Addiction with all the sadness and psychoses that it brings, is as draining for loved ones as it is for the sufferers themselves. The eye of the storm is after all the calmest place to be. So calm, that it is tempting to forget the assault that is going on all around us. I always knew this assault would prove to be too much; I knew that he would grow weary of the burden our love entailed. Sick people, while they remain in their sickness, are not made for other people. We are not worthy of them nor of their love. 


That is just the way of addiction; it tightens its vice and suffocates anyone that is near to you. Our addiction wants you to be lonely and to ensure that you will welcome that loneliness. So we kick, scream, bite, pull away, and isolate ourselves unaware of what  strings our limbs are tangled in. It is hard to love someone like us. Fucked up people like us. Puppets for our addictions like us. Even the most dedicated co-dependent or the most self deprecating masochist will usually give up after enough sabotage and histrionics. We and our addictions are low and lonely creatures. We were wrought out of pain and will not rest until we have turned that pain into something that is palpable. It will fester like an infection in the hearts of all those who dare to love us, and it will lay waste to them. The trophy of the addiction, not of the addict, is that trail of dead. I could build Empires with their bones.


I fear that people like us have so much weight to bear that it eventually will crush us. It is not a brilliant or energetic destruction; it is a slow destruction as we collapse under the pressure of our own emotions. We become like black holes, reflecting nothing yet swallowing everything. We become a void. We become a vacuum of hope. 

I fear that I am one of those people and that I lack the courage to change myself. I have sucked him in and he has stood, waiting, at the precipice of an angry vortex.


I lost the one good person that I had left. But I don’t feel it. I don’t feel it. Thank God I don’t feel it, even though the numbness terrifies me. I could feel my own tears gather, but they would vanish soon. I knew that life would hurt, but I know what could lull it all away and that is good. That feels good. It removes from my body its obligation to feel anything at all. I don’t feel anything at all. Not pain, not fear. Intellectually, it scares me how little I feel, but that’s it. It ends there. I’ll be drunk off of my apathy soon. I don’t care and I can’t feel it. My flesh is here, but I am not.