Sept 12, 2021 – At the height of his addiction, Mike was so saturated by alcohol and anxiety he was barely able to think or function normally. He was nervous, wired, aggressive and primed to snap, his mental health so wrecked he had almost no control over his thoughts or actions.
He’d often say he needed calm, to stop me spouting all the angry, upset things he couldn’t bear to hear, however justified they were, and just get some damn quiet. He just wanted to STOP the noise screaming in his brain.
One evening, five months into his deepest, worst drinking phase, which had seen his mood swings and aggression rise steeply, we were having a heated argument in our bedroom when it all got too much for him: he stepped forward and pushed my head with the palm of his hand, with no pause to think what it might do to me; just to stop the talking for a second. I staggered backwards into the door of the wardrobe, barely registering what was happening before he leaned in, pressed his sweaty forehead against mine, beer-stained breath panting into my face, teeth clenched, and whispered, “I f***ing hate you. I want to stab you to death right now. I do. I want to stab you with knives.”
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