The Addict, The Destroyer

***Warning: This post contains thoughts about suicide, and may not be suitable for all readers.***

My friends, it’s been a long time. I have been busy with writing assignments for school (I am back at university), and haven’t had the desire to write beyond them. But! I have missed writing here; so this morning, I shall try.

My addict mentality has been a recent plague on my soul.

It has slowly, surely, seeped around the edges of my sanity, and now bleeds in excess (without any clotting agents to stem the flow).

Everything in my life is going surprisingly well… so of course the monster within is restless — eager and hell-bent on (my own) self-destruction.

Sunday, I felt suicidal ideation creeping up on me; but I was smart about it… I immediately disclosed to my husband that something was terribly amiss; and then asked him for space. (This is a measure of protection for us both. When the monster wakes from its slumber, it rages; and often hurts anyone unfortunate enough to be near me.)

Given my history, he was understandably nervous about leaving me alone; but he has also come to trust my word (a pleasant side effect of my sobriety is an uncharacteristic sense of honesty), and agreed to leave the house if I promised to call should the wet concrete of those self-destructive thoughts start to solidify into something more. (A promise I made — and kept — with all my heart.)

In a way, my brother saved my life when he passed. Seeing what his death did to those who loved him most? It is not an exaggeration to say that it brought us — quite literally — to our knees. And while I am not nearly as loved as my brother was (a true Christian, he oozed kindly happiness), I know that if I were to follow in his footsteps, it might break the already fragile members of my family — my parents, my son, my nephew, my husband, my mother-in-law, and quite possibly, my baby brother. (We have a very complicated relationship, that we have only begun to repair.)

I may not be mourned as deeply, or by as many; but I cannot — and will not — add to the pain and suffering of those I truly, deeply love.

Which means, unfortunately, that I sometimes reside in nothing but the pain and suffering of my personality disorder, addictive thinking, and depression (the unholy trinity that awakens the monster from time-to-time).

The urge to drink, to use, to have reckless sex, swells within; and when I do not give myself over to it, the monster turns that discipline into rage… and I am blinded by the storm.

Mitchell takes the brunt of it. Confident in the knowledge that he understands my disease(s) and can weather any batsh*t maelstrom that comes his way, I let loose where I feel most safe. (Isn’t it ironic that when secure in our relationship with another, we sometimes treat them in ways that no one should be treated? Stupid goddam psyches.)

I tell him that he is the source of my unhappiness — that the twelve years and eight months that have passed without a sexual component to our relationship have fractured me in ways he will never understand, nor be able to repair. (And sadly, there is truth in that.)

He replies (very calmly) that he is aware he is not meeting my needs, and asks if I need space.

I say, “Yep. Get out.” (We came to an agreement that when I need space, he will be the one to leave the house; because when I leave, terrible things happen.)

Then I text him sh*t like, I need to feel loved and desired, so that I may love myself. I can no longer wrestle with this dark, defeating loneliness. I cannot stay here. I can’t. My mood is 110% better with you gone. Just… please don’t come home. Please.

A few hours later, I apologize for my lunacy. I tell him I know that my words are unkind and unfair. I tell him to wait a few hours, and promise I’ll be okay. When the worst has passed, I ask if he’d like to come home and watch a movie with me… and to his credit, he always forgives and returns.

The suicidal ideation that sneaks up on me from time-to-time does not equate to a desire to die. It comes from a longing for relief from the tormented existence of having a personality disorder. Of sometimes losing control, and forgetting that I am more than the monster. I wish for peace, not death.

In the days preceding and following the monster’s emergence, I (quite literally) lose my sense of self. I am convinced that without the monster, I am nothing. I grow quiet, as the voice of my childhood abuser sneaks into my thoughts, and memories of that abuse hijack my dreams. I ascertain — beyond a shadow of doubt — that I am the “worthless, dirty little girl that no one will ever love as [he] does.”

I don’t shower, don’t eat, can’t sleep.

I fall behind in my studies.

I refuse to leave the house.

I sincerely want to do anything that will make me feel differently — drink, use, have violent sex.

That intersection — between not wanting to feel, and feeling too much — is where my addiction resides. There is a disconnect between knowing and feeling.

I know that Mitchell loves me… that no one will ever love me as he does; but I feel that he doesn’t. I know that he desires me, and that our sexual desert is a product of too many factors to acknowledge, but I feel like that “dirty little girl that no one will ever love”. (I think, That bastard was right. How awful and repugnant must I be for my husband to have stopped wanting me in a sexual way?)

The heartless harpy within scratches beneath my skin. She doesn’t make love. She isn’t interested in connection. She uses sex to control and destroy other men. (And destroy I have.) I cannot blame Mitchell for backing away from that. Yet it hurts.

There is a deep ache within the void of sobriety, and old habits — old thinking patterns — die hard, and far too slowly.

Today, I am not feeling strong enough to resume healthy habits. I want nothing more than to sleep… but cannot give myself over to the nightmares of coveted slumber. So I write.

I lend a voice to the woman who exists beside the monster… the one Mitchell has a unique ability to always see.

She waits beneath the dark circles that sink tired eyes, beyond the terse measure of my voice, apart from the distant response to my husband’s touch.

She gets lost sometimes. And when she’s lost, the monster makes decisions that reinforce the insidious whispers from my past, while the Lady of Light deeply longs to be rid of them.

I wait for the darkness within to be eclipsed by the woman I am becoming. I hold on just long enough to survive the fury… knowing that eventually, this will all happen again.

Because it always happens…

…and I yearn for the serenity in my prayers.

Serenity that may never come.

6 thoughts on “The Addict, The Destroyer

    1. Alessa Moon says:

      You are never alone. The internet (in that sense) is a blessing for me. Without it, I would not truly know and/or feel that others were experiencing the batsh*t crazy that sometimes consumes my life. Thank you so much for relating! 🥰

      Liked by 1 person

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