The Ballad Of Boozie-Q
Note: If you are in a relationship with an addict, seeking expert help is essential. While addiction follows common patterns, every relationship is unique. Below are recommended books and articles on addiction and mental health. This is a true story...
I’ll refer to her as “Lucy.” Lucy was magnetic—a creative spirit whose passion for design, arts and crafts gave her a unique charm. Appearances mattered to her, whether in her professional world of style and design or the house we rented together. The little space, nestled between two parks, had a certain "bungalow flow" that I found cozy, even if she jokingly called it "ghetto" from time to time. Together, we made countless improvements. The home became cleaner, brighter, and better by the day. Her dog was even happier, always finding his spot lovingly nestled between us. It all seemed like a metaphor for what I believed was happening in our relationship: an ongoing transformation, turning rough edges into something harmonious. I had not seen Lucy smile so naturally and completely as she did in the times we shared after I moved in. We bantered, laughed and loved hard. But beneath the surface, a different story was unfolding slowly at first then faster by the day.
Lucy had many talents, like singing, cooking and making drinks. She was an ex-bartender. Watching her craft cocktails was hypnotic, a dance of precision and care. Each drink was a masterpiece, topped with the perfect garnish. But her flair for cocktails masked a deeper issue. Her history as a bartender wasn't just a job—perhaps it was a gateway to a dangerous habit that had quietly taken root. Or maybe those roots were there earlier but they had strengthened during the years she spent in bars. Within a couple months of living together I noticed Lucy was drinking more than anyone around her seemed to realize, and more than she admitted to herself. I was slowly beginning to see the signs but was blindsided by the fun we were having. This wasn't just the casual glass or two of wine at night, as she often quoted. It was an unspoken dependence on alcohol, a daily ritual of self-medication masked by artistry.
Alcoholism is often described as a "progressive disease"—it worsens over time if untreated, but Lucy's drinking seemed harmless, under control, at first. Two glasses of wine with dinner, yes, maybe a cocktail or two bookending the night. But those glasses turned into a bottle, and eventually the bottles multiplied. Her drinking became a nightly descent, one that carried her past the "deep into the bottle" phase, into deeper territory, followed by hours of aimless scrolling on her phone and often ending the night in a stupor. It was a behavior pattern many would recognize as a sign of dependency, if not outright addiction.
Eventually and cautiously, I tried reasoning with her. I tried to invite her, rather both of us, into healthier habits—reminding her that livers don’t care about the exercise of the occasional hike or kayak adventure which she used to defend her “balance.” I had already watched two friends succumb to the effects of alcoholism. One had died from cirrhosis of the liver, and the other was potentially on his way. Also, I had helped a friend—a nationally recognized addiction expert—launch his second book on the subject. I learned some of the science behind addiction: alcohol abuse is not simply a choice but a condition, often connected to trauma, genetics, and psychological factors. Yet, no matter how I tried to nudge her, us, to steer away from the abyss, Lucy resisted. Every night ended the same way: her alone, in the backyard, and now with a cigarette in hand, smoking until the cold hours of dawn in defiance of my concerns.
Yes, it wasn’t just the drinking now. Smoking had emerged. She had pitched herself as a “non-smoker” on her dating app profile which was why my search parameters discovered her. Then, early in our dating in a moment of honesty, she revealed that while she didn’t smoke regularly she did so “rarely,” almost as a form of "sympathy smoking" with old friends while on long-distance calls with them, a minor indulgence from her past. I acquiesced. I played it cool, not begrudging her occasional cigarette. But sympathy became routine. Not long after I moved in, smoking became her nightly ritual, alongside the drinking. Addiction often comes in layers—an overlapping of unhealthy behaviors used to cope with deeper emotional pain.
Lucy’s dependency wasn’t merely an internal battle—it was a manifestation of unresolved traumas I knew she had suffered early in life, perhaps related to one in particular: being hit by a car as a young girl. When I met her, she already had strained family relationships, especially with her mother and sister, which had escalated to points seemingly beyond repair. Many times, she mentioned the dread of becoming like her mother—a woman in her eyes consumed by addiction to prescription medicines, delusion and emotional isolation. But Lucy’s fear was becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy. She was drifting into the very patterns she despised about her mother.
She had a resistance to seeking help, let alone admitting the need for it. We spoke openly on the regular. Our deep conversations, and her occasional therapy appointment, made her feel like she was addressing her issues. She also spoke somewhat openly with close friends. But psychological resistance, or the refusal to acknowledge one’s own harmful behaviors, is a hallmark of addiction. Often it stems from a combination of shame, denial, and a fear of confronting underlying trauma. This was evident in the way Lucy ignored the toll her drinking and smoking were taking on both her mental and physical health, not to mention our relationship. I assumed her nightly rituals of drinking and smoking became not just a way to escape but a way to avoid confronting her pain. To me, it felt like she was avoidant and in denial. Plus, she knew frequent smoking was a hard stop for me from the beginning. She knew my Mom, personally, and she knew it was statistically very likely that my family would lose her soon due to emphysema and lesions on her lungs from many decades of smoking, not to mention the years of lying about it and how that had made my family and I feel. Lucy’s choice to smoke with increasing frequency, until it became every night and for longer durations, felt like nothing short of a nightly provocation to me. It felt like she was storming up to my face like a little bully and shoving her middle finger right up into it.
My resentment, anger and sadness grew. My will to banter and be physically affectionate with her waned. I was mystified as to why she would destroy our blossoming, beautiful relationship for her habit. Yet, I still never gave her an ultimatum to stop. I gave her adult-latitude. Right or wrong, this was because I had made a promise to her once upon a time. I would never issue ultimatums in our relationship, nor be inclined to receive them. This dates back to my marriage, having been on the receiving end of them constantly. I told myself I would never be the person to anyone my ex-wife was to me.
Despite everything, I still loved Lucy. I saw the woman she was during the day—funny, kind, and fiercely creative. But by night, that person would begin to vanish, replaced by someone else entirely. Someone withdrawn, unreasonable and unreachable. The contrast was stark, and it left me grappling with my own emotions. Should I stay and fight for her? How long? Should I wait to see her hit rock bottom, as addiction literature often advises? Should I walk away? Her closest friends had a simple answer. They enabled her, affirming her right to "do whatever she wanted with her body" while ignoring the fact that her choices, and her condition, were leading her toward destruction.
One morning after weeks of tension, Lucy, having allegedly discussed our situation with her therapist and her friends, told me, “Everyone says you have no right to tell me what I can put into my body.” I was stunned. Again, I had never issued an ultimatum. All I had ever done was suggest we both cut back and live slightly healthier lives together, drink more water, and throttle down the cigarette intake, knowing it’s a rough road. She clearly must have framed it differently to her friends. She was responding as if it was a challenge to her reproductive rights, or like I had taken candy from a child. The net result was that her therapist, if she was honest with her, essentially granted her a position that could possibly prove deadly one day. Her friends, who I too loved, apparently acting out of allegiance to her, instead of encouraging her to be objective, basically had done the same thing. Addiction distorts reality – not just for the addict but for those around them. It turns allies into adversaries, warping love into control and compassion into criticism. I was gutted. I was left imagining…what if I sat on the couch every night scarfing cupcakes and chugging cola out of a liter bottle for hours. I would hope at some point the person who loved me would lean over and put her hand on my shoulder, look into my eyes, and say “hey, I love you but this cannot continue.” What a sad and shitty backward world is LucyLand where her network enables instead of addresses a situation. It broke my heart.
The final blow came when Lucy promisingly suggested couples counseling. Although reluctant at first, wanting faster accountability and self-awareness from her, I agreed, hopeful that a professional could help us. But less than 24 hours after that, following her therapy session, she announced, “It’s over.” The abruptness and hypocrisy of it all left me reeling. She decided to not even attempt to do the work. I was just a roadblock to be removed so her habits could continue unencumbered. After all our blooming love and memory-making good times, it would all be over as soon as I could find a new place to live.
Addiction is a thief. It steals not only the addict’s health but also their meaningful relationships, true love, memories, as well as their capacity for empathy. As I moved out, I couldn't help but feel the bitter irony of it all. We had started every day with coffee, a kiss, and a hug. In that moment of deciding our exit strategy I had one request. I suggested we make a pact to be as patient and kind to each other during what might be a tense transition time while I look for a new place to live in a challenging region to do that. She agreed. Her promise lasted one day. Now even my little acts of kindness, like making coffee, were responded to with sarcasm and cruelty. The dog who loved me immensely would try to get to me for pets, cuddles or our occasional walk, but Lucy would yank him or command him back away from me. It was nothing short of sickening to see her descent, spiraling into what appeared to be an estranging paranoia. I had never once done anything malicious to her, ever, but I was being treated like a modern leper. In the end, I was left not just heartbroken but deeply saddened for her and her entire situation. I had loved her as she was, flaws and all. But she, in her unwillingness to even moderately address her condition, had chosen her addictions over the promise of us.
Post-Mortem
Moving in together after only seven months might have been a mistake, but it also revealed the deeper issues neither of us saw coming. Lucy was not ready to sacrifice for love. She simply would not. Not only had she never been in a marriage or long-term relationship where people learn compromise. But because addiction, insidious as it is, doesn’t leave room for compromise. Like a barn-fire, it consumes everything in its path. Despite all the laughter and love we shared, it was addiction that ultimately defined our relationship. The sad truth is that she had already become the person she dreaded most.
At no point in this story should you interpret me perched, sitting on a high-horse, issuing judgment in one direction. As nobody knows but me, I am much harder on myself than I am on others. I embraced continuous improvement as a teen and not a day goes by where I don’t self-reflect, meditate and consider how I can be better to others and therefore to myself. To me, this is a lifelong engagement; increase my presence, decrease my dissonance, and shorten my shadow.
Sources:
National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism. "Understanding Alcohol Use Disorder." NIAAA, 2021.
Alcoholics Anonymous. "The Progressive Nature of Alcoholism."
Harvard Health Publishing. "The Genetics of Addiction."
American Psychological Association. "Trauma and Addiction: The Untold Connection."
Mayo Clinic. "Smoking and Addiction: Co-occurring Disorders."
Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration. "Resistance in Addiction Treatment."
National Institute on Drug Abuse. "Enabling Behaviors in Addiction."
American Addiction Centers. "How Addiction Affects Relationships."
World Health Organization. "Addiction: A Disease of the Mind, Body, and Relationships."
Petersen, Kevin W., LMFT, “Chronic Hope: Families & Addiction.” 2021.
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