The ugly truth is never easy to face, but today, I’m not holding back. This is the reality—unpolished, unapologetic, and exactly as it is. I’ve shared my struggles with alcoholism, autoimmune diseases, and the loss of loved ones, but today, I want to talk about something I am still trying to navigate—my marriage.
When I met my husband, he felt like everything I had ever prayed for—kind, loving, supportive. He loved my children before he even loved me, stepping up as "Dad" for my newborn son when his father walked away. But life has a way of shifting under us, and somewhere along the way, we lost ourselves.
During the early years, things felt right—until we both lost our jobs. I found work quickly, but he didn’t, and the weight of that imbalance settled in. Resentment grew between us, quiet at first, then undeniable. I came home exhausted, to messes and unmet expectations, and instead of dealing with it, I reached for a drink. Not every night, but often enough to make avoidance feel like relief. I worked harder, picked up a second job, tried to rebuild stability—but the distance between us only grew.
Then came the news—I was pregnant. I was ecstatic, but he wasn’t. It took him months to tell his family, months to come to terms with it. Eventually, things seemed to level out, and for a while, life moved forward. We got married after the baby was born, on April Fool’s Day—a day filled with memories I will one day share. But beneath the surface, nothing had truly changed. We weren’t communicating. We weren’t sleeping in the same room. We were roommates, living parallel lives. I wanted him to see me, to love me the way I desperately needed—but he couldn’t, and I still don’t know why.
And then, I made a choice I can never undo. I cheated. Why? I wish I had a perfect answer, but the truth is, I was lonely. I wanted to be seen, to be wanted, to feel someone light up when I walked into a room. For someone to be proud of me, of everything I am and all I do. And for a brief moment, I had that. But at a terrible cost. I shattered my husband. I broke my family. And I have paid for it every day since.
He took me back, and that’s why I’m writing this today. But the weight of my choices still lingers, and this is just another thread in the tangled mess of regret, healing, and the numbing comfort of vodka that once held me together.
Fast forward a few years—I’m still here, still standing, still with my husband. But in that time, I have lost my mother and many others, overcome addiction, and grown into the best version of myself while battling some of the hardest times in my life. Multiple autoimmune diseases. Grief. Survival. And yet, at the end of the day, I still find myself alone. No support. Stuck, just like before—but this time, I know this isn’t how things are supposed to be.
I did the work. I changed. I moved mountains for this man because I love him with everything in me. And still, I can’t get him to see me when I need him most. When a flare knocks me down, I am ridiculed instead of comforted. When exhaustion swallows me whole, I am expected to push through and carry more. I find myself asking, What more can I do? What have I done wrong? And then, guilt seeps in—guilt for being sick, for struggling, for being human.
Every doctor’s visit is more tests, more concerns, more unanswered questions, and I decline because I don’t have the time or support to go through it all. And when I sit in the stillness of reflection, I get stuck, wondering: Is it me? Am I really the broken one? Is this my fault?
No! No, Kelleen, it is not. My fault is allowing myself to fall into the same cycles, expecting something to change that never does. But the truth is—I AM the change. The only way this shifts is if I make it happen. My late mother’s words ring in my head: “It is all you, Kelleen.” And now, I finally understand.
Change is uncomfortable. It has to be—whether good or bad, it has to be different than the dance I’ve been doing for years, chasing after support, respect, love, appreciation that never comes. And in the past, after enough time passed, I would reach for something—someone—to numb the pain.
Not this time.
~And now, here I am, still trying to navigate the consequences—the fallout from my choices, the absence of support, the loneliness that still lingers even when we’re in the same room. This is the ugly truth, and I don’t know yet how the story ends. But I do know that facing it is the only way forward.~
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