T minus 2 years
“Detachment is neither kind nor unkind. It does not imply judgement of the person or situation from which we are detaching. It is simply a means of separating ourselves from the adverse effect of another person’s choices.”
The detachment flyer, as it is called, is a two page document containing some of the core teachings of Al-Anon. These were some of the first words I heard, seated in a circle on a hard metal folding chair on a Tuesday evening at the rec center. The people around me looked just as miserable as I was. A couple of people were smiling, but everyone else mostly glared at them as if to say, “Don’t bring that phony crap in here, this is where the real shit lives.” I had visited plenty of church basements rooms, redolent of cheap coffee and powdered creamer, in my day. But the people in these chairs had no facade. They truly knew hell, and they wanted salvation. I instantly felt comfortable enough to let down my guard.
The concept of detachment was earth-shaking for me. It meant that I didn’t need to get involved in the drama of being married to an active addict. I went to my first meeting the week Kurt relapsed, and had been attending Al-Anon for about three months before I finally understood the concept of “detachment with love”. Or, at least, understood it well enough to move out on my own.
“In Al-Anon, we learn not to prevent a crisis if it is in the natural course of events.”
Really, I don’t have to rush in to save the day?
During our therapy meeting, when I told Kurt that, no, I would not help him out with money, I was practicing detachment. It might seem simple and logical, but at the time was novel–and extremely difficult. It was so different than the Christian housewife behavior modeled for me as I had grown to put my own needs in front of those of my husband.
“By learning to focus on ourselves, we improve our attitudes and well-being. We allow the alcoholics/addicts in our lives to experience the consequences of their own actions.”
My well-being was improving with each application of the take-care-of-myself-first principle.
A few months later, the opportunity to practice detachment presented itself again. Kurt was on another text message tirade about how I “fucked with his head” by saying I loved him while not letting him into my life. I had implemented a 10 day boundary. I would only speak to Kurt if he had 10 days clean. Otherwise, he was too reactive and irrational, arguing like a pissed off teenager. He sent me a text: You make me so crazy that suicide seems like my best option, followed by an emoji with an open mouth and then a gun.
That was not the first time Kurt had expressed how upset with himself he was for not being able to kick his addiction, so upset that he wanted to give up and die. I was 90% certain he was trying to draw me into an argument. Detachment (ignoring) seemed like the best course of action. But after a few minutes, his message started to worry me. I called one of his friends to see if he would check on Kurt, but I got no response. I texted another friend, again to no response.
Was I being a little harsh? I mean, I still loved Kurt, I still wanted to be married to him. Maybe I was driving him insane? No, wait, 10 days is nothing. My sponsor advised two weeks and my therapist advised not to talk to him at all. But what if he hurts himself because of my actions?
The mind games were running wild.
So, I called my Al-Anon sponsor. Her suggestion shocked me.
“Well, Melanie, how do you feel about calling 911?”
“What!? No, that would really cause some drama.”
“Well, I’m not going to tell you what to do, but that is what the cops are for. And if anything happened to him, you would never forgive yourself. But you don’t want to get involved personally either…”
We hung up the phone and, within thirty minutes, worry overcame me. I picked up the phone. Hands shaking, I dialed 911.
An hour later, the officer called me back. He said he found Kurt alone in his home and that, based on his training, he did perceive Kurt to be a risk to himself. Kurt was handcuffed, dragged out of his home in front of the neighbors, and held for evaluation for 24 hours.
“Detachment allows us to let go of the obsession with another person’s behavior and to lead happier, more manageable lives.”
Yup.
A couple of months, after I had rented my own residence, I went back to our shared garage to get a few items still stored there. Having been kicked out of his sober living for relapsing, Kurt was then living back in our old home. When he heard me enter the garage, he came to speak to me. I was not in the mood to discuss anything–and Kurt did not have the required 10 days of sobriety. He grabbed me by the arm and backed me up against the the classic car parked in the garage.
“Come on. I know we are over, but let’s get it on one last time, right here in the car.”
His grip on my wrist was tight, his body weight pressed into me. In our relationship, sex was the first thing to go before his relapse. I longed for it, but he told me I was too fat for him to be attracted to me. Now that I wanted nothing to do with him, he was suddenly attracted to me again. He knew just how to play the game.
“No, I don’t want to,” I said, clearly and calmly. He didn’t let go. Smiling and laughing, he propositioned me again. I had never turned him down in our entire relationship until that moment. I pushed against him with my hips. Panic coursed through my body when I realized I was overpowered.
“NO. Let me go,” I said again, this time in a loud voice. A neighbor was walking by the half-opened garage door. All three of us looked up at each other. Kurt dropped my arm and stepped back.
A week later, I stood in the lobby of my workplace with a handful of thumbtacks, hanging a new poster. The front door was wide open. Kurt saw me as he drove by. He pulled over. He still didn’t have 10 days’ sobriety and continued to violate my request for no contact. I had blocked his number and his emails. I couldn’t take the ups and downs and mind-manipulating texts anymore. But Kurt couldn’t bear the lack of communication. He entered the yoga studio. My intern was there with me. He asked me to step outside to talk, and I refused. He grabbed my hand, dragging me outside, jabbing tack points into my skin.
“I just wanted to say, I love you so much.” He had a gift for me. I don’t remember what it was, but it wasn’t cheap. His eyes were wet.
“I love you too, but you can’t be here.” I went back into the studio, and my 16-year-old intern brought tissues for my tears and the blood on my hand. I tried to explain to her how much love can hurt.
A few days later, a big, dark silhouette blocked the daylight from the open back door of my home. Kurt stood there, holding flowers. My heart sank into my stomach.
“You can’t be here,” I said. “You have to go.”
He walked in anyway. He set down the flowers, starting to cry. I started to cry. We both stood there, crying. He said he just wanted to talk.
“I can’t talk to you right now. You don’t have enough clean time. You aren’t rational. You need to leave.”
He approached me, and wrapped his arms around me. Instinctively, I folded my elbows up and made fists, protecting my heart. He held me tight and began to sob. I sobbed too.
“You can’t be here, you need to leave,” I said weakly. I started to beat my fists on his barrel chest.
“You can’t be here, you need to leave.” My words were clear, but my forehead rested on his chest, absorbing the comfort of his warm embrace and sending a completely different message. He just kept crying and I just kept resting my head and pounding my fists on his chest and saying he needed to go. Until, finally, he did.
“Detachment allows us to live happier and more manageable lives…we can still love the person without liking the behavior.” I still loved him. I was still in love with him.
I wasn’t happier. My life didn’t seem manageable. But the Kurt I loved wasn’t there anymore, and this other guy was making me question my resolve.
“Detachment can help us to look at our situation realistically and objectively.”
The only thing I knew realistically was that I was neither realistic nor objective. I knew I was too far in it to see it. I knew I had to listen to the advice of others.
My therapist (the objective one) urged me to put space between Kurt and myself. She showed me a wheel called the “Cycle of Abuse”:
Name calling →
Apologizing, saying he won’t do it again →
Abusive language →
Buying gifts to make up for bad behavior →
Physical dominance →
Making promises or taking steps to change →
Accusing the abused of wrongdoing →
Going to church, seeking treatment →
Physical abuse
…Loving, then cruel, then back again…
My bones turned to ice when she showed me how the pattern worked. Kurt had never hit me, but everything else on the sheet of paper she handed to me was spot on.
I began to entertain thoughts of divorce–or at least legal separation–to protect myself and my business. I called my lawyer. He said he wouldn’t be surprised if I ended up dead, my body dumped off the pier. He said he had seen the situation a hundred times, and the longer the abused party allowed the abuser to carry on, the more dangerous it became.
In Al-Anon, we were not allowed to “cross talk” or comment on another person’s sharing. We simply said our piece and let the next person have their turn. Sometimes it was hard to keep my mouth shut, because I could see someone was acting so stupidly, causing themselves great pain. I could clearly see it, but they had no idea. It dawned on me that many probably felt the same way about what I had to share.
“Hi I’m Melanie.”
I was always eager to share. It felt good to word vomit. I started right in.
“I know I need space from my qualifier, but I don’t want to give up on him. I want him gone. I want him out of my life. But I want the old version of him back. I feel like a widow. It is like my husband has died and a demon has taken possession of his body. I want him to get help, get better, and come back to me the way I found him three years earlier. He wants to go on dates and continue our relationship like nothing has happened. But he keeps using and refusing to go to in-patient treatment and telling me I’m the one causing all the problems because I’m not putting more effort into our relationship. Am I crazy? Maybe it is time to just let it die. Thanks for letting me share.”
After the meeting, a man in his late fifties cornered me.
“I had to say something. I know we can’t crosstalk during the meeting, but now that it’s over, I just have to say this…”
I nodded to indicate I was open to his words, and he continued.
“…I spent twenty years living with an alcoholic. I practiced detachment with her and went to the meetings and I was miserable. Now that I’m out, I have a new lease on life. I wish I would have had the strength to leave twenty years ago. You are young. You have time to start over. Don’t wait.”
“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things that I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” This prayer opens and closes every meeting.
I had been serenely accepting what my life had come to. I was given the wisdom by my therapist, my friends, my fellow Al-Anoners and my lawyer. The wisdom said to stop accepting; I needed to make a change. Next, I would need to find the courage to make it happen.
__________
*some names have been changed to protect privacy
__________
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