, I found myself at the local gas station, stocking up on malt liquor and cigarettes. I would walk home with my ominous brown paper bag, knowing I would spend the day drunk, crying, smoking and listening to Sinead O’ Connor and Elliot Smith. I was in mourning. This was my job.
Over the next four months, I ended up in the psych ward not once but twice for drinking and suicidal ideation. I called my husband from the psych ward, hysterical, begging into the payphone in my flimsy green robe.
“Hi. I’m sorry. Are you there?” I sniffled. Silence.
“Hello?” I said again.
There was a deep sigh and then: “I can’t do this anymore. Get yourself out of there and get a job.”
I promptly hung up, shocked and furious.
“You said till death do we part, you fucker!” I screamed aloud to no one. Then I began to howl.
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The jig was up. He would no longer let me take him emotionally hostage. That’s what I do: People don’t do what I want and I drink or attempt suicide. You hurt me, I'll show you: I’ll kill myself. You don’t do what I want or need, I’ll get loaded. And that’s a game changer. Always. But only if people agree to play.
It was evident I needed to go back into rehab and so I did, for the fifth time. I cried every day. And each day in every group I “processed” my grief about my divorce. The other clients hated me. They got so bored with my shit. I was so hysterical for the first two months they had me on a hefty dose of valium. That helped take the edge off but as soon as I was titrated off of it, my sadness and fear and anger returned, overwhelming me and I became completely unhinged again.
I managed to cobble together four and a half months of sobriety while in rehab. But other ugly coping mechanisms emerged: a budding sex addiction and cutting. I needed out and both actions allowed me a brief respite from my emotions. Sleeping with people might have given me fleeting validation and distraction but I inevitably missed the intimacy and companionship of marriage. Men were using me as a sex object and I wanted to scream, “Give me some respect. I used to be somebody’s wife!” And even now, months later, I have permanent scars on my wrists and ankles from the cutting, ever reminding me of my inability to process my sadness during the divorce. Guess it’s long sleeves and bracelets for life.
Truth is, I thought marriage would save me. I wouldn’t have to grow up. I went from relying on my father as a grown woman to a being a needy wife.
Whenever my lawyer would call, I’d begin to shake violently. It would be mere hours before I’d lock myself in the bathroom, praying my roommate wouldn’t come home, and take a razor to myself. It was something I’d never done before but it provided relief.
There was a restraining order against me which kept me from calling him. I wanted to say, “I still love you. I’m lost without you.” But he’d made it clear he’d moved on. It was a crushing blow.
Eventually I drank, while in sober living. The resentment and the self-pity finally ate away at my flimsy program and I downed a bottle of vodka. Turns out, when you drink at somebody and they don’t even know, it’s a wasted effort. Even if he did know, he’d probably think I was pathetic. And he’d be right.
The rehab kicked me out and I was sent to a mixed sober living facility. Besides the house manager, I was the only woman. I felt scared and alone and I constantly reminisced on how different my life had been just a year before. Within two weeks I drank again. I wanted everyone to know how lost I felt. Only alcoholics know the bittersweet joy it is to drink and listen to heart-wrenching love songs and stew in your own misery. I went to meetings shit-faced. Everybody needed to see how badly I was doing. I haven’t been back to those meetings. I’m embarrassed now to think that I was falling down, hysterical in my fur coat, mascara running down my face. What a hot mess.
Today, my divorce is still being finalized. I still carry the last name of my soon-to-be ex-husband as well as that tattoo on my finger. Every Sunday, when I go to domestic violence class, the wounds are reopened and I’m reminded of the hateful mistakes I made. It’s hard to forgive myself. I’ve learned so much in retrospect. I would do things differently now. But it’s too late and I must move on. I don’t cut or drink over my ex these days. But the tears still flow freely. I was married almost five years ago. I feel like I’m at the same crossroads again: looking for meaning, looking for love, trying to grow up, struggling to be self-supportive. I was 38 then. I’m 43 now. I was single then. I’m a divorcée now. I was sober then. I’m fresh off a relapse now.
Truth is, I thought marriage would save me. I wouldn’t have to grow up. I went from relying on my father as a grown woman to a being a needy wife. I don’t know the answers yet. I can only try to put a new life together and hope there comes a day when I don’t hear his name or see his picture. And yes, I still hope to get married again. I'm a hopeless romantic and I'd like to think that practice makes perfect.