This isn’t the part I wanted to write. Honestly, I considered skipping it entirely and blaming “technical difficulties.” But I can’t tell you the whole story without telling you how we got here.

Because up to this point, what you’ve read could be illustrated as dozens of fingers pointing at Eric. But that’s unfair. It takes two to tango—and we were square dancing, to techno.

On our honeymoon I was an anxious wreck.

I wanted to blame it on Eric—his drinking, his weed smoking, cigarettes. 🤮 This wasn’t the man I fell in love with. In fact, I fell for him partly because he didn’t do any of those things.

Yet …here I was. Once again in a relationship with an addict. We can unpack that whole mess another time.

The anxiety I felt on my honeymoon was not all Eric’s fault. I was anxious because I was hiding something.

So while a finger may have been pointing at Eric… the rest on both hands could point back at me while asking “who did he fall in love with?”

When he met me, I looked pretty darn good on paper. Living in my own place. Holding a good job at a web development firm.

But what he didn’t know was that I had a heaping mound of debt that was causing me enormous stress. I was robbing from Peter to pay Paul and he didn’t have a clue. He assumed my stress was from starting a new business.

Which was in fact true.

But how would he feel knowing that when I quit my job to start a web design business (with no real plan) I was dragging a mountain of debt behind me?

I was terrified to tell him and of how he would look at me and what it would do to him. What it would do to us.

But it was gnawing at me.

Big time.

And how would he feel that I had waited to tell him, after the wedding, instead of after our pastor opened the floor to both of us to divulge anything heavy during our pre-marital counseling session.

When I said nothing. My lips were sealed tighter than Tupperware in a microwave.

Here’s where I could absolutely berate myself for being a total moron.

How much I wish I could go back and teach myself how not to make all the mistakes I had made.

But instead of beating myself up, I have learned to forgive myself. Partly because I now know why my brain is the way it is and that a lifetime of struggling with ADHD is the reason for hundreds of regrets due to rash decision making.

And money management with ADHD?

Picture a squirrel frantically gathering nuts for winter—then forgetting which tree he hid them in and giving away the rest at whim.

Yeah. That’s about right. 🐿️

One other fun fact: Shame Avoidance and ADHD is also a thing. And don’t even get me started on Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria (RSD).

But I didn’t know any of that back then.

I only knew that Eric deserved the truth and I hated what I knew I had to do.

So, holding onto the belief that God had brought him into my life, gave me the courage to tell him.

And so I did.

I don’t recall how I told him or exactly what I said, or where I said it, and I don’t recall his reaction. It’s been conveniently plucked from my memory.

Side note: If this didn’t give him fuel later on to keep things from me that he didn’t want me to know… just sayin’.

And then I told my parents.

Their only words: “We wish we could help you, but we can’t.”
I wasn’t asking for help. I just thought they deserved to know.

The mess only got messier from there.

There was the condo I co-owned with my sister—the one tied up in the HELOC loan I had taken out to qualify for my mortgage to consolidate my debt. This was the bank’s idea, not mine.

The only thing I knew for sure:
My sister wasn’t going to pay for my mistakes. No one but me should pay for my mistakes.

So, with the help of a bankruptcy lawyer (same one Eric’s uncle had used years earlier), I filed for Chapter 13 instead of Chapter 7.

It was grueling, but it protected her.

And Eric—shocked, hurt, upset—still supported me.

Even when he said, at one point, “If I’d known, I probably wouldn’t have married you.”
(Which—ouch—but also… fair.)

He didn’t say it to hurt me.
He said it because he knew it would’ve been easier for me, and for us to get through it all without his income being a factor.

Totally true. But still not words any newlywed wants to hear from their spouse.

But he stayed.
And we pushed on.

And then… amidst the chaos came Ethan.

We got pregnant on our one-year anniversary trip to Costa Rica.

Eric had heard about a couple who was selling their surf charter business and it had always been his dream to own one. He had been terminated from the job he had when I met him so we took it as a sign to finally pursue a dream.

It felt reckless. It was reckless.

Go to Costa Rica penniless and get pregnant.

Sounds like the title to a Jimmy Buffet song, doesn’t it? 🌺

(Also, let me just say:
Drugs and alcohol = terrible life decisions.
There. I said it.)

We had a large time in Costa Rica despite the fact that most evenings I would go to bed irritated with him while he hung out at the local watering hole. Drinking and smoking mota, speaking his obnoxious Spanglish with the locals. And yet still somehow I got pregnant.

Even though Eric had basically promised half the village a job once we bought the surf charter business, we left Costa Rica with no real intention—or plan—to ever go back. Not only was the charter boat a hot mess, so were we. And, by the grace of God, we had just enough sense left to recognize it wasn’t something we could—or should—pursue.

So we came home and did what we’d always done when life got messy: we hustled. We leaned on our networks, took whatever jobs we could, and tried to make it work. The connections we’d built over the years—through former jobs, side gigs, and a few gracious friends—helped us get back on our feet faster than we probably deserved. It was a patchwork of opportunities, but it paid the bills.

And just when I thought I might have to start designing websites for dog groomers and real estate agents again—using their homemade logos in Comic Sans, mind you—the company I’d left a year earlier called me out of the blue. They offered me my old job back as an account manager. Not my dream job, but with a baby on the way, and the memory of pastel paw prints and flaming WordArt still fresh in my mind, I wasn’t about to be picky—especially when it came with health insurance.

Eric, meanwhile, got a job offer in Mississippi and left just a few weeks later. We told ourselves it was temporary, just long enough to get back on our feet. But while I was growing a baby, juggling a full-time job, and trying not to vomit every time I passed a microwave burrito, he was sliding deeper into the very habits I had hoped would fade. Especially with a baby on the way. I kept thinking: surely this will snap us out of it. Surely this will be the turning point. But addiction doesn’t care if you’re expecting.

Long-distance marriage? Not for the faint of heart. Long-distance marriage while one person is nesting and the other is numbing? That’s a recipe for some future posts.

Before we fill in those giant gaps, I feel compelled to jump back into what led me to writing this blog in the first place.

Where did I leave us? Let’s see: Eric was out of the hospital, and we were home. Ethan started the 5th grade. And we started the process of getting our 💩 together.

I parked the car in front of Virginia Beach General, turned to my brother, and said, “Well, here goes nothin’.” At least, that’s what I think I said. But as I’ve mentioned before—some details are lost.

I don’t remember walking through the parking lot toward the hospital. I’m sure we passed a tree, and I probably wanted to grab onto it and refuse to let go—just to avoid whatever was waiting inside.

Eric was up on the fourth floor in the psychiatric ward. The hours—days, really—that passed from his arrest to admission are ones I’ll let him describe in his own words in a later post.

All I knew at this point was that he was mad at me for putting him in there.

And just as I feared, during our visit, Eric asked who had called the police. My brother confessed. Then we both tried to reassure him it had been our only option.

Not only was Eric upset, but he still wasn’t himself. Whatever had a hold of his mind hadn’t let go. He wasn’t manic anymore—but he wasn’t Eric either.

It was devastating.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, I looked at my brother and said, “He’s not OK.”

He quietly replied, “No. He’s not.”

When I walked into my parents’ living room and saw my mother’s face—waiting, bracing for the verdict—I collapsed beside her on the couch and sobbed, burying my head in her lap like a child.

The rest of that week is a blur. Ethan stayed with friends in North Carolina, and I stayed in Virginia with my family.

Somehow—don’t ask how—Kate, my brother, and I ended up at a Dave Matthews Band concert. Kate had never been to one, so we figured, why not? Maybe it would lift our spirits.

And then they played The Space Between.

The lyrics hit hard. Like, sob-in-the-middle-of-a-crowd hard. It was as if Dave himself knew which song from his repertoire would land right in the chest of the woman whose husband had just been committed. Kate wrapped her arms around me as I cried, both of us realizing how absurd it had been to think we could outrun the heaviness of what was happening.

I look forward to the day we can have a proper do-over for her first DMB concert. So many of mine have been unforgettable for the right reasons. Funny how we thought this one might be too.

Later that week, I returned for a second visit—this time with Kate, who has always been my ride or die in the truest sense. She didn’t hesitate when I asked her to come, even though it was the last place either of us wanted to be. The three of us sat together while Eric showed us his journaling and sketches. There was something childlike about the way he shared them—his voice, his expressions, the raw openness. It didn’t feel like we were sitting with my husband. It felt like we were sitting with a boy lost in a grown man’s body.

After our visit we both agreed that Eric still wasn’t ready to come home.

When it was time to leave, I hugged Eric goodbye, and I could feel how much of him still wasn’t there. It wasn’t just the medication or the sterile walls or the weight of the week—it was something deeper. Like the light had gone dim, and no one knew how to flip the switch.

Two days later I was finally able to speak with the psychiatrist on duty. I was prepared to hear him say my husband would be there for at least a month. I needed time to figure out what to do. So as much as I hated leaving him there, knowing he hated it too, I needed time. I didn’t know what to do.

Instead, the doctor told me Eric was being released. That day.

I was shocked. How could that be? I wasn’t prepared. The man I had lived with—the man in that hospital—he was not my husband.

But with no other choice, I drove to pick him up. My brother headed south to pick up Ethan so he’d be there when we returned with his dad—who he hadn’t seen in seven days.

When Eric finally emerged from the double doors of the ward, the hug he gave me was brief and cold. He actually showed more affection towards a tree in the parking lot, that he placed his hands on for a long pause before getting in the car. He was clearly happier to see the tree than he was to see me. Honestly? I got it. The tree didn’t put him in that awful place.

We drove straight to the Lakehouse—as we call it. My parents home on Lake Joyce, the place I grew up, where Eric and I got married. When we walked in, my entire family was there waiting. My mom asked us to gather in a circle and pray over Eric. It was a beautiful moment.

It was Sunday, August 29th which also happened to be Jammin’ on the Joyce—the annual lake party. My father’s prize possession, Joyce’s Revenge, was gassed up and ready to join the other pontoons.

As the saying goes, when in Rome. So we joined in. Because that’s what we would’ve done any other time. I wasn’t thinking about what was best for Eric. I was scared, uncertain, and doing whatever I could to cling to something that felt familiar. Everyone else was doing the same.

So we headed out and joined the festivities. One of the pontoon boats had karaoke, and we convinced Eric to sing—something he used to do without hesitation. But this time, sober and unsure, it was different. But he still did it. Later, he’d tell me he felt like a puppet on stage, under a microscope.

As the day went on, he seemed ok. Maybe he just needed us and fresh air. In the moment I was thinking if everything looked ok on the outside then we could figure out the rest.

On the drive home we began planning the party we would throw for this momentous occasion. Just kidding…

I don’t know if it was a silent drive home. It was likely the three of us with our minds reeling about what just happened. Eric trapped in his new body and mind recounting his youth watching his parents with the same struggle we now faced.

After dropping Ethan at school the next day we continued the process of finding Eric a psychiatrist. The one in the hospital discharged him with a diagnosis of bipolar disorder with a prescription to continue Depakote.

Not only was I terrified of Eric and the unknown. Eric was processing the diagnosis he had feared his entire life; being bipolar like this father. I didn’t blame him.

Where do we go from here? How do we pay the mortgage, the bills, how do we find a psychiatrist that will take Eric without health insurance?

How how how how?

Well, when there’s only one option left, it’s God.

Isn’t it sad that we treat our God the same way many treat the last kid to be picked for the kickball team at recess?

But before we move forward, I feel like I owe you the full story. All of it. The part that came before the breakdown.

He simply said, “Okay.”

While we waited for an appointment with a psychiatrist, we tried to return to normal, whatever that was. And today, I’m grateful God didn’t let that happen. Our “normal” had become something I never want to return to.

Our new normal now included Eric traveling to Virginia for his growing business and coming back to North Carolina to deliver pizza at night. Also, not ideal, but as much as it didn’t feel this way, we were on a path to a better normal.

My normal was promoting my fifth children’s book, Sebi the Colt, alongside a friend I had written it for—someone who had lost her daughter and grandson in a house fire the year before. Even in the midst of my personal chaos, God gave me the words and talent to create a book that honored two beautiful souls and helped others grieving their loss.

Promoting the book, and the social anxiety that came along with it, only made my fear of returning to full time work that much worse. But in hindsight, it gave me the confidence to boldly walk through the door when opportunity knocked. At one time, the thought of me going back to work felt about as doable as wanting to be intimate with my husband again—both impossible to imagine.

Ok back to pizzas. One night Eric’s good friend who he was delivering for called me after a shift concerned about his behavior. Eric was struggling with simple tasks. At one point, he got out of the car to hand a customer their pizza, and the car rolled down the driveway. I hope you are pausing to laugh here. He struggled with navigating from house to house. My husband, a highly esteemed tugboat captain couldn’t tell North from South, or East from West.

But he could tell you how to grow marijuana. 🙄

Who was I married to? Why did I stay? What was I doing? I digress.

As the weekend approached, Eric’s behavior started to shift. He began making strange comments again. When I told him that I thought we may need to talk to the doctor, he insisted he was fine. In fact he was great! To appease me he said he wanted to call Kate, our sister-in-law for a third party opinion on how great he was. Kate was his homey. She’s my homey. His biggest fan. Mine too. I get it. I want to call Kate right now. 🫶

Kate answered the Facetime call, and Eric immediately exclaimed his love for Jesus Christ his lord and savior. While this may have been his truth, it was not something you would hear him say out loud. She had never heard it. I had never heard it. I knew, and Kate knew, this wasn’t Eric, despite his known faith in God. And as much as I love God too, and as much as I wanted to tell others about Him, this wasn’t the way I wanted that to happen.

During the call, we all decided that Eric, Ethan, and me would head up to Virginia for the weekend to assess the situation that was Eric. Plus, I was scared.

I didn’t want to see his magnificent swan dive again. I was good on that.

When we walked in the door, it didn’t take long for everyone to see he was off. Not knowing what else to do, they packed him a bowl in hopes it would calm him down.

Back in the day, an occasional smoke was the norm. I’m pretty sure my little brother learned to smoke weed by hanging out with me and my friends. And if it wasn’t me, then we can blame our sister, Ashley—who, side note, went to high school with Eric and was well aware of the skeletons in his closet. And yes, she tried to warn me. And no, I didn’t listen.

You see, when I first met Eric, he didn’t smoke or drink. He had quit that lifestyle, again. Unfortunately, me, my friends, and my family dragged him right back in.

🚩

So Eric smoked. I no longer enjoyed it. Eric, in his special way of excess, made me loathe it. But right now, I was willing to try anything to prevent another hospital visit, so this time, I kept the weed Nazi caged.

But then—he was too calm. He sat there eerily silent, watching the rest of us laugh at one of our son’s favorite YouTubers—whose antics always made us hysterical.

Not a peep. Not even a giggle.

Hell, he can’t even be quiet in his sleep.

We didn’t know what realm he was in. Later he would tell me that he was having an out of body experience and was able to predict what we were all about to do and say.

Ok there buddy.

We headed home on Sunday to prepare for Ethan’s first day of the 5th grade. Monday morning getting out of the house was a challenge as Eric for some unknown reason decided to put a great deal of importance on Ethan finding a video game that was missing from its case. No one was playing video games. This was not important. Everyone who has ever had the pleasure of trying to get their child to school on time will agree that any extra non-essential tasks are not helpful.

But we made it out the door, and after dropping Ethan off at school, we went for a walk on the beach. During our walk, Eric hounded me with a barrage of questions, following up each one by stepping in front of me to stop me and ask, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

I don’t remember any of his questions. I’m sure they were along the same lines as eleven days prior; when he asked, “What happens when we are born?” 😳

Now I’m an extremely inquisitive person. But to this day, I have zero desire to Google this question.

After the beach, we returned home and tried to take care of some things around the house. He tried to water the plants but instead wanted to talk to them and stare at them in awe proclaiming their majesty. Oddly enough none of them were marijuana.

I asked two friends that live in the neighborhood to come over and see if they thought his behavior was concerning. I’m sure they felt they had won the lottery in that moment. But they came right over, and it didn’t take long before I was getting nods of affirmation. I hated the realization that he was potentially headed towards another episode, and I didn’t want to make the decision I knew I had to make alone. Fortunately, I wouldn’t have to.

School was about to let out so our friends left to go pick up Ethan. I didn’t want him to see his father this way. Not again.

Eric tried to cut the grass, but the task, just like watering the plants was beyond him. Someone else had invaded my husband’s body. It was so strange to see the man I had known for 14 years become someone completely different. I didn’t know how to handle him, but I had to figure out how I was going to convince him he needed help.

While Eric was “fixing” the lawnmower I broke down and called my mother. Sobbing into the phone I told her that I couldn’t do it. She knew what I meant and told me my father was on his way. I didn’t know how I was going to convince Eric that he needed to go to Virginia with my father. I knew he needed psychiatric care, and he wasn’t going to get that where we lived.

He decided he wanted to take a swim and asked me to join him. So I slowly slid into the water to join my husband on the lily pad float and pretended everything was kosher.

No sooner had my toes hit the water, I noticed someone walking through our garage towards the backyard. I quickly climbed up onto the dock and went to see who it was. It was a sheriff.

As strangely as Eric’s behavior was, he was calm. I was afraid when he saw the sheriff this could change things. I was surprised they were there, and quickly directed the officer back to the front of the house where she told me my brother had called them. I explained to her what was happening, and soon after EMS arrived. At this point, Eric was out of the water and had walked up front. Clearly, he wasn’t happy. He didn’t want to go back to the ER. And with his mental state as it was, I’m not sure what exactly this was going to translate to in his realm. I was able to convince him to let them check his vitals which were all fine. The sheriff explained to me that they couldn’t make him do anything unless he posed a threat to himself or me. Then they left.

I told him my father was on the way and that he was acting strangely again and he needed to go to the hospital in Virginia. Growing up with his father’s mental health struggles, he knew exactly what that meant and that added fuel to the fire. His manic state started to increase and when my father pulled up Eric scurried to the driveway faster than I had ever seen him move before. My father could barely get out of the car before Eric was in his face. I watched from the window as he placed his hands on my father’s chest while maniacally gesturing. My father calm as always, playing along, letting Eric get it out. I stood inside the house sobbing aloud “I’m sorry Daddy, I’m so sorry.”

Eventually they came inside and together we convinced Eric that he had to go to Virginia. But first Eric tried to convince my father to take a bong hit. Seeing my father with a bong in his hand was something I never thought I would see. Ever.

Somehow we made our way to the car. Eric’s mania was increasing. While in our bathroom, waiting for him to decide if he wanted to take a shower, he stood on the edge of the tub and proclaimed he was a ninja and jumped towards me. He then pushed by me and ran out of the house, still only in his swim trunks.

The only way I could get him in the car was by promising we would stop and see Ethan on the way out. I rode with them to the local ice cream shop where he was helping out with his friend, and mother. I will forever be grateful for the friends like these who helped me with Ethan this day and the days that followed. Without judgment, they rallied around me and Ethan.

I can only imagine how unsettling it must have been for Ethan and everyone at the shop, watching Eric dash around completely unhinged. Thankfully, the place wasn’t crowded, and the visit was brief.

The two-hour drive to Virginia felt anything but short, with Eric FaceTiming both me and Ethan nonstop—jumping between the front and back seat, hanging up, and immediately calling back. At one point, he insisted he had to use the restroom. My father, knowing full well what was at stake, pulled over, fearing it might be the last time he saw his son-in-law.

Ethan and I headed home, praying that my father and Eric would make it safely to their destination—wherever that even was. That drive must have felt like an eternity, and I’m sure my father would agree. I had no idea what the plan was, only that I needed to stay behind, take care of Ethan, and give him some sense of normalcy and comfort.

^{Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand. —PSALM 73:23}

Meanwhile, up in Virginia, my family anxiously awaited their arrival—my parents, my sister, my brother, and Kate, all bracing for what was coming without really knowing what that would look like. Everything from this point forward was in their hands. I wasn’t there. I stayed back in North Carolina with Ethan, praying for peace and safety while the people I love had to step in and do what I couldn’t. Later, I’d hear the details—how Eric crawled through the house on his hands and knees, carrying on full conversations with people who weren’t there. And how my brother had to make the call to have him arrested. A decision he would hate himself for, despite how necessary it was. He told me later that watching Eric get handcuffed and driven away felt like betrayal—like he was turning in a friend, not helping one. But I know now, and I pray he does too, that it was one of the most loving things he could have done. Love doesn’t always look like comfort. Sometimes it looks like courage.

Thankfully, Eric saw the whole thing as a game. Still dressed in nothing but his swim trunks, he willingly placed his hands on the hood of the police car, playing along. The game continued inside the car when he somehow managed to maneuver his handcuffs from behind his back to the front. One of the officers, clearly impressed, even complimented him on his dexterity as they made their way to Virginia Beach Psychiatric.

Trying to piece together the 10 days that led to having my husband committed feels impossible. Half of it is a blur. The other half? I wish I could forget. I know it was a span of ten days between his ER visit and the day he took another swan dive into Xanadu. Can I keep calling it that? Is it too cringy?

In some ways I appreciate that my brain doesn’t store many of those memories. They weren’t fun the first time. But for the sake of this blog, I wanted to share as many details as I could. Like an investigative reporter I pulled up recorded conversations I had on my phone, notes written on my calendar, and old text messages. But there was still so much that I couldn’t recall. And when you are faced with a decision that may mean your life as you know it is going to officially be flipped upside down, you would think I would be trying to figure out how to forget. Not how to remember.

So, with or without all the details, here’s what I can recall. The days following Eric’s ER visit were naturally filled with reacting and processing what had happened. We were trying to find answers and figure out what to do next. We felt relief that it was over, but we also needed to know why it had happened in the first place, and prepare ourselves, heaven forbid it should happen again. But how the heck do you do that?

Eric seemed normal now—well, normal compared to the Eric I got to experience in the ER on Friday the 13th (of all days). I could handle this version of him, for now. We were able to get him to the doctor and start the process for figuring out what caused his breakdown. I just don’t know why I don’t like that term. Seriously, can we keep calling it the Swan Dive?

What made this process even more fun, was the fact that we did not have any health insurance. Eric had quit his job eight months prior after his hours were significantly cut. All of the major construction was complete with the Basnight Bridge, so smaller boats could handle the work now. After five years of grueling hours and working in such a stressful environment, he wanted to take a break. He deserved one. We had his $12,000 bonus, so why not?

So we kicked off 2021 now both gainfully unemployed. As the year crept on, the job he was planning to go to next kept getting delayed.

As if the ER bill wasn’t enough, now we needed to find a psychiatrist who would take a patient without insurance. 🤯

During our first post-ER doctor’s visit, Eric explained to the urgent care physician what had happened four days prior.

We also gave a little back story about his 14 day COVID quarantine earlier in the month. The doctor seemed surprised he quarantined that long and gave us the whole spiel on proper protocol. But she didn’t have to live with him.

I was mad as hell when I found out he had COVID. Why? Because he contracted it by smoking weed behind someone who he KNEW had it. What the hell, man? This was the cherry on top of the dunce cake. The nail in the coffin. The “don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya.” The “Bye, Felicia.” The “go F yourself, enjoy being alone for two weeks, you sorry a—”

I think you get my point. So yeah, I was mad. But me being mad wasn’t anything new. I was perpetually mad at my husband, and everyone knew it. The worst part? It didn’t matter how mad I got—Eric was going to do Eric whether we did or didn’t have health insurance or how close our bank account was to depletion.

The doctor also learned that my husband went from moving us to the Outer Banks for a job as head tug captain on one of North Carolina’s largest infrastructure projects—a $252 million operation—to five years later jobless, penniless, and wanting to start his own marijuana-growing business.

🚩

Backing up a few months (and apologies if this is starting to resemble a Quentin Tarantino film—I have no doubt he’s a fellow ADHDer), Eric had picked up work as a cable lineman for a friend. It helped keep us afloat—because, as they say, it takes money to make money. But the job was brutal, and between that and COVID, he lost nearly 50 pounds in three months.

🚩

So back to the marijuana thing. Virginia legalized it in July of 2021. The plan was for him to work in Virginia anyway on another major bridge construction project. His cable lineman friend was also a grower. So after legalization they felt like it was something they could and should do.

Finding a psychiatrist was a nightmare. To this day, my mother-in-law holds my highest regard for tackling that task. I’d rather do my own taxes and retake the SATs in a room full of my peers—naked—than go through that process again.

But I hated that he smoked weed. HATED it. And now he wanted it to be his livelihood? He was obsessed with the idea. Beyond obsessed. He wouldn’t shut up about it. I wanted him to be happy and to support him. Hell, I even designed a logo and a website for the business. Can someone say enabling? 🤷‍♀️ But every part of my soul was screaming NO! I wanted to believe in his dreams or at least pretend to. So, I made the logo, helped with the website, and ignored the screaming voice inside me that knew this was a disaster waiting to happen.

So, the doctor quickly learned of my husband’s love for the ganja. She clearly was also not a fan. With a diagnosis for sub-mania, we walked out of the doctor’s office with a prescription for Lamictal, recommendations to take Benadryl when he couldn’t sleep, and a list of psychiatrists nowhere near us.

Later that week, during an intake phone interview, we asked the counselor what she thought. She said he was likely bipolar. Just like that. Just like his dad.

I assure you, this was the last thing he wanted to hear. Me too. But he took it better than I expected. I rested my hand on his shoulder, waiting for his reaction.

Seriously…Why am I even doing this?

As I sit here, trying to capture the thoughts swarming in my head like a bevy of gnats—memories, fears, questions—I feel the weight of everything I want to share.

And the heaviest one? Doubt.

If I write it all down and share it with the world, will it even matter? What if my struggles seem like molehills compared to the mountains others are facing? What if my story doesn’t move anyone at all?

When I voiced these fears to my husband, he answered without hesitation:

“Even if just one person reads this blog and draws closer to God, that would be enough.”

So, I keep writing. Even though part of me hesitates—afraid that someone will read my story and not see how God worked in my life. That they’ll see the miracle in my marriage, my husband’s healing, and the restoration of our family and think, Well, that’s great for her, but God’s not going to show up like that for me.

I don’t want that. But more than that—I don’t want to forget.

Because I do forget. I forget how God has shown up, time and time again, and I don’t want to let that happen.

So that’s why I’m here.

And maybe I’m doing this because writing has always been how I process things. How I connect. How I heal.

My most recent children’s book, Sebi the Colt, is a perfect example. It began when a woman came to me with an idea—but she didn’t have the words. She had just lost her daughter and grandson in a house fire. Unimaginable grief. And somehow, through prayer and pain and surrender, God gave me the words she couldn’t find. I wrote the book for her, and now it’s helping others navigate grief too.

That’s when it really hit me—this gift I have for writing, it’s not just for me. It’s for whoever needs it.

So, I will continue telling the rest of the story of my husband’s breakdown and miraculous restoration. (I wanted to say Swan Dive right there, but if you haven’t been with me from the beginning, I don’t want to lose you just yet. Or at all.)

And yet, right now, I really just want to pluck one of these gnats out of the swarm, close my laptop, wash the dishes staring at me from my peripheral vision, and then avoid adulting for a portion of this Saturday.

But before I do, I have to say this—

IT IS A MIRACLE that my husband is singing in church tomorrow.

Sure, when I met him, he had just hopped off stage after belting out some Lynyrd Skynyrd. Quite well, I might add. But not too long ago, a Saturday morning in our house looked a whole lot different.

We’d be sitting in this same spot, finishing our coffee, and not long after, switching to Bloody Marys. He would have already snuck down to the garage to smoke weed—then lied about it when I confronted him.

That particular ball of gnats is getting shelved for another post. Or two. Or three.

For now, I want to be sure that anyone reading this who wasn’t part of our journey has the full picture. I want you to see it all—to draw your own conclusions, even if they don’t align with mine.

And then there’s this—

I listen to my friends and their struggles, and I can do only that. Listen. I can’t say anything that will change the mind of my friend who doesn’t believe in God.

Even though she’s more of an example of someone with Christlike qualities than anyone I know. But over three decades of friendship, I have yet to “win her to Christ.” Ugh. I don’t even like that phrase—it sounds so Southern Baptist, and I say that as someone who knows how deep that upbringing can run…. I’m pretty sure growing up in a Southern Baptist household is why she feels the way she does.

And yet, I keep writing. Because I know God is in all of it.

I look at the people around me—the ones who have endured divorce, infidelity, breast cancer. A child’s leukemia diagnosis and bone marrow transplant. Another with cerebral palsy and epilepsy.

So, who do I think I am? Why would my story of addiction and recovery matter?

Where is God when a 15-year-old boy with cerebral palsy suddenly develops epilepsy?

Where was God when my friend had to have a double mastectomy—just two years after giving birth to a son with a rare blood disorder, one that robbed him of his thumbs, stunted his growth, and will soon lead him into a battle with leukemia at age nine?

Where was God when, shortly after their wedding, her husband could no longer hide his alcoholism?

I don’t have the answers. But I know this—

God is right in the middle of it all.
Even when I’m side-eying Him like, “Really? This is the plan?

So, I keep writing.

You know how when you are at the zoo, looking in at, let’s say the Asiatic Black Bear exhibit, and you think, “They are so dang cute. I would love to pet one, or lay down in the sun and nap with that one over there. That looks so…”

…and then rational thinking sets in and you slowly back away as your breathy face print dissipates from the glass. You then move on, to admire the other animals.

Well, this moment was kind of like that. At least it’s as close as I can get to explaining it as I have very few similar life experiences to compare it to. Plus it’s not easy recollecting the details of something that my sanity really wants to forget.

Speaking of rational thinking and sanity, there wasn’t a whole lot of that going on in that room. I remember walking into the examination room, my husband sitting on the counter, the doctor off to the side likely mentally clicking his heels and thinking “there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home…”.

I know I was.

Quickly I learned that I was there to help them with patient participation. First task, they needed a urine sample. He missed the cup on purpose, twice. I’m pretty sure I had moved on to the chimpanzee exhibit at this point. It was clear to me that everything they needed from him was going to be a challenge.

Next was the MRI. Eric did not want to put his head inside a machine that was going to look at his brain. We very much needed to look at his brain. Based on how retrieving a urine sample went, this seemed completely impossible. Somehow, ok God is how, I convinced him to lie in the bed so they could transport him to the imaging room. I promised him I would be right there with him. Knowing I would not be allowed in the next room, but hey I wasn’t even supposed to be inside the building.

On the way to the room, we rolled by a table that had a cup full of urine sitting on it. He reached past me and grabbed the cup, which I then snatched out of his hand saying to him “Honey we don’t even know if that is your pee!” These were words I had never said before. Like ever.

A few minutes later we were at the doors of the scan room. I wasn’t allowed to go in and he was convinced he wasn’t coming out alive. Thankfully it was a quick procedure, and I only had to stand in the hallway trembling for about five minutes.

We headed back to the ER exam room to await the results. While we waited, Eric proceeded to read aloud the numbers on every labeled wall socket, port, plug, outlet, and switch around the room. I later learned that this is what is referred to in the mental health industry as “pressured speech”. Eric’s pressured speech continued, clearly brought on by intense fear and paranoia. He went on to confess every single marital transgression he could think of to me at a rate of speed that I didn’t know was humanly possible. I think this was Step 5 of the 12 steps in AA which he attended years before we met.

For the record, he was sober when we met. Also, I was playing kickball on a team named “Sotally Tober,” if that tells you anything.

His rapid fire of nonsensical commentary sprinkled in with apologies for watching porn, past drug use, and the myriad of other antics I have since forgotten finally petered out. Yet we still had to wait for test results.

Then he began asking when he could go home. I lost count of how many times he asked and I was running out of convincing and reassuring responses. So, I climbed into bed with him as we waited. He looked at the clock, drifted off to sleep, and I prayed while balancing on the edge of the tiny hospital bed.

Fifteen minutes later, he woke up, immediately looked up at the clock on the wall above us, and—realizing barely any time had passed—began repeatedly shouting, “I WANT TO GO HOME!”

I had never seen him this irate. And while Eric was loud, he was never a yeller. It was terrifying. For the first time, I wasn’t just afraid for him—I was afraid of him. And that broke something in me.

I couldn’t console him anymore and the commotion brought in what seemed like the entire ER staff including two police officers. I jumped out of the bed and was told that I had to leave the room. They were going to need to sedate him, and I was no longer allowed to remain in the room with him.

I stood frozen as they restrained him, rolled him over, and injected him with valium while he screamed. He looked so vulnerable, and scared. I had never seen him this way and it was heartbreaking to watch.

I was escorted to a small waiting area where I sat alone, in shock. A short time later the head physician came in to speak with me. He looked rattled and even complimented me on how composed I was given the circumstances. He informed me that the medication had calmed my husband, and he was drifting off to sleep. He explained that I couldn’t stay due to the fact that this had gone from a medical to a psychiatric situation. They would keep him over night, and I could go home and get some rest. It was 4 am.

So, with no other choice, I left him there and headed home. Dan and Kate had taken Ethan home at some point since they weren’t allowed inside the building. They must have Ubered home since I somehow had our truck. Funny, I don’t remember driving to the hospital at all. How did I have the truck?

When I was only a mile from home, I had to pull over to get sick. When I got home and crawled into bed, completely exhausted, the vomiting wouldn’t cease for hours. TMI, I know. But I promised to be raw and real.

I finally was able to sleep for a bit, and when I awoke, I went upstairs to join everyone, convey what had happened, take turns crying, and then proceed with calling the hospital for a status. My brother thankfully made the calls. Even on my best day, I don’t think I could have done so. I was a mess. After several phone calls, we were told he was awaiting a Zoom meeting with a psychiatrist who would evaluate him to determine if he could be released.

Did I want him released? What did I want? What is supposed to happen now? What did happen? Why did it happen?

I sat on the couch and sobbed begging God to bring back my husband. I knew our relationship was not in a good place. It was no secret. As I mentioned before, the past year, my husband had taken a nosedive of incredibly epic proportions. The fact that I had stuck around, and now the fact that I didn’t know if he was going to recover from this spoke volumes. I loved my husband, and didn’t want to lose him.

A few hours later a psychiatrist determined he was okay to be discharged. We all looked at each other and thought, “But did anyone tell her what happened last night?”

Still without answers I went to pick up Eric from the hospital. You would have thought he would be thrilled to see me. Instead he was upset that it was daylight and he didn’t know what day it was.

When we returned home, we all made a stiff drink and spent the day laughing, crying, and seeing how well Eric could recount what had just occurred.

Little did we know, that would be his last sip of alcohol—and the start of a much longer journey toward healing.

As much as I wanted to believe the worst was behind us, the days ahead would bring challenges I never could have anticipated.

Ten days later, Eric’s journey took another life-altering turn, and we found ourselves facing struggles that had been years in the making—struggles with addiction, faith, and a fight for survival I’ll never forget.

Proverbs 3:5-6

⁵ Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding;
⁶ in all your ways submit to him,
and he will make your paths straight.^[a]

Speaking of paths …

It wasn’t unusual for my brother and his wife to visit. We hung out all the time, traveled together, and Dan and Eric even worked together. 

So their late-night arrival wasn’t a surprise. We were always up for a good time—that was kind of our thing. But this? This wasn’t going to be one of those times. Nope. They could tell right away that something was off with Eric—like, not your typical ‘I ate too many tacos and regret life choices’ kind of off, but a whole other level of OFF.

The question now was simple: what was going on, and how could we help?

Right away Dan grabbed Eric and they left to go on a car ride. I thought they were headed to the hospital. Instead, they went to the beach. 🤷‍♀️

I get it. Dan hadn’t seen what I had over the past day and a half. He needed to assess the situation for himself which didn’t take long. As Eric was shooting at invisible deer out of the car window during the ten minute drive to the beach, my brother quickly realized just how far from normal we were.

After a short beach walk he was able to convince Eric that he needed to go to the ER just to get checked out. But first, they came back to the house to pick up me, Kate, and Ethan. It was going to be a group effort—an all-hands-on-deck situation. None of us had experience with a major mental health crisis. We were all thinking ‘safety in numbers’.

Even with all of us working together, it still took further convincing to get Eric to agree to go. We reassured him that he just needed his vitals checked. “You’re acting a little off,” we said, and after a moment, he admitted he did feel strange.

Phew!

When I asked him to put on shoes so we could head to the ER, he stood up and slid his giant man feet into my tiny flip-flops. 🩴

It was going to be a long night.

So we all piled in and headed southward. Seventeen minutes later we arrived at the Outer Banks hospital. It was 11 PM.

Oh, and did I mention this was during Covid which meant only patients were allowed inside. 😷

As we waited outside the ER entrance, Eric kept coming out in his bare feet clearly uninterested in having his vitals checked. Twice, we had to coerce him into going back inside to let them examine him.

Meanwhile, I was calling everyone he’d been around in the last 48 hours—friends, tenants, coworkers, family. “Did he eat psychedelics? What in the Sam’s hell brought this on?”

Our tenants mentioned he’d been acting strange. Ok strang-er.

Y’all, he’d been on a 12-month spiral so epic it deserves its own Netflix series—or at least a novel. I’ll get to that at some point.

But no one offered any clues that were out of the ordinary. And this was a whole strain of strange no one had witnessed out of Eric before. Sure he was loud, he was a clown, and he wasn’t shy. The world was his stage. Literally. That’s how we met—he was singing with his band at a bar back in 2007. And here we are, still center stage, except this time no one’s clapping.

So after interrogating anyone I could, I learned that he had smoked weed with our tenants, not unusual. (Hey, it’s legal in Virginia, people. And no, that didn’t mean I liked it any more than I did before.) And yes, I had already questioned Eric numerous times on what he had smoked. Thinking he had discovered a new strain and maybe he was just paranoid.

Been there, done that, got the hospital wristband. And yep, in this very hospital decades ago. Now that is a funny story. If I can just get through the current one!

Eric never got paranoid when he smoked. Honestly, he could make Snoop Dogg look like Mary Poppins.

So was it something else? He had already conquered his opioid addiction back in 2013. A few weeks earlier he had taken mushrooms the magic kind 🍄) and swore he wouldn’t do that again. But I still called his mushy buddy who I knew he had also recently seen. He swore up and down that he hadn’t provided him with any mushrooms, or anything that could potentially cause this type of behavior.

So scratch that off the list. 🙄

Then a nurse came outside asking for his wife. I looked around and hesitantly stepped forward. Apparently they had met their match and needed me back there with him. They said it was against normal protocol due to Covid restrictions, but they were making an exception this time. They couldn’t handle him.

The Eric Handler went in, armed with a mask, a prayer, and a whole lot of ‘What the heck am I walking into?’

When my husband took a “swan dive into Xanadu,” as we lovingly call it these days 💦—well, you could call it a breakdown, but where’s the fun in that? And if you’re not laughing, you’re crying… am I right?

Truth be told there’s very little on God’s Green Earth that I can’t find humor in. It may take me a while to process, but once I’m on the other side of it, the laughter comes. I know, I’m avoiding the question here.

SO WHAT IN TARNATION HAPPENED?

Ok I’ll tell you. It’s been a while so I needed a warm up.

Oddly enough there was a time where all I could do was talk about it. I think because I needed to process what had happened. Say it out loud until it all made sense. It didn’t matter if it was too much, sounded crazy, or if the listening party wasn’t prepared to hear it.

No one was safe. My new employer, all my coworkers, new friends at church—if we went to lunch and you asked about my life, you were getting the whole saga. Surprisingly, I didn’t scare anyone off. (How? I still have no idea.)

That’s me, though—an open book. I’ve always been that way. If my story can help someone else, then I’ll tell it. So, I guess this blog was only a matter of time.

Speaking of time… I still haven’t told you what happened, have I?

The funny thing is, I don’t feel like telling the story anymore. Like, I’m good now. It’s in the past. It happened. It was heavy and we are all okay. More than okay.

But if you really want to hear it, buckle up. It’s a long one, and there are no CliffsNotes. I know, I know… this cliffhanger is about to run its course.

Here goes:

On August 12, 2021 my husband returned home from working on our rental property in Virginia. He walked in the door and quickly ran up the stairs telling me that he just had the weirdest experience.

Apparently, the lady at the guard shack had asked him, “When are you leaving?”

Then, without warning, he walked into the middle of the living room, dropped his shorts, and stood there in his underwear.

I stared back. Waiting for the punchline.

Waiting for him to tell me he wet his pants. Or there was a spider in his britches. Or maybe he really liked this pair of underwear and wanted me to buy more.

Instead, he said, “Can you believe the woman at the guard shack asked me when I was going to die?”

😳

Ummm what? I was dumbfounded. I assumed he had smoked some funny weed. Which was a major point of contention in our marriage and highly possible. (No pun intended. Maybe.)

I honestly don’t remember what I said. My brain was ping-ponging between his story and the countless times he’d told me about the day his dad—who was bipolar—stood in the middle of the street directing traffic in his underwear.

God rest his soul.

But Eric wasn’t bipolar. Or… was he? Was this it? Was this what was happening?

No, no, no, no, no. Hell to the no.

I don’t remember how we got from our stand off across the room to him pulling up his shorts and us deciding to watch a movie.

We tried to watch A Star Is Born, but it made him too emotional. He’s the crier in this relationship. I wear the pants. Or we both do—and at least I keep mine pulled up most of the time.

So, we switched to a comedy. Something we could watch with our 10-year-old son. (Who, thankfully, was probably off playing video games. God bless that stupid PlayStation.)

About the time Dwayne Johnson and Emily Blunt started their journey down the Amazon, Eric made another comment—one that made his earlier “guard shack” story sound like small talk.

This one was about two friends who had recently passed away. “They’re coming back,” he said.

I knew, and my son knew, that something was wrong.

Our son started crying. And now we had two movies we wouldn’t be rewatching anytime soon. Can we say “trigger”?

At this point, I knew it wasn’t just a case of potent weed. My man could handle his weed.

Somehow, we made it through the night. I prayed that whatever it was he just had to sleep it off.

The next morning, he seemed fine. We tried to have a normal day—swam in the backyard, went on a boat ride. Then it started again.

“What happens when you’re born?” he asked me.

🤯

I can honestly say that I’ve never asked, thought, or been asked that question, and I’m not sure how I answered it.

When we pulled up to the dock, he wanted us to hurry off the boat because we were “being shot at.”

Spoiler: we weren’t.

What now?

Thankfully, he was calm despite his obvious paranoia. And thankfully our son was able to distract himself with video games while we sat and talked upstairs. I knew I needed to do something. So I started recording our conversation and sent it to my brother and his wife.

I don’t remember the details of those recordings—probably because my brain has filed them under “trauma I’d rather not revisit.” But whatever they heard was enough to make them drop everything and drive 90 minutes from Virginia Beach to the Outer Banks.

That drive must have felt like an eternity for them. For me, though, knowing help was on the way was the lifeline I needed to keep going.

By the time they walked through the door, it was clear that this particular visit would go down in the long list of epic “remember that time when…? moments.”