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The Picture Nobody Expects When They Hear “I Married a Felon.”

 

(Picture taken from the internet)

~ by DeAnna

When people hear that I married someone 23 years younger than me, they imagine a cute little May-December arrangement. Maybe even a rebellious phase of midlife. But nothing about my story is “cute.” Nothing about addiction is aesthetic.

This picture right here?
Needles, caps, scattered chaos.
This is addiction.
This is reality.

And it still blows my own mind sometimes that this ended up being part of my life story… especially for someone like me.

Because long before he became my husband, I was actually working inside the prison system.
Yes—a former Correctional Officer.
I met him behind bars, when I believed I understood the world he came from. I really did. I thought being around inmates every day, managing dorms, seeing drug busts and withdrawals from the “officer side” meant I understood addiction.

But inside the walls is a very different universe than living it on the outside.

It wasn’t until I loved him through detox, through relapse, through overdose, through paranoia, through the street nights, through withdrawals and sleepless days… that I realized:

I knew nothing.
Not really.
Not truly.
Not until it became personal.

Book-smart meets street reality

I was educated—overeducated honestly.
Dozens of degrees, certifications, training, credentials, psychology knowledge, substance abuse theories—you name it, I studied it.

But no education in the world prepares you for:

  • kneeling on carpet floors to pick up needles,

  • wiping vomit from a shaking body,

  • watching withdrawal steal pieces of the person you love,

  • praying a heartbeat comes back during an overdose,

  • or begging someone you love to stay alive just one more night.

You don’t learn that part in a classroom.
You don’t experience that behind a CO badge.

You only learn that when addiction moves into your life and refuses to leave.

Inside prison, I saw inmates addicted.

Outside prison, I saw my husband addicted.
Two completely different realities.

Inside, I saw the aftermath.
Outside, I saw the cause.
Inside, I saw behavior.
Outside, I saw trauma.
Inside, I saw rule violations.
Outside, I saw survival patterns.

Inside, I thought I understood addiction.
Outside, addiction became my life too.

I walked the streets of Phoenix beside him—not above him.

Not as a former officer.
Not as authority.
Not with judgment.

But as someone who realized she had zero control over the kind of pain trauma breeds.

It was:

  • holding his hand in alleyways,

  • counting how many hours he slept,

  • watching fentanyl and meth swallow him whole,

  • praying he’d choose life again,

  • and trying to bring him back from a past he never asked for.

People think addiction is weakness.
No—addiction is exposure.
Addiction shows you everything a person has survived.

Now he’s back behind the walls…and addiction followed him inside.

Which is the most painful irony of all.

Because you’d think prison would be safety.
Structure.
Sobriety.
A reset button.

But drugs flow more freely inside than anyone outside wants to believe.
I know that now in a way I never did as a CO.

Because now it’s personal.
Now it’s my husband.
Now I’m watching him fight addiction from the most hopeless place possible.

And the only thing I can do—the ONLY thing—is keep being the voice he hears when his demons are louder than God.

Walking away is not an option—not for someone who knows the truth.

Walking away doesn’t save addicts.
Walking away gives addiction another dead body.

I love him enough to stay with boundaries.
To confront with honesty.
To challenge him into accountability.
To hold the line.
To be the voice that says “I’m here—but you have to fight.”

Addiction wants him alone.
Recovery needs him loved.

And I wasn’t put in his story by accident.
I was placed there.
Chosen there.
Prepared there—long before I even realized what God was preparing me for.

I didn’t sign up for addiction.

But I signed up for HIM.
And loving him means:

  • living truth,

  • loving fiercely,

  • drawing boundaries,

  • and refusing to abandon someone whose survival depends on never being left again.

Some stories aren’t meant to be understood by the world.
Some stories are meant to be lived by the ones strong enough to survive them.

This picture?
It’s part of ours.
Not the pretty part.
But the REAL part.

And that’s exactly why it matters.

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