08.25.25
13 years ago today, my ex-husband, Andrew, lost his battle with opioid addiction and took his own life. For years, I buried my grief in alcohol, unable—or unwilling—to face the pain. Through working the Twelve Steps and with the guidance of my therapist, I’ve finally begun to confront and process that grief instead of running from it.
I’ve been waiting for this date, because it marks the first anniversary of his death that I am truly dealing with it, rather than numbing myself. For the first time, I can begin to put it behind me and move forward with peace.
Today, I want to share my amends letter to Andrew. Writing it has lifted a burden I carried far too long, and in many ways, it has given me a sense of freedom I didn’t think was possible.
Dear Andrew,
There’s so much I wish I could say to you face to face, but since I can’t, I’m writing this letter from my heart, with love, regret, and newfound understanding.
When we were together, I didn’t understand addiction. I didn’t understand what you were going through or what it meant to struggle with something so consuming. I know now that addiction is a disease—one that twists reality and steals people away from their true selves. But back then, I just saw the chaos, the pain, and the danger it brought into our lives, and I didn’t know how to respond.
I was angry and frustrated, and that’s why I left—but more than anything, I was scared. I was scared for my safety and the safety of my daughter. When you were out of your mind high, I didn’t recognize you. The man I once loved disappeared, and in his place was someone unpredictable, volatile, and at times, violent. The mental and physical abuse broke something in me—something that told me I had to go. I needed to protect both of us, even if it meant walking away from someone I still cared about.
I regret how completely I shut down after that. I regret cutting you off when maybe, deep down, you were reaching out for help. I didn’t know enough to see that at the time. I didn’t know enough to ask if you wanted help. I just knew I had to survive.
Now, as an alcoholic in recovery myself, I understand more than I ever could have back then. I know what it’s like to feel trapped by something you can’t control. I know what it’s like to hurt the people you love. And I know now that you can’t help someone who isn’t ready—but that doesn’t mean it was wrong to hope, or to try. And for not trying, I am deeply sorry.
I can’t say things would have turned out differently between us, and I’m not writing this to rewrite history. But I do wish I had found a way to respond with more compassion, even in my fear. I wish I could have separated you from the disease more clearly in my mind.
This letter doesn’t erase the past, but I hope it honors it. I hope that, wherever you are, you’ve found the peace you couldn’t find in life. And I hope you know that your story has helped shape my own healing. I carry your memory with sorrow, love, and the lessons I continue to learn—one day at a time.
Leave a Reply