My Addiction

Everyone has an addiction, whether it's good or bad. There's a big difference there, I realize, but either way it's still an addiction, still something you feel like you need, constantly, and feel empty and lonely without. I had a friend who was addiction to marijuana, cocaine; basically any drug you could think of, he was on it and addicted to it. He couldn't go an hour without being stoned or high because he had withdrawals. I also had a friend who was addicted to pain, sure that sounds weird and creepy, but you wouldn't understand until you feel it first - hand; and I did. At first she hurt herself, cutting, burning, because she was depressed and wanted to end her own life. But not long after, when she hadn't succeeded in killing herself, it became an addiction. She cut her arms, her wrists, just for the pleasure of the pain. I remember sitting with her sometimes, begging her to stop and her telling me that she couldn't, and not only that, but she didn't want to. She burned herself on occasion, later telling me that the pain was so intense that it made her want to do it even more. That never made any sense to me, never, not until I met him, my own addiction.

I've spent the last two years of my life with him, at first it was just a friendship, just two people hanging out, spending time together and enjoying each other's company. Then it became a relationship, the kissing, the sex, the lies, the secrets. Some days I thought I never want to ever see him again, but then he appeared, sometimes out of no where, and he always made me smile. We've had our good days and our bad days; the good ones were when we could have a conversation and not an argument, the bad ones being when he swore at me and told me how worthless I was. On those bad days I wanted to leave, tell him how much I hated him and that I never wanted to see him again. But it never happened, because every time I tried to tell him those things, I always ended up forgiving him and I was the one apologizing in the end, for things I'd never done. It didn't make any sense.

But his eyes were always so full of pain and I was afraid for both of us, sometimes. His eyes were greenish brown when he was a child, now grey and dull, with no emotion except pain, anger and fear. I was afraid for my life if I stayed around, but afraid for his life if I left. He always did something to make it better, though, even if it was just for a minute, or an hour, even if it was just a smile or a kiss. And that was what made my addiction grow stronger. I lived for the pain and then for the short time of happiness that followed. I couldn't imagine my life without him, even though I knew it would be better. Anything would have been better.

I hated him, more than anything, and still do, but I've also never loved something or someone as much as I love him. He made me realize things I would have never have realized. He made me understand that no one else mattered, except for him and I. Lots of things he said confused me, most things actually, but I never questioned him, because he was brilliant. When he wasn't around I wanted him, but when I was with him I told myself it was wrong, he was wrong. Just like someone addicted to drugs, wanting and needing them so badly and then knowing what they were doing was wrong. Maybe I'm lucky I never got addicted to drugs, lucky that I never cut myself, but I don't feel lucky. Because my addiction is a living, breathing person, with a mind of his own, something that scares me a little. Maybe it scares me a lot.