Everything was getting blurry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. My chest was heavy, it felt like someone was crushing my chest. It was the hand of the enemy pushing me down. 

I remembered once I had read that if you put your arms up over your head it will help you breathe better. I put my arms as high as I could and went down to my knees. No, it wasn’t helping. I stood up, arms reaching high, maybe I was supposed to be standing? No, that didn’t work either. I sat down, it was getting worse. 

Sorrow consumed me in waves as I began to drown in my own fear. I couldn’t breathe. Not figuratively, but literally; I couldn’t catch my breath. I staggered up the stairs. Be calm, be calm, be calm, I thought to myself as I shuffled into the bathroom. 

Like many women, the bathroom was my safe place where I cried all my tears. Some days, it was where I told my reflection to be strong. Others, it was where I examined my iniquities and wondered how to make my skin look as nice as the girl’s in that magazine sitting beside the toilet. 

I tried leaning on the bathroom counter, arms still propelled over my head, maybe… nope. I couldn’t breathe. I fell to my knees on the floor sobbing and gasping for air. Suddenly, the squeezing in my chest got tighter then I could bear. 

That’s it, this is what a heart attack feels like. I’m dying! I thought, but, I don’t have a will. God wouldn’t do that to my babies. No father, no mother. He wouldn’t. Not like this. Maybe I’m not dying. Maybe I’m almost dying. Saved by Jesus- in the nick of time.

I needed help. 

I ran as fast as I could in a dizzy haze to the phone and hastily dialled 911. I had no idea where my toddler was, being watched by Jesus I hoped. No idea where my husband was, but it was obvious at that moment that he didn’t love me anyway (it wasn't true, but I made the assumption and believed it for a long time). I needed help, there would be no dying today, not for this mom!

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I… I… I! CAN’T! BREATHE!” 

I fell to the floor, phone in hand. The woman on the other line was asking me where I lived. They knew, didn’t they? I’m sure I saw on television that they would track down your phone number and find you. I needed to focus on breathing, breathe, breathe. 

Ah, there he was… my knight in shining armour. I don’t know what my husband said to the woman on the phone only that his hand was touching my shoulder. The hand I held so many times. The hand I loved with its tanned and wrinkled knuckles. My son had those hands. My son! That’s right, I didn’t know where my baby was. And that hand couldn’t help me, that hand was leaving me.

“Call…. ca… ca…. call…. call-my-Mom!” 

Mom would find the baby.

Breathe, breathe. 

My husband kept touching me and disappearing. He brought in a fan and told me the baby was watching cartoons. Good. Someone knows where he is. Only, my husband is leaving so he can't actually watch him- ever. Never again. I'm all alone. Don’t die, don’t die! What time was it? Had it been hours? It feels like I’ve been here for hours. Where is my mom?

I was in a strange state of consciousness where I was awake but couldn’t focus on anything except pieces of pictures. It was a warm, sunny day and there was a soft, morning light beaming into my parent’s home office that I was currently laying on the floor of. My older son had gone to Vacation Bible School only an hour earlier. The tree outside the window swayed in a gentle breeze. My arm that had been holding the phone was still strewn about, hanging there like an extended limb I had lost all control of. 

Move, arm! I thought. The last thing I wanted was to look unattractive while being walked out on. “Nope,” It smugly replied. Stuck as an unwilling participant of my body. 

Stupid arm. Stupid freckles. Stupid me for being so stupid. This was my fault. All of it. Had I married a nice, safe, boring church boy I would have had a nice, safe and boring life. Its a lot better than laying on the floor with an unwilling arm… where's the baby?

How it started…

I had spent hours the night before carefully writing and re-writing boundaries for my marriage; things I could live with and things I could not. I tried to put as much care into them as I could. They would be the most loving boundaries the wife of someone battling addiction had ever written. I imagined my husband and I would sit down and have a loving talk like the mature adults we were. I prayed about it for a whole day and just knew it was the right thing to do. 

You see, my husband had been backsliding. Not a lot, just a bit. Small things that wouldn’t be unordinary for the average person but were (in my mind) unacceptable for him. He stopped reading his Bible and started talking to his old friends. He was getting progressively attached to his phone. His behaviour seemed sullen and dare I say, sneaky. His attitude had turned rebellious and angry. Only three months after dropping out of treatment, it was a sure sign he was reverting back to old ways.  

I made an appointment with our marriage counsellor and he suggested I write out new boundaries for our new situation. So I planned, wrote, prayed and finally approached my husband to have a productive, adult-like discussion, but before I could say anything he told me he was moving back to New York City in a month. 

No. No. NO!

God had warned me about this. It was why I prayed so fervently for my husband to have a receptive heart. This was bad. Really bad. 

Instead of being calm (I should have ended the conversation right there and walked away), we had a huge argument ending with me telling my husband he wasn’t going to drag out my anxiety for the next month if he was leaving he needed to do it immediately. 

Far too quickly, he packed his bags. Fast forward and there I was, hyperventilating in my parent’s basement. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen; I loved him, hoped for, prayed for, waited for, and was faithful to him.

How could he leave me?

I feel like I should honour my husband's side of the story as he claims he didn't intend to "leave me." He went back to New York to work and thought he could manipulate the situation so our family would move back there. Not his words, mine. And I don’t believe it because he called a lawyer.

Wives of addicts are excellent private investigators.

People with addictions don’t think logically. My husband had no real reason to leave, but he convinced himself that he must. True addiction isn’t about repeatedly abusing something but rather, a search for happiness. It fills an empty place in the soul with things that don’t last; money, adrenaline, drugs, work, alcohol, pornography, sex, shopping… it’s all temporary. So we need more, and more, and more…. Addiction is a pain so deep, only God can fully heal it.

Addicts are not the only ones guilty of filling that void. A lot of us stuff our empty places with artificial happiness. We don’t want to be honest with ourselves, we don’t want to let go of the things that hurt us, but we have to try.

The paramedics came and said I was having a panic attack. My mom came. Mom gave me a Xanax.

The paramedics wanted me to go to the hospital but I didn’t want to leave the kids. As if reading my mind, mom said she would stay with the baby, but who wants to sit in a hospital bed for hours after their husband leaves them? My other son was still at Vacation Bible School. I didn’t want him to come home to his mom being in the hospital and his dad gone. No, I would not go to the hospital. Self-care-who-cares. My kids need me. I signed a paper saying I knew what I was doing and the ambulance left. 

My husband sat outside. 

My dad came home. He was going to watch the baby so my mom could take me to the doctor. And then, my husband was gone. Just like that. Vanished. Poof. Bags and all. 

I wondered who picked him up, but more than that, why didn’t he wait to see if I was okay? 

I didn’t have time to dwell on such painful questions. I went to the doctor. Went to my pastor. Cried like I had never cried. I fixed my makeup and picked up my son. I don’t remember how long I cried in the quiet that night, but it was a very long time. 

There was no word from my husband. 

The next day my mom sent resources. A woman whose husband had also left her came over to have tea and talk with me. Never underestimate the power of another woman who knows your pain. While she was there, my grandma called. 

“Hi, dear. Has he come home?”

“No, Granny. He hasn’t”

“Are you sure? Because it looks like he’s in Toronto. I saw some pictures. Maybe he didn’t go?!”

Hope sprung up inside my heart. I had prayed he wouldn’t get on the plane! Thank you, Jesus! You sure do work miracles you amazing, awesome, God-you. He does not forsake us!

The woman I was visiting with was happy for me. I mean, I was still so sad for her, but relieved we weren't going to share the same story after all. I quickly found the photos on social media that my Grandma had seen. God bless my Granny, they were from the night before. 

After my husband left he went to a baseball game and met the team. He took selfies of himself with all the players.

Why you heartless… pig-headed… arrogant… disgusting… selfie-schmelfie-big-fat-selfish-son-of-a-sogging-stupid-selfie…….!!!!!!!!! Nope. Don’t go there, Leah. Don’t go there. 

In one day, my grief turned into full-fledged, blood-boiling, seething fury. Did I mention I’m a redhead? I have an Irish temper and fire hair- look out.

I took a screenshot of the photos and sent them to him, saying something about him being a jerk. He replied (via text) that he had gone to make himself feel better because he was “so upset.” Yeah, Right. By the way, he hadn't asked how I was- not once. 

Master manipulators believe their own lies. I had no idea until I started to pay attention but it’s quite the art. The art of the con is simple- say the lie enough times and eventually, you’ll believe it too. They should teach young people how to spot and resist manipulation. Forget sex-ed, it would be a much more effective teaching tool for sex prevention. 

In the end, the day my husband left did more than hurt my heart. It left me with a panic disorder that I struggled with for a number of years after. It didn’t make to send me into a panic attack. After we moved back in with another, I had many, many panic attacks. I was always afraid he would leave. I was not ready to move back in. And when he started to do drugs again? Forget about it. It near sent me to the asylum.

Yes, the spouse of addiction can get post-traumatic stress disorder from their marriage!

If you’re looking for more on PTSD and would like to know what I did to help heal, check out this post. As I’m writing this, it’s been a little over a year since I had a panic attack and about two years since I had a bad one. Am I healed? No. But, am I in the process of healing? Absolutely! As the wounds from the past in my marriage healed, I have too. It’s just taken my body a little longer to catch up to my heart.

Do you need help letting go of some of the hurts from your past? Try our free devotional, the Let Go Devo below, or access the full resource library with videos and more to help you heal your heart!

Leah Grey

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Previously Titled: My First Panic Attack and The Day My Husband Left. Updated April 29, 2020.