Why Did You Leave Me?

*Trigger Warning: Substance Abuse, Mentions Suicide/Self Harm

I’ve driven this same route more times than I can count, but somehow this time I almost pass the last major turn. Damnit! I silently curse. At the last minute, I look over my shoulder and swerve to change lanes. I glance down at my phone hoping to see your name flash across it with a new message. No such luck. Why won’t he answer? The wheels of my silver “toaster,” as you call it, skid to a harsh stop at the suddenly red light. Taylor Swift blasts from my speakers. It’s a muggy Tennessee spring day, but when I close my eyes and exhale, I vividly see the Christmas tree from the year before last; right after this album debuted.

Green needle-like leaves, way too many ornaments, and the highest-tech LED lights that flashed against your dark blue walls painted a backdrop for the star of the show - you. Dressed in your matching Harry Potter socks and rainbow striped pajama pants, with no t-shirt, you glided across the tile floor in a full-body twirl. Your voice drowned out all three Alexas downstairs, screaming along with the music about your “champagne problems.” The smell of chocolate wafted in from the kitchen. As the song slowed to an end, you dipped into a graceful bow by the overflowing stockings hung above the fireplace, and then quickly trotted off to check the oven. Your husband rolled his eyes from the armchair, but a smirk crept over his face as he closed his work laptop and shook his head. My nonexistent abs hurt from laughing. That, I thought, is pure joy. Oh, how I longed to have your confidence.

My eyes jolt back open at the sound of a car horn and I see the traffic light has changed. Get it together. I raise my hand in apology to the driver behind me and follow the green arrow pointing down your street. When I arrive at your doorstep, I pause to suck in my breath. Breathe in to the count of seven, hold to the count of seven, and release to the count of seven. Now or never.

I don’t knock. My fingers effortlessly punch in the four digit unlock code, which sets off all three of your furry, barking alarms. I’m bombarded with jumps and slobbery tongues. Your bloodhound catahoula mix digs her nails into my chest as she uses her hind legs to tower over the other dogs and get closest to me. As the dogs settle, I wait in the entryway, looking up toward the entrance to your bedroom at the top of the stairs hoping your door will pop open with you peering around it.

When you don’t appear, a familiar cold flash washes over my body. My chest tightens. I walk to the back door to let the dogs out. The blue room is a ghost of what it once was. Pillows have been tossed everywhere. Trash from a week’s worth of takeout litters the ottoman and the floor. Cigarette butts rest in smeared ash all across the couch. There’s a small hole burned into one cushion. In the cat-clawed leather armchair, there’s a crumpled box of something I can’t quite make out. A rancid smell cutting through even the old cigarette smoke hits me before I discover its cause; there are at least six piles of dried dog poop on the soaked area rug in front of the fireplace. It’s not the first time I’ve seen your house like this, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. I curl my hands into fists to clench away the jitters.

After letting the dogs outside and feeding all of the pets, I head to the garage to throw the empty cat food can away. In the darkness, I trip over a full, heavy duty, black trash bag. As I try to find my footing, my shoe slams into something hard inside the bag. I swear under my breath as whatever it is smashes. As I chuck the tin can into an open bag next to me, it clangs against the contents inside.

After searching the rest of the house for you, I end up standing at your bedroom door. Open the door, I say to myself. We don’t have time to waste. There are so many possibilities of what I might find behind it. All of the worst case scenarios run through my mind. You could be in bed with another man from Grindr. How would I explain that to your out-of-town husband? Would that even be my place? Even worse - you could be passed out cold at the bottom of the bathtub. You could be bleeding all over the tile floor, or hanging from the closet ceiling. You could be foaming at the mouth with a bottle of pills in your hand or laying face down on the carpet with a hole in your head and a note on your dresser or bleeding out from too-deep gashes in your wrists or…or, what if you’re not there at all? What if I can’t find you? Just go in. Whatever it is, handle it.

When I gather the courage to try the doorknob, it turns, and I do find you. At first there’s instant relief because you’re laying in bed, with your eyes closed, breathing. As I begin to take in the rest of the room around you, I begin to shake all over.

Mixed emotions I can’t identify in this moment bubble up and burn a hole in my stomach. Or maybe it’s the smell of the alcohol. I count three empty boxes of wine that match the one in the chair downstairs. Open glass bottles, some tipped over, are scattered across both nightstands. I have to strategically step over crushed cans strewn across the floor to get to you. You don’t even like beer.

Help him.

“Hey,” I say.

I repeat myself, louder, twice with no response.

I climb up onto the other side of the bed. Your pale body is wrapped in nothing but a wrinkled sheet. The mattress is bare. I think of the time at our store when you fell asleep and “sweated through your clothes” on the employees’ break room couch. After you left, I found your wet jeans wadded up on the bathroom floor and tucked them away in the trunk of my car to take home and wash.

When I touch your arm, your eyes fly open. They stare blankly at the ceiling. After blinking several times, your gaze shifts to me. Your eyes widen and stare into mine. You yank your arm away from me like my fingers have seared your flesh, and then pull yourself up into a seated position.

“No,” you say in a hoarse whisper. Then your voice turns to a loud, desperate whine. “No. No. No!” It’s all you can think to say. You sound like a toddler who has just been told to finish his food before dessert; repulsed.

You scoot toward the edge of the bed, but quickly realize there’s nowhere for you to go. For one, you’re not wearing pants. More importantly, the damage has already been done. You can’t escape this. I can’t unsee this. Neither of us can un-experience this. As the reality of the situation sinks in, you bend forward and pull the sheet so it covers your face. Each knob of your spine protrudes out through the thin, bare skin of your back. I place my hand there, and this time you don’t shy away. We sit in silence like this for several minutes. I’m unsure of how to proceed. You begin to cry. Be the strong one, I tell myself. I have to be the strong one. But against the wishes of the voice in my head, my eyes also well.

“I need help,” you say between sobs.

Here’s my chance.

“I know,” I whisper back to you.“Let’s go.”

“I can’t,” you plead.

Convince him. I have to convince him.

“You can. You have to,” I insist.

“Tomorrow,” you say.

He’s lying. He’s stalling. Convince him.

I hesitate, trying to find the words; the right words. I struggle to search for the words that will get you out of this. Before I can, you sit up and wipe your tears and look me in the eye.

“Tomorrow, for real. I really will. I have to sober up first,” you say.

You say it with so much conviction that I actually believe you. You sound like the person I met four years ago. The friend I look up to, the friend I became inseparable with, the friend who became family to me. I nod. This time is different. This time I just know you’re sincere. This time, maybe I can save you.

I text my husband letting him know I won’t be home tonight. While you get dressed, I grab blankets for us from the guest bedroom. I wait until you fall back asleep before I run to the grocery store. There, I grab a box of protein bars, a bottle of melatonin, some of those little baby food applesauce and pudding pouches I always make fun of you for liking so much, and as many bottles of Pedialyte as the basket will hold. I remember that it’s dangerous for your body to come off of a bender cold turkey, so I also toss in an eight pack of mini pinot grigios. I’m proud of myself for my choice because I think the mini bottles will help you to pace yourself.

When I return, you’re awake but haven’t moved. I leave the wine in the fridge and resolve not to tell you about it until you mention alcohol. For the rest of the night, we watch Netflix. You laugh along with the TV, but break down and sob in my lap every once in a while. I hold onto you while your entire body shivers so hard I can hear your teeth chatter. It terrifies me, but I praise myself. You’re doing great.

Eventually, you do give me the “I need a little bit of alcohol in my system” spiel. I tell you about the mini wine bottles and explain about the small portions and the pacing. A smile spreads across your cheeks. At first, the guilt settles in the pit of my stomach, making me nauseous. But when you return from the fridge with only 2 bottles and start to take only sips before putting the first one down, I feel better. I did the right thing.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I awake with no memory of dozing off. Netflix is still playing loudly. I turn over to search for the remote and instantly panic. You’re gone. I search the entire house in the dark before finding you back upstairs, asleep, on the couch in your art room. I breathe a sigh of relief and return to your bed to toss and turn until morning.

This time, when I wake up, it’s light outside. I feel like I’ve been hit by a train after how poorly I slept. I get up anyway and decide to make us breakfast. I hope that will put you in a better mood while we talk about rehab. That idea comes to a full stop when I open the fridge. Your voice from last night echoes its scream-whine in my head, No. No. No!

There are two boxes of wine in the fridge; one completely empty and one over half-empty. Only the cardboard bottle holder is left from yesterday’s eight-pack. Loud moans come from the living room and I walk in to find you there, leaning as far back as possible in a broken recliner. All of the remaining bottles of pinot grigio are empty on the floor. You’re fully dressed in dark jeans and a t-shirt with a chalky white stain on the front. One foot has on an untied shoe and the other shoe lies on the floor across the room. Your eyes are closed but you’re either singing or moaning, I can’t tell which, and the chair sways from side to side. Both of your arms are contorted and flail out into different, unnatural positions every few seconds. I sink down onto the couch. I can’t fight my brain anymore. I let my tears fall silently, so as not to wake you up. I remember one of the last times I cried this much; it was on this very couch.

I rarely showed much emotion in front of anyone, but you knew I was struggling and had encouraged me to start therapy. Right before this moment, I had just had a major breakthrough in a therapy session about vulnerability. You asked me if I wanted to talk about it. I spilled everything about my experiences with abandonment and the dysfunction within my family and the childhood trauma I had been through. You listened to all of it. You hugged me and told me that it would be okay and that the past was in the past. You shared your own experiences with all of those things. You gave specific examples to ensure me that I had already overcome many obstacles. While I had a few close relationships with friends I’d known for years, you were the first friend I’d met since moving to Tennessee who I felt I could open up to like that.

Right now, I realize you’re not in a place to be the shoulder I can cry on. I want, more than anything, to be that for you. But I’m starting to wonder if I can be. The chair sways again and your leg knocks over a bunch of fire pokers that should’ve been in the blue room. The metal pokers clatter into the glass coffee table, one by one. I’m startled right out of my breakdown. My heart pounds. Styrofoam cartons, an ashtray, and a white powder that doesn’t look like salt, scatter across the table. Your eyes flutter open and the weird moans stop. But a moment later, you slump back over and pass back out. In this moment, I feel like I’ve failed you.

I don’t know who to call. Your husband won’t answer my texts and I know he’s tired of this anyway. It seems like we’ve exhausted all other options. All I can think of is to call your dad, but I did that once and you made it clear you’d never trust me if I did it again. I’m afraid to call the police because I’m not sure that it’s just alcohol in your system. You have trauma with the police after your last DUI, anyway, so that’s out. There’s rehab, but even if I could drag your entire grown-ass-man body out of the house and into my car, I can’t force you to go unless you are willing. And sober. Those are the rules.

Your groaning starts up again. This time it’s clearer that you’re singing a song. Well, attempting to. I can hear a melody, but can’t make out the slurred words. The chair sways once again with your body, crashing your legs against the wall and knocking your one shoe off. It must hurt because you stop singing and scream “fuck” so loudly anyone walking by outside can probably hear it. At least that word comes out clearly. So does the anger in your voice.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Shit! Fuck! Ow!” Each word comes out louder than the last.

I’ve heard from your husband about your unpredictability when the rage hits. Though you’ve never been violent toward me, I’m still nervous. Your groans start up again, even more loudly. My body trembles again and this time the voice inside my head is different. Get out, it says. I’m frozen in place. Eventually, you quiet down and nod off. I say goodbye to the dogs, look back at you, and then force myself to slip out through the front door.

The whole way home I am riddled with guilt. My hands shake against the steering wheel. My stomach burns again. Waves of energy with nowhere to go pulse through me from my chest to my toes. I almost turn around when your text messages start dinging on my phone. But then when I pull up to a stoplight, I have a chance to actually read them.

“whxre ddi you gO? you left me”

“I nxed you”

“I need you togo to teh store”