Irish is on Day 3 of going through nicotine withdrawals. He woke up on Sunday morning, announced it was going to be a shitty day, and then made damn sure it was.

He’s been yelling at the dog, slamming doors, going out for walks he promptly returns from, binge-watching TV in bed, hoovering up the fudge I made on Sunday, and making a production of staring moodily out the kitchen window while making coffee in the microwave.

He’s acting every bit of the child he is any time he has to experience the slightest discomfort.

The two passive-aggressive things he’s done that I’ve enjoyed witnessing are:

  • Rummaging through every goddamn drawer in the apartment. He’s looking for on! boxes that might still have a nicotine pouch or two left in them. Of course, all the boxes are empty and I never understood why he put them in the drawers in the first place.
  • Counting the empty cans in the recycling bag in the kitchen. This is a veiled threat that he’ll resort to collecting cans again to get money for his fix.

The fact that I haven’t asked him, “What are you doing?” or commented on his behavior in any way has pissed him off even more. I haven’t said more than a dozen words to him since he began throwing his fit.

What Irish doesn’t fully understand is that I’m the Ice Queen. I once went without speaking to my ex-husband for three weeks. THREE WEEKS of not speaking to someone who lived in the same house as me. This has only been three days.

I’m just getting started.

Not My Idea, But I’m Getting Blamed For It

Let me be clear here. Giving up nicotine was Irish’s idea. Not mine.

But he’s blaming me for it because I’m the one with the job and now that job doesn’t pay enough for him to have what he wants.

Since things have been getting financially worse for us the longer my job search is going, I haven’t been pulling any punches about how long we’ve got until my savings run out. My part-time writing income barely covers our basic Netflix plan, phone, internet, electric bill, and Irish’s gym membership. This month was even worse because I had to renew the hosting for my website and Irish needed sweatshirts since the weather has turned cold.

I earn enough to pay our bills, but not our rent or our household supplies.

The reality of our situation must have finally gotten through to Irish. Most months his on! pouches cost just over $80 a month. For the past two weeks, he cut back to $14 a week.

During dinner on Saturday night, he said it was time to quit the pouches because, “As my dad used to say, if you can’t afford something then you don’t need it.”

I’m not going to lie. When he said that, my instinct was to fire back with, “You can’t afford anything because you don’t work,” or “I told you months ago we couldn’t afford it, but it didn’t stop you back then.”

Instead, I said nothing. I already knew how this was going to go because we’ve been through it before.

It Gets (So Much) Worse Before it Gets Better

Irish went into rehab in May of this year (2023). He started his first day after staying out all night long. The UA he gave that morning had the highest levels of methamphetamines the staff has ever seen.

It was like he wanted them to know what he was capable of.

For the next month, he put me through a new kind of hell I didn’t expect. On his best day, it was like living with a ridiculously spoiled and entitled teenager. On the really bad days, it was like living with a raging two-year-old you wish you could sell to the gypsies.

I hated Irish. Like, hated him…so, so much. I constantly imagined taking Barney, running away, and never coming back. There were plenty of days I regretted ever meeting Irish. A few times I even wanted to be dead.

It was a classic “be careful what you wish for because you just might get it” scenario: After three years Irish finally goes into recovery but by the time he graduates from the program, we’ll have split up.

I Felt Like I Was Losing My Mind

Sometimes when Irish deliberately provoked me for a long period, I fought back and screamed at him. Things I was sure I would take to the grave came out of my mouth. Granted, they were all true. I just never imagined I would ever say them out loud to him.

What I did most of the time was shut down and not engage with him at all. As I mentioned, the silent treatment is my special mutant power. I’m an Aries who can go from fire to ice in a microsecond and then build an ice castle to live in.

While I may have looked calm and stony on the outside, there was an emotional hurricane happening on the inside. I questioned my sanity and doubted every decision I’d made about choosing a life with Irish. I beat myself up repeatedly and kept concluding that the best course of action was not to be alive anymore.

Whoever said that depression is anger turned inward was right.

I didn’t just hate Irish. I hated myself.

Where’s My Support?

I get it — rehab focuses on the addict. It makes sense because they’re the one putting substances in their body and then making a dumpster fire of their life. Getting an addict to stop using the substance to save their life is the immediate priority.

After that, rehab addresses the emotional issues behind the addictive behavior, healthy behaviors to replace the old ones, coping skills to safeguard against potential relapse, action plans if relapse does occur, and resources to build a new life that has no room for addiction.

But here’s the thing. Addiction doesn’t just affect the person who’s using the substances. It affects nearly everyone they come into contact with — loved ones get the brunt of it. During rehab, an addict’s immediate family can become emotional punching bags.

This has been the case since Irish started rehab.

Where was my counseling to help me know how to handle his immature outbursts? What was my response supposed to be when he obsessed over things he wanted that we couldn’t afford? Who could I ask for help when he said things like “Fuck it. I’ll just get clean later because obviously, this isn’t the time”? When was I supposed to not engage and when was I supposed to call him out on his bad behavior?

And how in the hell was I supposed to find the time for this when I was working myself to exhaustion all week long to support us on a low-paying hourly rate?

I briefly looked into Al-Anon as an option. I quickly realized it wasn’t the crowd for me. The counselor I had Zoom meetings with for my mental health issues offered what she could, but we both agreed the situation called for specialized counseling.

Unfortunately, I was never able to find it.

Peaks and Valleys

Eventually, things started improving as Irish neared his 90-day sobriety mark. Over the summer, he seemed confident the worst was behind us. I didn’t share his certainty, and I told him I expected more ups and downs were waiting for us.

He insisted I was wrong because he felt like he’d learned all the coping methods he’d ever need. Again, I was less optimistic, but I dropped the subject.

Our moments of happiness have always been tenuous — it takes so little to bring one of his sulks on. They often occur whenever Irish has to hear the word “no.”

I’m ashamed to admit he didn’t hear it as much as our finances needed it to be said this year.

Leaning Into My Special Mutant Powers

The past few days have been deja vu from seven months ago. At this moment, Irish is in the bedroom, pouting at a world-class level. I’m writing this to get it out of my head so that I can get started on my writing assignments for the week.

Nicotine was the other addiction Irish still had in his life. Even though he earned no money to support the habit, he felt entitled to it and expected me to provide the money for it. Now that I’ve suffered a downturn in my freelancing income, it’s caused discomfort for him.

He feels justified in making me the villain.

Sunday night I slept in the living room on Barney’s dog bed (since he never uses it at night). Last night Irish took the living room floor, and Barney and I slept in the bedroom.

I don’t know how long this fit is going to last. Usually by now, Irish has realized he’s being an infant and he’s found some way to break the tension. But he’s going for the gold this time.

I’ve done nothing wrong. Irish is experiencing what real adulting feels like, maybe for the first time in his life. It’s about not always getting everything you want.

Until then, I’ve got a three-week record I’m pretty sure I can break.