When love isn’t enough: Love, loss, and the shadow of addiction

My story is one of profound love and devastating loss — of joy and pain, pride and shame. It’s about the impact of addiction on a person and their loved ones, and the paradox of holding both beautiful and painful memories at the same time.

I have a love story that was beautiful and also overshadowed by shame, guilt, and grief. I know many others have similar stories filled with sadness and disappointment. I want them to know sharing their story is okay. It’s okay to love and hate a person at different times. 

I loved my husband, Jesse, more deeply than I knew was possible, but addiction stole him from me, and I feared the person he became.

Jesse and I shared a life for 15 years. He was a mental health nurse who gave so much to others. People loved him, and they loved us as a couple. Our life appeared perfect. We met at university, got married, and had a son. We had so many wonderful memories: our wedding on a Tall Ship in Halifax, our son’s birth, vacations, and just being there for each other. 

But slowly, things began to erode. 

Initially, I convinced myself it was just a rough patch. Surely, our love would be enough to get us through.

Survival mode

But it wasn’t. 

In 2015, my mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and in early 2016, she expressed concern about my relationship. I promised her that I would find happiness. A month later, she passed away on my son’s seventh birthday. 

That promise stayed with me, but the following year was filled with struggles. Jesse was no longer the man I had married. He battled PTSD, anxiety, depression, and alcoholism. He was drinking daily and gambling, and I was left to handle everything. 

Things got progressively worse, and I started to question whether love could truly overcome everything. I had a beautiful son and a flourishing career, but I felt so alone in my marriage.

Jesse’s addiction and mental health struggles were taking a toll. I was in survival mode, trying to keep everything together while Jesse’s illness took over our lives. His behaviour became cruel, and our relationship continued to unravel. He would lash out, and the man I once loved became someone I feared.

Then, in August 2017, Jesse tried to take his own life. 

While he survived physically, that moment marked the death of the man I had married. He moved out soon after, and the next few years were filled with chaos. Jesse’s addiction and behaviour caused constant turmoil, and I was left to pick up the pieces. 

I was working full-time, taking care of my son, and dealing with the emotional weight of losing my mom and my marriage. I was exhausted, grief-stricken, and living in a constant state of anxiety.

Grief and guilt

In those years, there was little room for me to grieve — I didn’t even realize I was grieving. The man I had married, the person I loved, was slipping further away. His illness not only affected him, but also everyone around him.

I lived with so much guilt — I had married for life and, as a psychologist, I felt I should have been able to fix things. Why wasn’t our relationship enough? I questioned myself constantly. 

By 2020, things had spiralled to an even darker place. Jesse emptied our son’s education savings fund, and I constantly feared what he would do next. 

I was forced to protect myself, my son, and my future. I even took steps to secure our safety, changing locks and carrying pepper spray. This was the man I would have done anything and everything for, and now he was the most threatening person in my world.

Jesse’s health deteriorated, and in early 2020 he was admitted to the hospital in organ failure. Our son had not seen him in months — his father had just slowly slipped out of our lives. Then, on July 2, Jesse died. 

I had lost him years before to addiction, but his death released the flood of grief I hadn’t been able to process. It was bizarre to feel all that sadness after all those years of pain. People didn’t understand the complex grief I felt — Jesse had been cruel and distant in the end, but he had been my greatest love. I mourned the man he had been and the future we would never have.

Finding strength 

My story is not a fairytale. It’s a story of deep love, crushing pain, and the paradox of holding on to someone even when they have become unrecognizable. I loved Jesse fiercely, but addiction stole him from me. 

I hate the disease that took him and caused so much harm to everyone involved. I wish his life hadn’t been tainted by it, and I still mourn the beautiful person he was before addiction took over.

Over time, I’ve learned to embrace my story with less shame. I still love Jesse and always will, but I’ve come to accept the painful reality of what happened. Losing him to addiction is a nearly unbearable pain, but an even greater tragedy would be failing to honour and celebrate the beautiful man he was. While the weight of this loss will always remain, so will the precious memories of the life we shared.

Though I once felt terribly isolated, I now see my story as one of many about love and loss from addiction. So many struggle in silence, unaware of how many others share their pain. While I can’t bring Jesse back, I can share our story to let others know they’re not alone, that addiction is not their fault, and that their love is real.

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