My only hope was admitting that my marriage was hopeless

Y

echiel.

He was everything I was looking for at the time: learned, charismatic, and passionate about Yiddishkeit. A truth-seeker, he came from a nonreligious family and embraced Torah on his own. I had grown up in a more modern family, and I was drawn to Yechiel’s zeal for Torah and enthusiasm for avodas Hashem, as well as his sense of humor and loyal nature.

During our engagement, Yechiel mentioned to me that he had a drug problem that he was getting help with. He didn’t tell me which drugs he had a problem with, and I naively assumed that he meant marijuana; I didn’t dream then that he was addicted to cocaine, heroin, and other opioids. Not wanting my parents to get involved and possibly tell me to break off the shidduch, I decided not to share this information with them. For the same reason, I also didn’t tell them about other worrisome tendencies I noticed in Yechiel: that he drank, that he had quite a temper, and that he spent money frivolously.

Yechiel and I began our married life in Eretz Yisrael, where he learned and taught Torah in a yeshivah for boys who were becoming stronger in their Yiddishkeit. He also became a certified drug addiction counselor, because he wanted to help others who were struggling with drugs. Burning as he was with love for Torah and mitzvos, he had a knack for getting through to even the most difficult students, and our home became a magnet for boys who looked to him for inspiration and guidance.

It was after our oldest child was born that Yechiel’s unpleasant character traits began to emerge. The arrogance. The rage. The selfishness. The blaming.

When I asked him for help, he would retort, “Do it yourself.”

Once, he agreed to wash the dishes, but when I reminded him two hours later that I needed his help with the dishes, he roared, “I’m busy!” There was no partnership between us, and I had to become extremely capable and resourceful in order to manage the house and care for the baby alone while working to support the family.

About a year after the baby was born, Yechiel became much more detached emotionally. He didn’t do anything with me or the baby; he wouldn’t even come along with us for Shabbos meals when we were invited out. He slept a lot and became very angry and arrogant, which led to his losing his job at the yeshivah. I would confront him by talking to him, writing him letters, or even going to our rav, but nothing helped.

“It’s all in your head,” he would tell me. “You’re just not grateful for what you have.”

When I was expecting our second child, he started using drugs again, but I didn’t catch on until that baby was six months old. During that time, he didn’t have a job and he wasn’t learning, but even so he would forget to pick up the kids from gan when I was at work and relying on him to get them. He received mysterious packages by mail and would quickly hide them away.

Once, I found strange needles and vials in our closet. “What are these?” I asked him.

The next second they were gone. “You’re seeing things,” Yechiel declared. “You’ve lost your mind!”

I really did feel that I was losing my mind because of the way he twisted things and made me doubt myself. In any event, it was almost easier to tell myself that I was crazy, that I had been imagining things, and that Yechiel’s disturbing behavior was not that big a deal.

Not wanting anyone to know what was going on, I didn’t breathe a word to my parents or any of my friends about Yechiel’s behavior. To cover up for him, I would tell people that he wasn’t feeling well, that he was working on things, that he was worried or overwhelmed. Only when Yechiel brought a gun into the house — the drugs were making him paranoid — did I realize that he was dangerous.

In desperation, I called family friends who were like parents to me, and they met me at my apartment, where I gave Yechiel an ultimatum: “Hand me the gun, or I’m leaving.”

He refused to give me the gun, so I left with the kids to the home of these family friends and called the police, who surrounded our apartment, made Yechiel hand over the gun, and arrested him. When the gun was safely in their possession, I had to go to the police station and make a statement. Yechiel was released the next morning, but the police kept the gun.

Yechiel’s parents prevailed upon him to go to rehab, which he knew was the right thing to do. When he left, I moved back into our apartment with the kids.

At that point, I told my parents what was going on, and they flew to Eretz Yisrael to help me with the kids. They also urged me to get divorced. But I was a young mother of two small children, only 22 myself, and I desperately wanted to keep the family intact. Rather than walk away, I decided to learn more about addiction so that I could help Yechiel with his struggle.

When he flew off to a rehab facility in America, he encouraged me to join the local chapter of Al-Anon, a support program for family members of addicts.

In Al-Anon, they say that people come in trying to save their spouses, and that’s exactly what I was trying to do then. I believed that if I could really understand what Yechiel was going through, I’d be able to help him and ensure that he’d never go through another horrific relapse like this one.

Yechiel returned from rehab two months later a different person. He interacted calmly with me and the kids. He was helpful. He took responsibility. He apologized if he did something wrong. He maintained a predictable daily schedule that started with minyan and learning. He went to Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) and Narcotics Anonymous (NA) meetings every night.

Yechiel’s parents paid for our family to fly to America for the summer while he attended a daytime rehab program. Once we were there, I saw how beneficial it was for us to be near family, so I told him that I wanted us to stay in the US for a year or two and then return to Eretz Yisrael. He didn’t think it was a good idea, but his parents and his mentor at the rehab thought it was. Reluctantly, he flew back to Eretz Yisrael to pack up our stuff, ship some things to America, and rent out the apartment we owned. But he never forgave me for taking him away from Eretz Yisrael.

When Yechiel returned to the US, he got a job helping at the rehab center, but he was fired a few months later because the director said he was a negative influence on the other patients. He took another job but was fired six months later, after which he didn’t bother looking for work because he was planning to study for his master’s in social work. In the meantime, I found a job working in a school, while continuing to attend Al-Anon meetings regularly in our new community.

I gave birth to our third child several months after Yechiel began studying to become a social worker. When my doctor gave me a prescription for Percocet to alleviate afterbirth pains, I asked Yechiel to throw away the prescription, but instead he filled it. He started using drugs again when our baby was three months old, but I didn’t really catch on until the following Rosh Hashanah, when she was eight months old.

Again, I left the house with the kids because he brought in a gun and wouldn’t give it to me. I confided in a good friend of mine, and she invited me to move into her basement with the kids. In the meantime, Yechiel started going to meetings again and attending outpatient rehab.