B.Løvetann

In a rational world, I would have left him long before.
But this was where I would learn the hardest lesson of my life:
If leaving were really that simple, everyone would do it.
Looking back, I can see that the entire sky was flashing red.
But back then, all I thought was that I needed to try harder.
That I needed to be better.
Now I know the truth:
No matter what I had done, it never would have gotten better.
One day, I received a message from him.
He was going to take his own life.
And I was the reason.
He was in Sweden, heavily intoxicated, and refused to answer when I called. In the end, I had to contact a couple I knew in Sweden and ask them for help. They managed to find him.
He had also sent a message to his mother.
She called me.
The helplessness I felt that day is difficult to describe.
My thoughts were racing.
Desperation.
Anxiety.
Fear.
And all the while, the same voice repeating inside my head:
This is my fault.
I am the reason.
It became a trauma for me.
He survived and came home a few days later.
But just two weeks later, the next episode happened.
He had fallen asleep sitting upright on the sofa upstairs. We had visitors downstairs. At first, we thought he was simply resting.
But when we tried several times to wake him, he didn’t respond.
I could hear him snoring.
Then I heard a gurgling sound in his chest.
When I went over to him, I became frightened.
His face and feet were blue-purple.
I shook him and asked what he had taken. His answers made no sense.
Then his eyes rolled back.
That was when panic took over.
I asked if I should call an ambulance, but I could no longer get a proper response from him.
His face was turning bluer.
I grabbed hold of him and tried to pull him upright.
When his head fell forward, a thick red liquid poured from his mouth.
That night, I saved his life.
He had taken far too many pills.
Morphine.
You would think he would have been grateful.
But no.
He was angry with me because I was “nagging.”
Before he finally fell asleep on the sofa, I sat awake beside him all night.
I carried the responsibility.
He slept.
Completely unaware of what it was costing me.
For a long time, I carried shame from that night.
I was ashamed that he had overdosed.
As if it were somehow my fault.
Looking back, I know that it was never my responsibility. Deep down, perhaps I already knew that even then.
But I couldn’t stop thinking that the overdose was my fault.
The experience traumatized me.
Whenever I went to the store or left the house to run an errand, I would always call before coming home.
Just to hear him answer.
Just to know that he was still alive.
For the next several years, I was repeatedly told that I was the reason he wanted to take his own life.
I was also the reason for his addiction.
The reason he didn’t have his children.
The reason his life was falling apart.
At some point, I became codependent.
I drove him everywhere.
I thought I was doing it to maintain some sense of control.
But in reality, I was simply keeping the wheels turning.
I made it easier for the addiction to continue.
I made his life comfortable.
While my own life disappeared into a black hole.
I disappeared.

To be continued…