Loving an addict.

I fell in love with you when I was sixteen years old. You were the first boy I'd ever liked that way, and I thought it was something so special. 

When we got married at the ripe old age of twenty-one, I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with you. We had so many plans, we thought... we thought all the things.

You described to me years later how you felt. Like things were constantly churning inside of you. You could never quiet your mind. You never felt you were good enough, smart enough, capable. Always out of step. The only times you felt any semblance of peace, was when you were under the influence of one thing, or another.

In the early days, I found all kinds of ways to excuse it. I helped you hide it- from our friends, our families. Years later they told me they knew. We thought we were getting away with it. I thought if I helped you, I was being a good partner, a good wife. I was a liar, right alongside you. I was afraid-and with all of that, I felt incredibly lonely. 

The unhealthy habits I established while we were together lasted far beyond it. The amount of compromise I allowed, feeding into my need to help, to fix. A codependency that haunted me, and followed me from one relationship to the next. If I took care of everything, you would find a way to get healthy. You'd feel less pressure. You wouldn't use. I saw all of your potential- I knew you could be and do so much. But you didn't- you didn't see it. 

Did you know for years after we ended things between us, I still woke up at 2am? When the bars closed, and I'd reach out for you. Often times, you weren't there. I had so many panic attacks in that little one bedroom apartment we had- by myself, waiting for you. You'd stumble through the door, and I'd spend the next hour or so trying to sober you up. Doing whatever it took to get you ready for the next day. I got really good at living for two people. I was willing to give up everything for you. 

We talk often about what the addicts go through, and I know your demons were not my demons- but I felt an obligation to stand by you. I know I felt a need to "save you", something you could have only ever done for yourself. I was constantly terrified- every time the phone rang late in the night, and when one of my worst fears was confirmed, when it was a cop's voice on the other end of the phone instead of yours... 

I was scared I'd lose you. Scared you'd drive drunk, or something awful would happen to you. There were times I showed up just in time... thinking about those moments still really fucks me up. Broken promises, so many times you told me you were going to get help, you'd get sober. I stayed, knowing full well the cycle would start over. 

I remember when it was over for me, I was twenty-four years old. I'd lost and gained so much by that time, and I was starting to dim. I was going through life like an automaton- barely emoting, just functioning. One day I finally broke, I looked at you and said I couldn't do it anymore. A door inside of me closed to you, and it never reopened. It took us another two years to truly pull apart.

It was up to that point the hardest decision I'd ever made. Realizing I'd fallen out of love with you, knowing I couldn't continue to be with you. Also knowing I would be blamed if something happened to you close to the break up, even though it wouldn't have been my fault. I would have blamed myself too. You hit bottom after I left, and I had to force myself to stay away. To just watch. You weren't mine anymore. 

We blame the partners, especially the women. If I'd just loved you enough, worked hard enough, gave enough of myself... it's just not the case. I'm thankful that after we ended, you found sobriety. You are a success story- one with a happy ending. You moved on, living a happy and fulfilling life. It so easily could have gone the other way.

It's been eight years since I left you, eighteen years since I fell in love with you. The scars left behind don't show, but they're still there.