After a particularly long Saturday, Swenny arrived home from work to find me in the kitchen. With a glass of wine in my hand. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Where do I begin?” I wondered.
It’s fair to say that once I found the beginning, I had a hard time stopping. Thankfully, Swenny accepts that most of what enters my head comes out my mouth, so he removed his coat and steeled himself for the diatribe to come. Feeling sorry for myself, I wondered where was the empathy for all I had endured? Where is my permission slip to be angry, sad or even give up?
I followed him through our house, my toes nearly touching his heels along the way. I talked. He listened. And empathized. And somehow between the door and our final stop in the kitchen, he said he knew. Of my frustration, my sacrifice and of my need to share. He said he knew…about Swennyandcher.
Challenged for time, he hasn’t read the blog in its whole, but said he occasionally visits. Some posts he finds touching, and others less so. He worries that the truth could be detrimental to his wellbeing, his job, and our family. He cautioned oversharing.
I agree. But argue that while our truth is messy, as important as it is to protect ourselves from the circumstances that accompany alcoholism, shielding our story is pointless. And while broadcasting it widely may not be wise, with 24 followers, most far removed from the place we call home, I think we remain safely anonymous.
If word happens to travel closer to home, I’m not concerned for what we might lose. I’m excited for what we stand to gain – understanding about the disease with which we and so many grapple, the possibility of helping others, and mostly for the chance to help ourselves.
I am happy to finally bring Swenny into our story. Because after all, it takes two.