That was a year and a half ago. After that, there were a few months when he quit drinking, then a few when he only drank on special occasions, then only with me, then back to drinking all of the time. Our home was a warzone. I was devastated. I wanted things to work, and I wanted to make him suffer in the most horrible, painful, and humiliating way possible at the same time. I felt as though my heart was shredded into tiny pieces. I needed him to fix this, to fix me. Slowly our day to day life became more routine. Things were still bad, but no longer like an unpredictable raging wildfire. More like a slow mind-numbing drowning. I pretended to be ok, but everything was so painful and depressing. There were many fights, many broken promises. I found bottles of whiskey hidden in the closet or the trunk of his car. He would take off drunk after a fight, or anything he perceived as a fight, and he would disappear for hours. It was hell.