Dear Editor, I am sending in this heartfelt article in the hope that you will publish it and that those who read it will either step up and try and provide support for people like me or, should they be addicts themselves, that something will resonate with them and cause them to go and get help. Due to its subject matter and the honesty with which I have tried to write, I hope you will understand why no name comes with it. In Him, a hurting wife and mum who loves the Lord and can’t find a way out of this deep pit that I’m in.
My memory is blurred and all the journaling I’ve done over the years has long found its way into the recycling as I tried to begin again; each time I thought we’d reached a stage when this part of our journey was over. But it just seems to keep on coming.
It started on our honeymoon. Every beach had its fair share of topless bathers, every café or restaurant had its fair share of waitresses skimpily dressed in black. For some reason the black seemed to be as significant as the lack of clothing. I should have read the signs, but we were newly married and he blamed it on my insecurities. Perhaps he was right?
