My husband, R, told me from the start that he had a problem with alcohol. I was a little drunk and feeling bold the night we met. I asked him if he had any secrets. "I drink too much," he said as we left the pub, almost 10 years ago.

"That's OK. I have a daughter," I said, though I certainly didn't think of her as a secret or a problem, just something I should mention if we were going to see each other again.

We walked through the backstreets to my house. All the while I played back our evening: R's kindness towards me, the kiss, the warmth and smell of his neck, which seemed so familiar. I know about problems with alcohol, I thought. I know what to do. It will be all right, because I will show him love, and a sensible life and he won't need booze.

It is embarrassing to admit this now, but I had been waiting to be taken home by someone like R for years. Something in our united step as we strode home, and the fact that we clung to one another with genuine affection, suggested that this wasn't a one-night stand sort of a walk home.

He wanted security, love and company, and so did I.

"You can sleep on the sofa," I said as I turned the key in the door. I knew that inviting a relative stranger into the house was probably a little bit risky, but I let him in anyway.

We married a year later. R was too drunk to make it up to our hotel room on the wedding night and had to be lifted under the arms by my best friend and me. Six months after that, I gave birth to our first child (my second). We were fast movers, a family of four already – not leaving any time to consider how to patch up the cracks that were beginning to show.

Within weeks of us being together, it seemed that R's relationship with alcohol seemed so much more important than his love for me. But with a stubborn persistence, and some would say blind stupidity, we continued. We loved each other, after all.

Often, if R said he'd be home by 8pm, I'd find him on the doorstep at 1am, unable to find his keys. A couple of times I found him peeing out of the living room window. He always wanted to be the last at the party, despite being too obliterated to enjoy it.

He tried to laugh off his behaviour after an episode, but I found it sad. He lied about where he was, and I often believed him. I thought he worked longer hours than everyone else.

At night, when he was out, I would try to go to sleep and forget about his whereabouts. But it was hard when a hungry baby would wake in the early hours and I would be forced to look at the bedside clock and think, "Where the hell are you?"

My feelings were a confused mixture of anger, worry and uselessness. I did mean things to R: once I threw a glass of water at him as he walked through the door, a zig-zagging, stinking mess of slurring apologies.

Years and years of this. I set ultimatums I later broke. All my conflicting demands in our relationship of "Get out!" then "Why aren't you at home?" and "Don't lie to me then tell me you love me" then "Tell me the truth for God's sake!" (my behaviour was as mixed-up as his) created a toxic environment for a family. We separated and got back together. R made promises with good intentions that he inevitably found impossible to keep.

Then I stopped concentrating on R. I had to, to save my sanity, and focus on our children. I learned frustratingly late on in our relationship that I was only responsible for my life, and if R wanted to change, only he could do it.

Then, last year, something in him snapped.

Days before R's stint at the Priory (and before any of us knew that was where he'd end up), I went away to visit some friends. R made it clear that he didn't want to come, so it was just me and the children. We had a lovely time and I could forget about our problems.

On the day we returned, I knew something was wrong. R wasn't answering any texts or calls. Once I'd parked the car, I asked the neighbour if she'd have the children while I unpacked, scared of what I might find inside our house.

It was a wreck, and so was R.

"What can I do?" he asked me, drunk and crying desperately.

I had been telling him for years what I thought he should do.

But this was the first time R had asked me.