I wrote this post a few years ago, fresh out of recovery feeling raw like a newborn and in the midst of some very traumatic relationship stuff. I have for some time felt inspired by the epistolary method of story telling and found it the easiest way to write about a very dark and painful time my life. It is something I have in mind for a writing project at some point.
I gave you everything I had. Still, you could not satisfy my hunger. The fault lies with me, I suppose, for failing to realize that, the more I gave you, the more you would want and the more monstrous my appetite for you would become. I stood, motionless, and watched while you destroyed my career, my employability, my marriage, and my relationship with my only remaining son. Still, I found myself unable to deny you anything you desired. Your hunger became my hunger, and it ravaged my life. Powerless. You rendered me absolutely powerless.
I cannot remember the exact time or place when suddenly, stealing from my husband while he slept, stealing from my son’s room while he went to work, and using my Mum’s credit card number to get money without her consent, seemed like okay things to do. As my desperation to get high increased, I began doing out-of-character things, like asking my drug dealers for freebies, and asking my using friends for handouts. In short, you transformed me into a first class mooch.
You also began making me sick, only I denied it, and just turned to self-medicating with you more often. You literally took my breath away, when you gave me a pneumonia so severe that I had to call 911 late one night, and have an ambulance take me to the hospital, where I spent 5 days in the hospital convalescing. I lied about you; those naive hospital workers had no clue about me as a crackhead. I overheard the lady in the bed next to mine, when they brought her in, confess her relationship with you. Telling the truth did her no good; I could tell, through the curtain that separated our beds, when the doctor began putting on his cloak of self-righteousness. Whoever made the non-addicted judge and jury of the addicted?
You know the sickest thing about all this? The day they released me from the hospital I went home and smoked some more crack. I could hardly wait to get home to you, my comfort, my balm, my secret yet not-so-secret prayer, my answer for everything.
Today I have no room in my life for you, who took from me everything you could and destroyed it, before my very eyes. But I see you, there, lurking about, waiting in the shadows for easy prey. I want you to know that I don’t miss you ~ not one single bit.