I feel like I should begin this with "It was a dark and stormy night" or something, but I don't remember if it was or not. I remember calling hospitals and jails to see where he was. I remember the waiting and the arguing once he got home. I remember the fear of not knowing what to do.

Sure, I'd had plenty of exposure to alcoholics and addicts, and not just the upper-class ones in my college. I lived a summer on Hilltop, downtown, in a halfway house. It was the only place my employer could find for me to live, and I had been guaranteed room and board. I suppose I could have been upset, having to live in the slums, in a house that was barely standing at best. I lived there with eleven men, four of them Catholic workers who had once been on the streets themselves, and seven other men from off the streets trying to get back on their feet. There were alcoholics and addicts, and a couple that had simply fallen on bad times. The residents in the house changed every couple weeks. There was also a constant flow of people through the house during the week because they offered showers to the local homeless. The house was also base for the Guadalupe garden project that converted empty lots into vegetable gardens. For all that, though, I didn't mind where I was. They were for the most part good people that looked out for me. I never felt threatened, and more often than not the house's regular visitors would follow me to and from work to make sure I got there and back safely. I worked a couple blocks up the street, for free. I cooked meals for the house, went to the house meeting Wednesday night, and to their masses every Tuesday night. It was rather a rewarding and relaxing summer. There were sad times, when someone in the house fell off the wagon and had to leave. There were happy times, when another found a job and their own place. I met Jim, one of the workers in the house, and ended up moving into a house with him almost a year later. We were engaged, planning for a long engagement, as I was still in school.

We had a good relationship. The age difference between us was commented on at times, but we were at the same place in life. He was looking for a career, restarting his life after a rather dark past. He was enthusiastic about the positive steps he had made and was full of hope for the future.

I still wouldn't change anything. One thing, I guess, but that wasn't until later.

"Hi, my name is Amanda, and I'm here as support for an alcoholic- addict. He's been clean for 5 years." I went with him to his bi-weekly meetings at the Indian reservation. I wasn't the poorest tribe in the area, and most at the meeting were residents of the drug and alcohol treatment center at the top of the hill. He was the group's treasurer, and often did car repair work for others in the group. It was his dream to someday open a garage to restore classic cars.

In the months after we moved into our house, tension built up somewhat. Jim was always worried about money, and was having trouble getting his back taken care of. His back was in amazingly bad shape, and had been for several years. Every doctor and clinic he'd been to agreed that he needed surgery for it, but welfare wouldn't clear it. He lied on job applications about his back so that they would hire him. He insisted that we needed the money. He killed himself working long hours at a labor-intensive machine shop. He didn't have time for the AA meetings after awhile because he worked night shifts more often than not. I went on through classes and my own job. We had pets that we took turns caring for. We also shared household chores.

I worried about him, but I really couldn't think of anything I could do to help. He wouldn't let me anyway. I just tried to be there for him. I guess there are some things that can't be helped once certain decisions are made.

He didn't come home from work at the usual time. To be honest, I actually hoped that he was in the hospital. It would have been better, considering the other options. He wasn't, though. He came home late, drunk off his ass. You can't reason with someone like that, and I couldn't yell. He could; I think he was more upset at himself than anything.

The next day I talked to him as best I could. I tried to explain how badly I was taking this turn. I didn't know if I could deal with it happening again. I knew he was an alcoholic, but I also knew that he did not have to drink. To keep me, he couldn't drink at all.

I don't have a problem with drinking, or even recreational drugs. I do have a problem with their abuse. For Jim, even one drink was harmful. One hit--well, that was even worse.

After that night he came home drunk, he settled down, and life moved smoothly. Guadalupe House where we met was nearly forgotten.

The summer brought new strains to our relationship. He was working harder than ever, with lots of overtime. I wasn't working at all, but I was trying to regain my shaky health. I could have done more, but not much. I kept our finances in order, but he never stopped worrying about them. I guess I never stopped worrying that he'd start drinking again.

When he came home drunk again, we didn't even talk. He'd already heard what I had to say. He knew what I thought. He did it anyway. By this point I just needed to get away and re-evaluate things in my life.

I stayed with friends out of state and came back knowing that I had to break up with Jim. The weird thing is that it really had very little to do with his drinking. He wasn't what I needed anymore. I had changed in the last year and half, and so had he. Things were comfortable, and now I knew that breaking that bubble was what I needed to do.

He knew it when he picked me up from the airport. I couldn't hide it, or the tears that came to my eyes every time he touched me. It felt like goodbye instead of hello. He was wonderful. He apologized for being such an ass. We tried to make it work, but that only lasted about a week. He started coming home late or not at all. My guess is that he returned to his old habits while I was away. It wasn't hard for him to go back to the drugs and the drinking.

What was my only regret? It was that I didn't kick him out sooner. I really don't know how soon I'd have wanted him out -- maybe the second time, maybe the first, definitely after I got back home from the vacation.

It was after that when things got really bad. I helped him get into a drug treatment program, which he went through well. Right after he got out he was back to looking for drugs, though. I kicked him out after he disappeared for over a week. He stole some of the things from the house, including my laptop. I changed the locks. He broke down my door another night. He drove by every night, and was in the area. I spent most of my time afraid, and I got a restraining order. The police weren't much help. Somehow he finally ended up back in prison, on drug charges, I believe. I only found out because I wrote an inmate he knew in the prison and asked him to let me know if Jim showed up there.

I changed the phone number when the collection agencies started calling, and I stopped his mail from being delivered from my house. He sent me one letter months later. That shook me up a little. He halfway apologized. He tried to blame some of his actions on me. They were his choice. The cops came to my house looking for him a little later for violation of parole. I told them he was already in prison, and hadn't lived here in six months. The police department here is not terribly efficient.

I'm glad for the time we had, and I'm glad he found out that he could make a way in the world without the drugs, alcohol, and violence. I learned that I have to take care of myself before I can help others, and to listen to my heart.

I'm doing well now. I'm about to graduate, and I have a new love in my life, who is what I need. I also know that I'll have moved before Jim's out of prison, and I have people who love me close by if I should need them.


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