The Beast in Us Both

The Itch

My partner calls it an itch. A background voice that never fully disappears, always looking for something—anything—to sink its claws into.

A beast. A wild animal, caged but never gone. It paces. It waits. It growls under its breath, pretending to be tame. And when it finally slips out, it doesn’t always wreak havoc right away. Sometimes, it behaves. Lulls you into complacency. Makes you think maybe it’s not so dangerous after all. But once it starts its rampage, once it begins tearing through everything in its path, it’s almost impossible to force it back in.

I used to think that was just his battle.

But the truth is, I have my own beast. It just looks different.

The Lie That “It Won’t Happen to Me”

For me, the itch isn’t a constant pull. It’s more of a whisper—one that I could easily ignore if I wanted to. But knowing it’s there is dangerous.

I’ve dipped a toe into the world of indulgence. I’ve seen the edge without going over it. And that makes me believe that I have control. That I can stand at the ledge, look down, and never fall. That I can step into the darkness and step back out whenever I want.

That’s the lie.

My beast doesn’t demand the same things his does. It doesn’t claw at my skin every day. But when it does speak, it tells me something even more insidious:"You’re fine. It won’t happen to you."

And that’s where the real danger lies.

The Weight of Being an Anchor

Being the support person to an addict is heavy. It’s not just about being strong for them—it’s about being strong for yourself. Because if you crack, if you waver, if you even let the door open just a little, it’s enough for the beast to get loose.

There are moments when I feel like he is drowning, and I am sitting in a boat, reaching out my hand to pull him up. But I can’t reach him. No matter how much I love him, no matter how much I want to be strong enough.

And the thought creeps in: Maybe if I get in the water with him, I can help. Maybe if I swim to him, we can keep our heads above the surface together.

But that’s a lie too.

Because I have never swum in these waters before. I don’t know the currents, the depths, the things lurking underneath. If I jump in, the truth is, we would likely both drown.

The Beast and the Ego—One and the Same

The scariest part of all of this isn’t just the temptation. It’s not just the voice whispering, "Maybe just a little. Maybe just this once."

It’s not knowing if it’s the voice of the beast… or my own ego.

Because the truth? They are the same.

The part of me that believes I can handle it, the part of me that thinks I’m different, that I’ll be fine—that is the beast. It wears the face of self-control, of rationalization, of confidence. But in reality, it is the same wild animal, waiting for an open door.

So I have to choose. Every day.

To let the beast stay caged.

For him. And for me.