N8tivegirl

I can’t pinpoint when it began, or how it managed to slip in unnoticed. All I know is this: somewhere along the way, a mistress entered our marriage. She became your comfort, your escape, your quiet addiction. And without warning, I became the third wheel in my own covenant.

Night after night, I watched you reach for her instead of me. You said she helped you relax. You said she relieved the stress. But I felt the shift long before the words ever left your mouth. I felt her presence in the way your eyes changed, in the way your voice sharpened, in the way the loneliness wrapped around me like a second skin.

You loved the way she made you feel.

You loved the way she made you speak.

And when you were intoxicated by her touch, I heard a side of you that wasn’t born from truth — but from bondage.

They say a good woman brings out the best or the worst in a man. And there were days I wondered if she was the good woman and I was somehow the problem. I prayed through the storms, believing God could carry us through anything. But while I clung to Him, you clung to her.

Somewhere between success and struggle, she became your safe place. When life was heavy, you ran to her. When life was good, you celebrated with her. And all the while, I was disappearing right in front of you — spiritually, mentally, emotionally.

Loneliness became my roommate.

Silence became my nightly companion.

Your hangovers became my heartbreak.

I woke up each morning praying for the man I married to return to me. I begged you to get help. I pleaded for counseling, for conversation, for any sign that you still saw me. But you refused to acknowledge the problem. You said you were fine. You said I exaggerated. You said I was overreacting.

You became the very man you swore you’d never become.

And I became the woman you said you’d always protect.

I carried the weight of our home on my shoulders.

I became your caretaker, your covering, your stability.

I watched you pass out on the couch and laid blankets over you — the same way a wife should be covered by her husband.

The roles had reversed, and I never volunteered for the job.

I listened to you despise your father, unaware that you were walking in his footsteps. You talked down to me, treated me like an accessory instead of a partner, and dismissed my pain as imagination. You forgot I was your wife — not your enemy, not your inconvenience, and certainly not your interruption.

And intimacy…

Intimacy became something scheduled, rushed, or avoided.

I didn’t want to be penciled into your life.

I wanted to be part of it.

But the truth is, a stranger took your place long before your body ever left this marriage.

Your eyes lost their light.

Your face carried shadows.

Your sleep turned restless and gray.

That’s the price of loving a mistress who drains instead of gives.

And still, I blamed myself.

Did I push too hard?

Did I love wrong?

Did I fail you in ways I couldn’t see?

But deep down, I know the truth:

This wasn’t about me.

It was always you.

Every morning you told yourself, “That was the last time.”

Every afternoon you told yourself, “I can handle it.”

Every evening you poured another glass and whispered,

“It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

And what most people enjoy socially… became your lifestyle.

So here it is — the truth I feared to speak out loud:

Your mistress is alcohol.

And you desire her more than you desire me.

I’ve stood beside you at events where you were too drunk to notice men approaching me, touching me, disrespecting me — because you weren’t sober enough to defend your own wife. You told me it was in my head. You thought it was flattering. You forgot your vows: to honor me, to cherish me, to protect me.

And on nights when you insisted on driving, I feared for my life because the man holding the keys wasn’t the man I married.

I’ve endured the slap, the shove, the words you later claimed you didn’t remember. I’ve endured the blame you placed on me because you couldn’t face the mirror. I became an extension of your self-hatred — the target you aimed at because the bottle made you brave.

But I am not your punching bag.

And I am not your sin to carry.

I should have known when one drink after dinner became two and three.

When stress sent you walking toward the cabinet instead of toward me.

When emotional storms pushed you into her arms instead of God’s.

I stood by you through unemployment, heartbreak, disappointment, and shame.

I prayed over you.

I covered you.

I defended you.

I believed in you.

Because I am your help-meet.

And I took my vows seriously.

But vows aren’t weapons.

And marriage isn’t meant to be survival.

So here we are — at the crossroads I never asked for, yet can no longer avoid.

You must decide who you will serve.

As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.

You cannot serve two masters.

You cannot drink life from God and death from the bottle.

You cannot love me and your mistress at the same time.

I believe we can overcome this — but not like this.

Not with me giving 80% and you giving 20%.

Not with me fighting for a marriage you’re too numb to feel.

You traded the 80% — a caring, loving, faithful wife — for the 20% that seemed exciting in the moment.

But moments fade.

And consequences remain.

So today, I am asking you:

Will you choose life?

Or will you remain married to your mistress?

Because I am still here — tired, hurting, but hopeful — if you are willing to fight for us.

But I will not compete with the bottle.

Not anymore.