Tish H’s story

As a child I lived in constant fear, always on edge. My instinct was to either flee or fight back, though my resistance mostly happened behind the safety of my bedroom door. I never knew what would set my mother off—any small or seemingly insignificant action could lead to her shouting, “Jesus Christ, what did I do to deserve this?!” She would chase me, hit me, or insist my father punish me when he got home. Her rage was unpredictable, often ignited by the most irrational things, and even now, in her old age, that remains true. She was physically abusive until I was 13, when I finally hit her back. After that, her attacks became purely verbal.

Following a painful breakup and feeling completely lost at 27, I moved from New York City to England to be with my childhood sweetheart. I had always been a confident and independent woman, but growing up with a mother consumed by rage and addiction had impacted my choices in ways I hadn’t fully understood.

A year after moving, on my birthday, a night of heavy drinking, fighting and make up intimacy, led to an unexpected pregnancy.

I spent six months working and living in London by myself.  I felt completely alone in a country where the only connections I had were his friends and a few colleagues from work. He stayed in his town, 70 miles away, claiming he wasn’t ready to live with someone new—at least until I was six months pregnant. Eventually I gave up my job and moved in with him. His behavior became increasingly erratic, alternating between rage-filled abuse and neglect, followed by dramatic reconciliations. Sadly, this cycle mirrored the patterns I was used to from my childhood, so it seemed “normal” to me at the time.

He was an alcoholic, but at the time, I didn’t realise the gravity of the situation. When I first moved to England, he wasn’t drinking because he was waiting for surgery to fix a kidney blockage. But about two months after I arrived, once the surgery was done, he went back to drinking heavily.  His social circle, all British, normalised pub life and excessive drinking. I began to wonder if I was just naive and sheltered. As an American, I wasn’t used to the level of drinking that seemed “normal” in the UK, so I started to question myself, wondering if I was just being prudish or overreacting. It wasn’t until I began to feel truly trapped that I understood what alcoholism really was.

Things deteriorated further after our daughter was born. I developed a serious infection and had a high fever, barely able to care for our baby. Instead of helping, he chose the pub over me, saying, “What, do you want me to sit here and look at you with a fever?” He often stayed out late, sometimes not returning home at all, blaming me with cruel insults like, “Who wouldn’t drink if they lived with someone like you?” I felt broken, alone, and ashamed to share my reality with anyone, fearing they would see me the way he did.

One weekend, we attended a wedding with friends during the day, along with our baby. My husband became so drunk that he flirted openly with another woman and made a scene. When we returned home, we discovered our dishwasher had leaked. He exploded in anger, blaming me, tearing up the flooring, and passing out in front of our friends. They urged me to leave, but with a six-month-old and no family nearby, I felt trapped and ended up staying for another 11 years.

When my daughter was two, I became pregnant again, but tragically, I lost the baby. Grieving deeply, I went to a party with my husband and our toddler, leaving early to put her to bed. He promised to come home by 10pm, but when he still hadn’t returned by the next morning, I had to track him down. His absence and betrayal cut deeply, and I was too angry to speak to him for days.

Our fights often turned physical. I was bewildered at how I had ended up in such a toxic relationship, one that mirrored aspects of my own chaotic childhood. I insisted on therapy, but nothing changed. After yet another drunken argument, we reconciled, and I became pregnant with our second daughter.

Our life alternated between being cosy and adventurous (after all, we had fallen in love at a young age, and I truly believed he was “the love of my life”) and periods of violence, despair, and abandonment. I tried to justify it by calling our relationship “passionate,” but in reality, that was far from the truth.

I eventually became the secretary of the association for my profession, which required me to attend evening meetings. It wasn’t unusual for me to receive frantic phone calls from my older daughter, sobbing and pleading because her dad was being awful to her, and she couldn’t stand being at home. When our daughters became teenagers I had to travel to New York for work every six weeks. While I was teaching a class, my daughters, then 12 and 15, started calling me in a panic. Their dad had ripped the TV plug out of the wall, yelled that they could fend for themselves, and drove off, leaving them alone. I was 3,000 miles away and completely powerless. After incidents like that, it became clear I couldn’t leave them with him anymore. There were just too many examples of his neglect and instability.

I eventually joined a group for families dealing with alcoholism, led by a social worker. I realised quickly that I couldn’t save my husband, and something inside me told me I was in the wrong place. I remembered my best friend back in the U.S. attending Al-Anon, so I decided to give it a try.

I walked into an Al-Anon meeting on a Friday lunchtime. It was just me and two older women. They listened to me pour out my heart, offering tissues, pamphlets, and most importantly, understanding. I returned the following week, and the week after that. From that moment, my life began to change for the better.

My ex-husband died in 2011 of colon cancer at the age of 51. A significant part of my recovery journey is tied to the fact that we had divorced 10 years earlier and didn’t speak for four of those years. When I returned to the UK after working in New York, he initially helped with the kids, but his behavior eventually made that impossible. Through my recovery work, I was able to be there for him when he became ill, and feel sympathy and compassion. I cared for him for four years, and in the last six months, he lived in my home. I was holding him at the hospice when he passed away. While there was a lot of healing in our story, we were no longer together.