The Sickness You Can't Recover From

I am addicted to him. He is my drug, and I am his dependable user. I need him more than I need oxygen, more than I need food, or water, or sleep. Sleep is the distant cousin of a dream I once had. I used to sleep, before I became an addict. No, it’s not drugs, it’s not alcohol, it’s not sex. It’s him. I’m obsessive, I’m clingy, I’m in love. I used to hate that word, loathe it, but now I welcome it. I need it. Without it, I am nothing. It makes me sick, the way I obsess and cling and need and want and think. I am destroying myself, and it is at the fault of love. Dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin. Chemically, it doesn’t sound that bad. Chemically, it can be broken apart. Chemically, we can separate these chemicals and make sure they never come into contact again. If they do, they will surely kill me.

I toss. I turn. I think. I love. I lust. If this love doesn’t kill me, my insomnia will. I try to sleep, honestly, I do, but the constant treadmill of thoughts knock at my skull; a dull throb, a heartbeat, my heartbeat. This love has gotten to my head. It’s an idea, it’s the biggest plot made by man to distract society of what is, what was, and what could be. There had never been a “what was” for me, only my “what is.” I sincerely hope there is never a “what was,” my heart couldn’t take it. The “what could be” stage will come just like all things. The “what could be” stage is the worst. I’ve been there so many times, but never with him. He is different, he makes me different, I love this different.

God, I am exhausted. I will sleep. Turn off the light, shut my eyes, don’t think. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think. I can’t help but think. It’s like when you’re a little kid and your parents tell you not to do something and you want to do it even more. I sound crazy, I know, but when he left me that week, I nearly went crazy. It wasn't even his fault, he had to deal with his own stuff, he had to leave me behind. It wasn’t voluntary, it was mandatory. And who am I to step in the way of his recovery from his own drug. His drug isn’t chemical, like mine, it’s mental. He’s addicted to hating himself, and I hate myself for allowing him to hate himself. It’s a weird concept, I know, but I blame myself for every bad thing that’s ever happened to him, even before love. 

I sit here awake and writing. I hope to find a way out with the music playing out of my laptop. A way to sleep, to feel something other than exhaustion. My insomnia does not exhaust me, my love does. It’s exhausting planning your life around someone you know is going to be temporary, but that damned human condition determines that you must believe in soulmates because it’s what the movies show. The movies are wrong, we do not need soulmates to live. This societal pressure stems from our own self-hatred. We must be happy with one person because God forbid we find a happy life without someone to love. The idea of love was invented by people who were unhappy with their lives and wanted to see others be unhappy. Love is not a bad thing by any means, it’s just the most dangerous drug. It’s a sickness you can’t recover from. There will always be scars of what “once was.” Heartbreak is the worst pain you can feel, my “what is” broke mine once. I forgave him, of course, he was dealing with self-hatred and took it out on me. But I will never forget what those twelve hours felt like.

Suppose we lived in a world where we had no idea what love was. We were free to create our own guidelines, to explore our own feelings, no previous experience, no societal pressure, just you and your “what is.” Imagine what it would be like to fall in love again. You wouldn’t make the same mistakes as before, you could right your wrongs. You could prove to your “what is” that you deserve to be their “one and only,” their “soulmate,” if you will. What would you do differently? Would you do anything differently?

It’s nearly one in the morning on a Friday. I am not tired, not in the slightest. In fact, I am invigorated with life. I want to do something, anything. I need to do something. It has taken me less than twenty minutes to write this. I did not have to stop once. Are these the feelings I actually have? Should I step back from my “what is” and take a minute to figure out myself? I can’t do that, that would be selfish. We need each other more than ever in this trying time. I feel selfish. I want to social distance, I want to flatten the curve, but my addiction is less than twenty minutes away, and I could go to him at any time. He works down the street from me. If I ever need a dose of him, I can get one. There is nothing stopping me from going to him, but there is also nothing stopping me from not going to him. I am not immunocompromised, I do not need to social distance if I so choose, but I know it is wrong. I know that I am putting my needs before those of others and I cannot stop myself. I cannot stop harming innocent people because of what I need. Is this the life of an addict?

The life of an insomniac is a riveting one indeed. Will my thoughts keep you up at night? Is this questioning of my love making you question yours? Maybe we should all sit down and reconstruct the stereotype of love. I know I am not alone in this battle, I know many people are right alongside me. Are you one of them?