I’ve been quiet on Substack for a while.

I don’t expect that anyone noticed-but I noticed. I felt it. The urge the write, coupled with the sudden onset of panic, fear, dread. These can (and clearly do) occur concurrently, in some people.

Is it writers’ block? Writers’ avoidance? Who knows, but it’s real and creates a sense of urgency to …. run.

Onward.

I’ve been writing about trauma. About leaving my relationship—not because I fell out of love or there was some type of betrayal, but because my partner suffered from substance use disorder (which, by the way, often feels the same as betrayal).

A more polite way of saying it: I left him because he was an addict. That is the harsh truth.

I tried to rescue him. Save him from himself. For years. But the chaos of it all was wreaking havoc on the lives of my small children and quite frankly, it was killing me.

I woke up afraid of the day ahead. Never excited about it. I wondered what it would bring: a sober, present partner? Or a ghost of himself, with empty eyes and unpredictable behaviour?

I was losing weight. My moods depended on his decisions. My kids suffered as a result.

They didn’t have the mother they deserved. They had a shell of me; I was living in a constant state of fight or flight.

Writing and the Resulting Grief

I’ve only written a few short pieces about my story. There is so much more underneath it.

I didn’t (and still don’t) want to revisit those days. Or what lead me to settle.

The truth is, it wasn’t the first one. For nearly all of my life, I have chosen men that need help, in one way or another. I’ve made excuses for their behaviour, and sought answers on why they behaved the way they did.

Case in point: Patent Agent Guy

Take, for example, the man I dated through parts of my thirties. He was tall, handsome, and successful. He took me for expensive dinners, we had a crazy amount of fun together-but he never committed. I didn’t met his family or attend work events with him, and he never told me he loved me.

He was aloof; he would wine me and dine me one night, and break up with me the next morning. He was a patent agent; his brain worked in mysterious ways and he was incredibly intelligent. But emotionally? Completely unavailable. Seven years on and off, and that is what I settled for.

And yet.

I wanted him. I longed for him to commit to me. I found a therapist who spent HOURS with me trying to figure him out. The end result? I lost track of myself. I settled for breadcrumbs and constant mistreatment. I was focused on him when I should have been asking myself what made me accept that behaviour, and why I didn’t leave sooner.

After years of misleading and mistreating me, he married someone whom I suspect he is now divorced from. As it turned out, he was capable of commitment, just not to me, and just not forever.

I eventually moved cities and found an incredible therapist. Through cognitive behaviour therapy, I have discovered aspects of myself that I didn’t recognize. I want to ‘fix’ people versus pursuing what I truly deserve. I crave acceptance from people I don’t necessarily respect.

I’ve spent many years working hard to change that.

I no longer tolerate mistreatment in any relationship. Having children has made me take a long, hard look in the mirror. By recognizing patterns and changing my own behaviour, I’ve moved into a healthier era of my life.

And yet, I still find myself wondering: Do people actually like me? Do they genuinely want to be around me, or do they merely tolerate me?

I recognize now that this has been a lifelong battle—one I’ve fought quietly and silently for far too long.

What now?

I’m not sure what comes next.

Maybe more writing about addiction and codependency. Motherhood. Grief. Maybe the strange, messy process of rebuilding a life after spending years organizing it around someone else’s chaos.

Or all of it?

I know I’m not the only person who has stayed too long, tried too hard, made excuses, lost herself, and then had to figure out who she was when she finally decided to choose herself.

I think I’m ready to talk about that part now. Not because it’s comfortable, but because it’s not. And maybe telling my story is where the healing starts.

If this feels familiar to you, welcome to my story. Join me, this is a safe space.

Do you camp? Because I cannot date someone who does not love to camp.

Talk about a strange follow-up text.

It was mid-afternoon the day after our coffee date by the lake. I thought it had gone well. We had a few things in common: yoga, good food, travel. I don't normally get my hopes up after a first date, but he was cute, easy to talk to, and had displayed what I believed were several green flags.

In hindsight, I can see that I either missed or ignored a few red flags.

Why do we do that? Is it hope? Lack of self-confidence? A desire to see someone as exactly who we want them to be?

The mystery continues.

Where was I? Oh yes, the follow up text. It was something along the lines of:

"Thanks again for coffee yesterday. I have a question. Do you camp? Because I cannot date someone who doesn't love camping."

I stared at my phone.

Camping?

I was confused because it hadn’t come up in conversation, and I didn’t recall seeing that anywhere in his profile. We had met online, so naturally I reopened the app and read through his bio again.

“I’m seeking someone who is kind. Someone with good values, who loves to travel and is open to trying new things.”

Nothing about camping. Not a word. No declarations that camping was a non-negotiable requirement for dating.

Suddenly, I felt triggered. Something in my soul was whispering, “This sounds familiar. Run.”

Camping wasn’t really the issue.

Of course, people can have preferences. Perhaps they want someone who enjoys golfing, sailing, or, in this case, someone with a penchant for sleeping on the ground.

The issue was that the next-day version of this person was remarkably different from the version I had spent an hour with over coffee. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t expect to know someone after such a brief encounter. It just seemed odd and gave me the ick to be hearing this the following day, as a “make it or break it” of whether there would be a date #2.

The trigger? It felt like the rules had changed after the fact.

When I think back to the first few months of my relationship with my now ex-husband, I feel as though it was all a deepfake. The character presented to me during that time was not the person who eventually emerged. Looking back, I see an extraordinary performance by someone who instinctively knew how to become whatever the moment required.

A chameleon.

And while Camper Guy was most certainly not my ex-husband, the unhealed version of myself could not tell the difference. My nervous system rejected any notion of this person. My response? “Not really, no. But I could be persuaded to explore the idea of glamping.”

To say the response after that floored me would be an understatement.

“Glamping is a term coined by women who can’t take it in the woods. I wish you the best, but I don’t feel we are a match.”

Harsh.

I must have missed the life lesson where camping was an entire personality trait.

I could not hit “block contact” fast enough. And just like that, Camper Guy disappeared into the abyss. As someone fresh out of a traumatic and chaotic relationship, I felt strangely vindicated in my usual need to self-protect and remain single.

See? This is exactly why I shouldn’t date.

No more, I thought. Never again.

But as it turns out, “never again” has had a surprisingly short self life.

Enter: Health Food Guy.

When I think of dating again, after years in a relationship that nearly wrecked me, I compare it to the experience of standing in the ocean.

The sand, the waves…my absolute favourite place on earth. The sounds are peaceful, the air is crisp, and the moment you kick your sandals off and dip your toes into the sand, you seem like yourself again. It hits you, regardless of what life has thrown at you lately.

Dating, at this stage, evokes the complete opposite feeling.

It feels loud. Confusing. Chaotic.

For the most part, I’ve avoided it since leaving my husband. The juxtaposition of feeling lonely while not wanting to interrupt the peaceful life I’ve created for myself and the boys is not lost on me.

One minute, I’m at soccer, cheering from the sidelines, wrapped up in the happiness of my kids. The next, it’s a beautiful Friday evening, they’re playing down the street with their friends, and the silence echoes through the walls so loudly it causes me to catch my breath.

If I’m honest, I’ve been experiencing loneliness more often this last year or so. I miss having someone to cook with, take the reins when I feel exhausted, or act as a sounding board when I question every parenting or career decision I make.

But have I ever really had that person?

I don’t think so.

We often romanticize the past and remember relationships through rose-coloured glasses. The truth is, I’ve never had a partner who accepted me for me, supported me when life was hard, picked up the slack when I couldn’t, or listened without judgement.

The idea of a man like that feels foreign. With the heaviness of the world lately, I sometimes question whether he even exists.

Most days, it feels easier to stay in my peaceful bubble. To protect the life I’ve built beyond the trauma. But I haven’t given up, and I do intend to start getting back out there again.

I could even tell you a story or two about the very few dates I’ve been on since my separation.

Let’s start with a guy I’ll call “Camper Guy.”

This was about a year after my separation—my first date after finally escaping the chaos. He was a cute thirty-something who loved camping, practiced yoga, and asked me exactly zero questions about myself.

His follow-up texts after our first date will FLOOR you.

Stay tuned for Chapter 2.

It felt like a normal Sunday morning today. I woke up to the sound of birds chirping outside of my bedroom window at 6 a.m., coasted down the stairs to fulfil my normal routine of hitting that Nespresso button before I am fully awake.

Full disclosure: no one will ever convince me to drink lemon water before this step is complete. I will die on this hill.

The kids were not up yet. I enjoyed the stillness of the air as my fireplace glimmered in the background. They have soccer this morning, and their dad’s mom (Oma) offered to drive down to take them, followed by lunch in town. I will never say no to a request from Oma to spend time with them. We may disagree on the events of the last decade, but the boys are my first priority. Their happiness will always come first.

When Oma picked them up, she brought them jerseys she had purchased for them for the upcoming FIFA 2026. Genuine Team Canada jerseys with their names on the back. As their faces lit up, I was again reminded of why spending time with his family is the right thing, 100% of the time. They are kind people, regardless of our issues. What I was not prepared for, was the additional item she brought for them. A banjo. It belonged to their grandfather, their dad’s father (for the purpose of this article, I will use the pseudonym “Grandpa John”). Before the boys were born, Grandpa John passed away. Their dad struggled immensely with this loss, which often led to alcohol-fuelled evenings listening to sad music in the basement. He left behind several musical items, including banjos. When the boys were born, their dad occasionally played the banjo for them, and promised he would teach them and take them to professional lessons. That never happened.

There is a long list of broken promises that gets left behind when these types of relationships end. My gosh we love them for their potential. We hope and pray they will get sober and see what we can see. That level of codependency does more harm than good however, a story for another day.

When I saw the banjo left on the hall table as they departed for soccer, I fought back tears but they came anyway. The repressed memories of him sitting with our babies playing songs for them, whispering promises that were never to be, came flooding back. The grief of losing someone to addictions that isn’t really gone but is gone in spirit, is immeasurable. I grieve for the childhood they deserve but will never experience. For the quiet Sunday mornings filled with coffee, glimmering fireplaces, and banjo music in the background. Playful banter as we head off to soccer practice as a family.

Their grief is my grief. Their confusion is my confusion. But we live for today, place the banjo in a spot that we will visit when our grief feels less heavy, and send energy to him that one day he will recover. We are still here. There is life to live, memories to be made in spite of the disease of addictions, and I will chase that light like it’s my job.

While it is not easy to set boundaries with those in active addiction, it is essential for their recovery and for yours. If they are using, they cannot be around the children. It is unsafe, both mentally and physically. You will question it, doubt whether you’re making the right decision in keeping this distance. I am not an expert, but I do know that their health must always be the priority.

On that note, while the house is quiet, I am off to practice a little gentle yoga and meditation, a peaceful reset for my own mental health. Happy Sunday.

Crazy making

If you love or have loved an addict or narcissist, you know very well the stories they can spin. When confronted about their behaviour, they often deflect—placing the blame on you, telling you that you are crazy.

One early June evening, I cracked the sliding door open in the livingroom just a bit to let some fresh air in, sat down on the couch with my tea and exhaled. I had just completed the bedtime routine for the kids, including bath, books and songs. At just two and three years old, the sweetness of their little voices as they splashed in the bubbles, and sang along as I lulled them to sleep linger in my mind. Still, there are no words to describe just how exhausted I was. I often struggled with a wide range of emotions. I was angry with him. Angry that he was gone all the time, or simply in the basement passed out. He rarely helped anymore with routines of any kind for the kids. In some ways, I felt robbed of the motherhood I yearned for, and deserved. It was never in my plan to do it all alone. I heard the click of the front door, he was home. It wasn’t long before I realized he was drunk.

After some bickering back and forth about his ongoing absenteeism from our lives, he said something I will never forget.

“You are the most boring person I have ever met. You are a horrible friend, and everyone from our hometown agrees with me that you are crazy.”

His words were piercing. I was so fragile and worn out, and this felt like a sucker punch. Didn’t he know how hard I worked? Only then to pick up the kids from daycare, cook dinner, and put them to bed alone? Why was he so cruel? My mind was spinning and I fought the urge to cry. I know now that this type of abuse includes the use of a pile-on method, in hopes to keep you isolated and stuck. But then, in that moment, I felt utterly devastated.

EVERYONE thinks you’re crazy.

The other day, as I was looking back through old videos and photographs of my time with him, I was shocked. Shocked not only by what I heard, but that I had recorded it. What was I thinking? Why did I record those interactions?

To prove to myself that it was real, and what I was experiencing was not something I had made up in my head. That’s why. Did it help me? Not at all.

Confusion

Enduring years of gaslighting and verbal abuse can be a mindfuck (sorry, there is not a more polite way to explain it). One of the most common reactions to abuse is confusion. You question your reality, and if what you are experiencing is actual abuse. When your entire focus is on them and trying to get them well, it is confusing to receive such horrendous treatment in return. So I filmed him. I took photographs of empty bottles I found hidden throughout our home.

If I found hidden alcohol, then I had proof he was an addict! If I showed him how he spoke to me when he was drunk, he would realize he needs help and stop drinking!

I was desperate to get him well, all while I was slowly losing myself. In one video I recorded, he was crying (another tactic to manipulate my reality). What he said next is textbook addict gaslighting:

“You had one job Angie, to love me. And you failed. Now look at me.” (This conversation was just a few days after he had received his first DUI and subsequently lost his job.)

In my heart, I knew it was not true but doubt crept in. I wondered if I had somehow contributed to this mess by not loving him enough or stepping up for him. I was isolated and alone with my thoughts. I felt guilt and shame, as though I was failing both him and my children.

Connection

During that period, I attended a few Al Anon meetings. I discovered that while it may be a great support for others, Al Anon was not the right fit for me. I searched endlessly for somewhere to talk about what I was experiencing outside of therapy, with people going through what I was experiencing. I yearned for connection, and for someone to confirm I was not crazy. I wanted to be able to speak openly about what my life was like and the obstacles I faced.

I never found it.

Boundaries

Coming to the realization that I was in an abusive relationship was not a single “ah ha” moment like you see in the movies. For me, it was a gradual feeling. I was losing weight, I lost sleep and was underperforming at work, and I no longer recognized myself in the mirror. I desperately needed something to change.

Slowly, I started taking steps to protect myself and my children, and shift the focus. I stopped filming and no longer searched the house for bottles or poured booze down the sink. I no longer kept tabs on his location. I kept us busy by taking the kids to the movies or to the park. I stopped debating with him as to whether he had been drinking. On weekends, I escaped to my parents’ house with the kids. I consistently had a bag packed and ready to go if things felt unsafe. I did all of this to prioritize my happiness and safety. I knew that I needed to move from a state of confusion to a state of confidence and trust in myself.

Recovery from loving an addict or narcissist is not linear. I still catch myself wondering where he is, and why he has abandoned his children. But his story is no longer mine to follow. It is for him to seek help and travel his own path of recovery. If he does, we will support him from afar with encouragement and kindness without investment in the result.

Your reality is not what they tell you it is. If you are experiencing abuse of this nature, there is help. There is recovery. There is a big, beautiful life where we do not need to rescue others. Be confident in your truth. Time does not track our mistakes made in the height of this brutal chaos; instead, it holds space for us once we decide we no longer wish to live in a state of fight or flight.

Keep going.

It was August. I recall sitting on my yoga mat, tears running down my face, asking the universe for answers. What next? How do I escape this daily hell? My babies were only two and four years old. My husband had just received his first DUI, lost his job (for the third time in our relationship), and had been roaming the house like a zombie for over a month. I was a shell of myself. I desperately hoped he would get sober, knew that was out of my control, but was too weak to make the decision to leave. Until that day.

Sitting in front of my (then) therapist, I pleaded for answers. Of course, she could not tell me what I needed to do. She could, however, provide information that may help to resolve my indecisiveness. I loved him and wanted him to get better, but the alcoholism was getting worse every day. My children were witnessing it. I wanted more for them, better for them. It was toxic, and completely unhealthy. During our session, she said “Children, for the most part, don’t remember much before they turn 5.” I sat with that. Blank stare. My oldest had just turned 4.

When I got home that afternoon, he was passed out in the basement after finishing his morning routine of drinking coffee while pretending to look for work, followed by a vodka binge after I left the house. Gosh, how I hated vodka. To this day I cannot stand the sight of a vodka bottle or even the mere mention of the word. Where was I? Right. When I returned home, the house was in disarray, the kids were tired and hungry, and once again, their father was too drunk to parent. Her words echoed. Children don’t remember much from before they turn 5.

In the days that followed, I quietly started purging household items, organizing rooms, touching up paint, and arranging for minor repairs to the house. One day, when he had disappeared yet again, I called our realtor friend. “Please come and take photos and draft a contract to sell the house.” In one hour, the process was complete. The house was ready to be listed; I just needed him to sign the contract. I prayed he would sign. For two weeks, I begged and pleaded. “We need to be done. This isn’t working. Please sign, you can take your half of the proceeds, and we can go our separate ways.” One night, while he was out at a bar, I got the text.

“I signed the agreement. Go ahead and list it.” Suddenly, I could breathe again. I was on a path out of this nightmare.

What followed was nothing short of a new type of rollercoaster. The house sold in 24 hours. The buyers wanted multiple visits before closing to measure rooms and conduct inspections. My littlest had been sick for what felt like months. I was exhausted and fragile. I was working 9-5, picking up the boys from daycare, rushing home to feed, bathe, and put them to bed, and staying up late packing. I had not found a new home for us yet. At times, I look back on those days and wonder how I survived.

I searched for a new home. Nothing fit, nothing felt like the place I wanted to land for this new chapter. Until one day, I pulled up to a house that had just been put on the market. Kids played in the street, neighbours smiled when I exited my car. I knew this was going to be it. My offer was accepted after a bidding war. Exhale.

He left one month before the house closed and moved into an apartment downtown. I was alone with the boys, often up all night packing and working all day.

Closing day arrived in October. Our home was empty; the movers pulled away with the last of our belongings, and headed to the new house. I cleaned and mopped the rooms with care before glancing back and closing each door. The bedrooms that held cribs and first big-boy beds, closets that held their tiny clothes-all empty. One hour remained until the buyers took possession. I put the key in the front door and locked it one final time. Memories of those first years with my babies in that home flooded my mind. New tears rolled down my face. I was so scared. What on earth was I doing? How was I going to do this all alone? Was I strong enough? I quieted my mind and repeated an inner mantra: we are going to be ok. We are going to be safe. I will find my way back to myself again. I walked down the steps to my car, glancing back for just a moment as I drove away.

I left before they turned 5.

My name is Angela, and I am a solo-mom of two beautiful boys. I have survived many toxic relationships, and most recently, one with the father of my children—a good man who suffered from substance abuse issues.

The chaos in my relationship came in different shapes and forms:

1. I walked on eggshells, often struggling to confront my partner about my concerns with his drinking;

2. I was raising babies, and constantly worried for their safety in his presence;

3. So. Much. Gaslighting;

4. I tried a thousand different ways to “save” him, while slowly losing myself;

5. I searched for hidden alcohol throughout our house, often at the expense of my sleep (and sanity!);

6. He lost many jobs, resulting in ongoing financial stress and worry;

7. He remained concerned only for himself, lacked empathy for me, and made many selfish (and often dangerous) decisions;

8. I did not have the support of his family. In fact, I would hear things like “well there are two sides to every story, Angela” after an evening of emotional abuse when he was blackout drunk;

9. I felt alone, afraid, and burnt out;

10. Although I tried Al Anon many times, it was not a great fit for me. I searched for outlets but found none.

Hard Truths

When we love someone who is a narcissist and/or addict, we often lose sight of what is best for ourselves. We make excuses for them—clean up their messes, lie for them, forgive too easily and quickly. Slowly, this erodes our sense of self and our ability to maintain our sanity. When I was married to the father of my children, someone said to me “if one of your children were in a relationship like this, what advice would you give them?” Leave! That is the advice. If only it were that easy.

To Stay or Go?

This question often takes us on a very non-linear path. My hope is simply to share stories, and provide some light amidst the chaos.

So tell me, how do you struggle?