When Love Isn’t Enough (Part 3): The Grief of Watching Someone Stay Alive but Lost to Addiction
It’s been six weeks since I last saw him. Six weeks since the man I love vanished into the fog of his addiction. Yet he’s still here, somewhere – texting me late at night with apologies, promising “I’m going to do the right thing… I’ll make this right, it’s long overdue.” Each time, his words spark a flicker of hope. And each time, reality snuffs it out when no action follows.
I continue to tell him I care, offer help, and wait for a miracle that hasn’t come. In the meantime, I’m left with a profound, confusing sorrow. How do you grieve someone who is still alive? It sounds illogical, even dramatic, yet that’s exactly what my heart is doing. I wake up each day with an ache as if I’m mourning a loved one – and in a way, I am. The person he used to be feels lost, buried somewhere under the addiction. There’s a name for this kind of pain: ambiguous grief. Experts affirm that you absolutely can mourn someone who’s alive, and that this grief can be just as intense as mourning a death, sometimes even more so, because there’s no closure or condolence casseroles from friends. As one parent described watching their addicted child: “There is no other word for it but grief when your child is lost in the haze of substance use… It is a silent grief that no one talks about. It is buried in shame and despair.” Though my loved one is not my child, those words ring true. I feel that silent, lonely grief every day – a pain no funeral ever sanctified, a loss no one else may recognize, because technically nothing “official” has been lost. But I have lost so much: conversations, trust, the simple comfort of his presence. I miss him, even as I speak with him. I mourn the spark in his eyes that has dimmed.
A Silent Struggle Between Love and Letting Go
Staying in contact with someone in active addiction is an emotional rollercoaster of hope, fear, love, and helplessness. One moment, I’m texting him resources for treatment, pouring every ounce of encouragement I have into reassuring him he can get better. The next moment, I’m curled up crying, realizing I can’t make him take the first step. It’s a tormenting limbo: I still love him, I still talk to him, I still hope… and I still feel utterly powerless.
Friends gently ask why I keep holding on. Others, less gentle, have said, “You need to detach and let him hit rock bottom. Otherwise you’re just enabling him.” I understand the logic – I really do. I’ve heard the terms “enabler” and “codependent” more times than I can count. In theory, I should just let go. But in reality, letting go of someone you love as they self-destruct is excruciating. When I consider pulling back, a tidal wave of guilt and panic rises: What if by leaving, I doom him? What if my support was the last thing keeping him alive? On the other hand, when I stay close and involved, I feel myself drowning too – my anxiety skyrockets with every unanswered call or broken promise. It often feels like there’s no “right” thing to do. Hold on, and I hurt. Let go, and I hurt.
This is the impossible tightrope so many of us walk when someone we love is addicted. We try to be a lifeline, but sometimes end up tied in knots ourselves. I’ve found myself checking my phone dozens of times a day, heart pounding until I see his reply. I offer anything to steer him toward recovery. I’ve said things like, “I’ll be right here when you’re ready for help,” and I mean it with every fiber of my being. But the painful truth is, I can’t carry him into getting clean. I can extend my hand, but I cannot drag him onto the lifeboat. He has to step on himself, and until then I’m stuck watching him drift, always fearing the worst.
Each conversation with him leaves me emotionally exhausted. I put down the phone and feel a mix of relief (he’s alive and talking ) and despair (he’s still using, still lost). I go to bed with my mind racing: Is there something else I could say or do to save him? By morning, I’m texting a “Good morning, I believe in you, you can do this” message, because I don’t know how not to. Loving an addict sometimes feels like being haunted – they are here, yet not here. You’re talking to a ghost of who the person once was, desperately trying to call them back to life.
The Hard Truth of Codependency
At some point in this harrowing journey, I had to face a difficult question: Am I helping him, or hurting us both? I realized that my relentless efforts, born from love, might actually be enabling him to remain stuck. This was a gut-punch of a realization. I always thought of codependency as a dirty word – something shameful, something other people struggled with. Yet here I am, living it in real time. Professionals define codependency as a relationship where one person has extreme needs and the other person spends most of their time responding to those needs, to the detriment of their own life. That’s me in a nutshell. I’ve been so laser-focused on his needs – making sure he’s safe, not upset, not using (in vain) – that I’ve neglected nearly everything else in my life. My own well-being, my social connections, my work, even basic things like eating and sleeping properly, have all taken a backseat.
If I’m honest, I barely recognize myself. I’ve become someone whose entire existence revolves around another person’s illness. My self-esteem has dwindled to the point where I measure my day’s worth by whether I helped him or not. That’s a classic hallmark of codependency: losing your boundaries and sense of self, and feeling responsible for another’s life choices. I find it hard to pull away or say “no” – I worry he’ll think I don’t care, or worse, that he’ll spiral further if I’m not there to catch him. In trying to save him, I’ve been sinking myself. This is the dark spiral of codependency: the more I take care of everything for him, the more he’s able to continue destructive behaviors… and the more I lose myself.
Coming to terms with this has been painful. I’ve had moments of defensiveness – I’m just being supportive, not codependent! – but deep down I know the truth. It doesn’t mean my love isn’t real; it means my love turned into an attempt to control what I cannot control. I see now that I was trying to play the hero in his story, when it’s not my role to fill. There’s a fine line between support and enablement, and I’ve teetered on it for too long. Admitting this isn’t about blaming myself (haven’t we been blamed enough?). It’s about understanding that my behavior is also part of the equation, and that I need healing too.
Most importantly, I’m learning that even my own patterns won’t change overnight. Just as he can’t snap his fingers and be sober, I can’t wake up tomorrow and suddenly stop worrying, stop caring, stop wanting to reach out. I still love him deeply; those feelings don’t vanish. What can change – slowly – is how I respond to those feelings. I can begin to shift my focus gently back to myself. I can learn to set boundaries that honor my need for peace, one small step at a time. I can start practicing something they call “detaching with love” – which means I continue to love him, but I let go of my attempt to control his outcome.
Learning to Let Go -Without Giving Up Hope
Letting go does not mean I’ve stopped loving him or stopped hoping for his recovery. It means I’m accepting a very hard truth: I cannot save him; only he can save himself. No amount of my love can substitute for his own will to change. This truth is agonizing to embrace, but it also brings a strange kind of relief once I say it out loud. I’m beginning to understand what seasoned families of addicts often recite as the “Three C’s” – I didn’t cause it. I can’t control it. I can’t cure it. Hearing that relate to me the first time hit me like a brick. How could I, who loves him so much, not be able to fix this? But the more I sat with it, the more I realized those three C’s are a lifeline for me. They remind me that his addiction is not my fault, and it’s not within my power to solve. Accepting “I didn’t cause it, I can’t cure it, and I can’t control it” frees me from a crushing burden of guilt and responsibility .
What I can do is set healthier boundaries and take care of myself. This doesn’t happen in one grand moment of enlightenment – it’s a slow, day-by-day process. I still catch myself reaching for the phone to check on him, but I’m practicing pausing and asking: Is this for him, or is it to ease my own anxiety? If it’s the latter, I try to find another outlet – call a friend, write in my journal, go for a walk. Sometimes I falter and make the call anyway; I give myself grace for that. Remember, our own behaviors and hearts need time to heal, too.
Healing from codependency and heartbreak is a journey, just as recovery is for the addict. I am slowly learning to let go of the illusion of control while keeping love in my heart. I haven’t given up on him – I still pray he finds his way to sobriety – but I am giving up the idea that I can force or will that outcome. Instead, I’m redirecting that energy toward compassion for both of us. I’m allowing myself to grieve the relationship as it once was and In the meantime, I choose my recovery from this cycle.
Before, I thought letting go was an abandonment, a betrayal. Now I see it differently: it’s an act of love – for him and for me. I’m stepping back and giving him the dignity to chart his own path, however perilous it might be, because ultimately it’s his path. And I’m giving myself permission to live again, to find moments of peace and even joy, despite this unresolved pain.
If you are in this difficult space – loving someone who is still out there in the grip of addiction – I want to gently tell you what I’m slowly telling myself: take care of your heart. You can love someone fully and still set boundaries to protect yourself. You can hope for them and still choose to heal yourself. It doesn’t make you selfish; it makes you healthy. We can’t pour from an empty cup, and right now our cups have been drained dry by worry and sorrow. It’s okay – indeed necessary – to refill your own cup, drop by drop.
Remember: you don’t have to do this alone. Just as there are programs for those struggling with addiction, there are also support groups and resources for those of us who love them. Reaching out for help is not a sign of weakness; it’s a sign of strength and self-care. Below, I’ve listed a few national resources that offer understanding, community, and guidance. These organizations have helped countless families and partners find sanity and hope, even while their loved one is still using. If you see yourself in my story, consider giving one of these a try – even if it’s just to listen in at first. You deserve support too.
You Are Not Alone: Resources for Support
• Al-Anon Family Groups – A worldwide fellowship for relatives and friends of people with alcohol addiction (or any addiction). Al-Anon members are people just like you, who are worried about someone they love . Free meetings (in-person and online) offer shared strength and hope.
• Nar-Anon Family Groups – A 12-step support program for families and friends of individuals struggling with drug addiction . It provides a community of empathy, with the guiding principle that you are not responsible for your loved one’s disease or recovery.
• SMART Recovery Family & Friends – A science-based, secular support program for those affected by a loved one’s addictive behavior. SMART F&F teaches tools for setting healthy boundaries and coping, based on cognitive-behavioral techniques and empathy . Meetings are available online and in various local communities.
• SAMHSA National Helpline (1-800-662-HELP) – A free, confidential 24/7 hotline by the U.S. Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration. It offers treatment referrals and information for individuals and families facing substance use issues . You can call anytime to find services like counseling, support groups, or rehab facilities in your area.
(For readers outside the U.S., similar helplines and family support groups exist in many countries – you’re not alone either.)
I am learning that I can love someone with my whole heart and still not be able to save them. Letting go, for me, means loving them enough to allow them to find their own path, while I find mine.