She Always Uses Drugs Twice Before Coming to Bed Every Night
Episode 1
The first time I noticed it, I thought it was harmless. Maybe even normal. My wife, Simi, would excuse herself every night around 10:15 p.m., just before we went to bed. She’d disappear into the bathroom, and I’d hear the tap run, the medicine cabinet creak, and then silence—followed by two sharp clicks. Sometimes, a faint sound like something being unwrapped. Then she’d come out with a smile, kiss me softly on the cheek, and slip into bed like nothing happened. At first, I thought she was just brushing her teeth or taking her vitamins. I mean, she’d always been a little obsessive about nightly routines. Skincare, candles, prayer. But one night, curiosity got the best of me.
She had forgotten to lock the bathroom door.
I walked in.
And I saw it.
Two small white pills. Her hand shaking as she brought them to her lips. Her eyes closed tightly. She wasn’t calm—she was desperate. She swallowed them dry, without water, like someone used to the bitterness. Then she turned to find me standing there. Frozen. Her face changed instantly.
“Why are you in here?” she snapped.
“I just… I didn’t know you were taking medication,” I stammered.
“I have headaches,” she replied too quickly.
Headaches?
Every night?
For the last eight months?
I didn’t push it then. I just nodded. But that night, while she slept soundly beside me, I stayed awake. Thinking. Watching. I remembered moments—how she’d sometimes stare at the wall for minutes before blinking. How she flinched when I touched her unexpectedly. How she sometimes forgot things we talked about hours earlier. I told myself it was stress. Work. The pressure of trying to conceive.
But deep inside, something didn’t feel right.
I started watching more closely. She never missed a dose. Two pills, same time, same order. Always before sex. Always before sleep. And after each dose, she became warmer, looser, more intimate. But if she skipped it—like the night we got home late from a wedding—she avoided my touch entirely, claiming exhaustion.
I tried asking again. She shut down.
“I said it’s nothing,” she hissed. “Stop treating me like a patient.”
But I couldn’t stop.
One day, when she left for work, I searched the bathroom. I found the pills tucked deep inside an old lipstick box. No label. Just small, round, off-white tablets. I took one to a pharmacist friend. He examined it, then looked at me oddly.
“These aren’t for headaches,” he said. “This is Diazepam. A strong sedative. People use this when they can’t sleep. Or when they’re battling anxiety. But in some cases… it’s abused. Especially in combination with other substances.”
Abused?
By Simi?
My Simi?
When I confronted her that night, she didn’t even deny it. She just stared at me with eyes so tired they looked older than her face.
“I need it,” she said quietly. “I can’t sleep without it. I can’t… be touched without it.”
My heart dropped.
“What do you mean?”
She looked away. And whispered the words that would haunt me forever:
“Because when I close my eyes, I don’t see you—I see them.”
To be continued
She Always Uses Drugs Twice Before Coming to Bed Every Night
Episode 1
The first time I noticed it, I thought it was harmless. Maybe even normal. My wife, Simi, would excuse herself every night around 10:15 p.m., just before we went to bed. She’d disappear into the bathroom, and I’d hear the tap run, the medicine cabinet creak, and then silence—followed by two sharp clicks. Sometimes, a faint sound like something being unwrapped. Then she’d come out with a smile, kiss me softly on the cheek, and slip into bed like nothing happened. At first, I thought she was just brushing her teeth or taking her vitamins. I mean, she’d always been a little obsessive about nightly routines. Skincare, candles, prayer. But one night, curiosity got the best of me.
She had forgotten to lock the bathroom door.
I walked in.
And I saw it.
Two small white pills. Her hand shaking as she brought them to her lips. Her eyes closed tightly. She wasn’t calm—she was desperate. She swallowed them dry, without water, like someone used to the bitterness. Then she turned to find me standing there. Frozen. Her face changed instantly.
“Why are you in here?” she snapped.
“I just… I didn’t know you were taking medication,” I stammered.
“I have headaches,” she replied too quickly.
Headaches?
Every night?
For the last eight months?
I didn’t push it then. I just nodded. But that night, while she slept soundly beside me, I stayed awake. Thinking. Watching. I remembered moments—how she’d sometimes stare at the wall for minutes before blinking. How she flinched when I touched her unexpectedly. How she sometimes forgot things we talked about hours earlier. I told myself it was stress. Work. The pressure of trying to conceive.
But deep inside, something didn’t feel right.
I started watching more closely. She never missed a dose. Two pills, same time, same order. Always before sex. Always before sleep. And after each dose, she became warmer, looser, more intimate. But if she skipped it—like the night we got home late from a wedding—she avoided my touch entirely, claiming exhaustion.
I tried asking again. She shut down.
“I said it’s nothing,” she hissed. “Stop treating me like a patient.”
But I couldn’t stop.
One day, when she left for work, I searched the bathroom. I found the pills tucked deep inside an old lipstick box. No label. Just small, round, off-white tablets. I took one to a pharmacist friend. He examined it, then looked at me oddly.
“These aren’t for headaches,” he said. “This is Diazepam. A strong sedative. People use this when they can’t sleep. Or when they’re battling anxiety. But in some cases… it’s abused. Especially in combination with other substances.”
Abused?
By Simi?
My Simi?
When I confronted her that night, she didn’t even deny it. She just stared at me with eyes so tired they looked older than her face.
“I need it,” she said quietly. “I can’t sleep without it. I can’t… be touched without it.”
My heart dropped.
“What do you mean?”
She looked away. And whispered the words that would haunt me forever:
“Because when I close my eyes, I don’t see you—I see them.”
To be continued
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