There are moments in life when you don’t just want support—you need it. Not the kind that shows up for a photo op or checks a box, but the kind that stays. That holds your hand through the fear, the pain, the unknown. I had one of those moments—a hospital stay that left me physically fragile and emotionally raw. And while I was surrounded by machines and medical staff, the person I thought would be my anchor was already drifting.
He was there to drop me off. He sat for a few hours. And then he left—waiting for me to be well enough to come home, not because he missed me, but because he needed to get back to work.
December 23rd. I remember the cold air on my face as I wheeled myself through our front door, still weak, still healing, still unsure how I’d make it through the next hour—let alone the next chapter. I had just spent two months in the hospital, recovering from the consequences of self-medicating through drinking. I was wheelchair-bound, using a slide board to move from bed to couch to toilet. I couldn’t walk. I could barely lift myself. But the hardest part wasn’t physical.
It was the silence. The absence. The expectation that I would care for our children and myself, as if nothing had changed. Hoping for comfort, I was met with coldness. Criticism. Distance.
And in that moment, I realized something I hadn’t wanted to admit:
When I needed him most, and still do… he wasn’t there.
It’s been almost three years. Three years sober. Three years of battling excruciating pain every single day. And yet—I smile. I live like a pretty normal person. At least, that’s what it looks like from the outside.
Since my last long hospital stay, doctors have uncovered a laundry list of chronic health conditions. Autoimmune disorders like anemia, rheumatoid arthritis, and possibly lupus or MS. But thanks to the insurance company dragging its feet, I’m still waiting on the tests that could give me a proper diagnosis.
Here’s what I do know: I taught myself how to walk again. I pulled myself out of the wreckage. I’m working. I’m independent. I did it mostly alone.
No support. No cheerleading. Not from my husband. Not from anyone.
He doesn’t acknowledge my health issues. Thinks they’re made up or “not that serious.” I’ve begged him—begged—to just Google what I’m going through. To try and understand. But he won’t. The financial stress of my medications? That’s all on me. And I’m still expected to contribute equally to our household.
Every appointment, I go alone. Surgeries? He picks me up after work. ER visits? He drops me off, asks how long it’ll take, and goes home. I sit there alone, facing every twist and turn by myself. No family here. Few friends. Just me.
And when I get home? No matter what shape I’m in, I’m expected to pick up right where I left off. Cook. Clean. Bathe the kids. Do the laundry. No help from him. No help from the kids. Just mom.
Some days I cry through the pain. Not often. But lately, the tears are turning into anger. Outbursts. Because I’m tired. Really tired. And I feel so damn unappreciated.
Oh, and here’s the kicker: my husband told me I’m not allowed to feel like I deserve anything. That being proud of myself makes me look bad. That I think too highly of myself.
There’s so much more I could say, but the brain fog is creeping in. Still, I keep thinking about the question my doctor always asks when I show up alone:
“Where is your husband and support today?”
And I never know how to answer. Because the truth is—I don’t have any. But I’m still here. Still sober. Still fighting
I’m not writing this to point fingers. I’m writing it because silence has a weight, and I’ve carried it long enough. I’m learning that healing isn’t just about medicine or rest—it’s about feeling safe, supported, and loved. And when the person who promised to be there through sickness and health disappears when the sickness shows up, it leaves a scar deeper than any diagnosis. I’m speaking now, because I still need support. I still need care. And I deserve to be met with presence, not absence.
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