My Addict, His Beast & Me

"Breathe, girl, breathe. He's gone", I say in a whisper echoing through a cloud of disbelief.

Staring into the bathroom mirror with my swollen, tear-filled eyes and seemingly permanent frown, I verbalize for the hundredth time, "Face it, he's left again. My addict and the beast have vanished and taken everything: the money, the car, and my misguided trust."

As I look away from the mirror to the toilet vanity, I see my gold Gucci necklace peeking out from the tissue holder. "Hallelujah, my addict missed it!", I screamed. "I love this necklace." I loved the matching bracelet just as much but my addict stole it and like a damn magician turned it into cocaine within the hour. I cringed as I pondered how many beautiful things l've lost to his addiction.

Dealing with his thievery alone should have brought me to my senses long ago but instead, now gone, I treat my precious items as no more than sacrificial lambs. I've just grown tired of finding hiding places for my things throughout the house. My addict is like Sherlock Holmes, searching every nook and cranny for valuables when he's mesmerized by, and under the control of the beast. He could care less about how much those things mean to me. But to him, their street value is priceless.

I am so angry about everything! The beast, so loud and visible, provides ammunition for opinionated family members and nosey friends. You can bet my addict's and my damaged relationship will be this week's juiciest gossip. How freakin' embarrassing!

Let's see, there's my mom who worries so much and thinks I should be as strong as she raised me--(But I'm not!). Knowing that she cries over my dilemma almost as much as I do is so disheartening. She has become my ATM, supporting me when I'm short on money for bills that come due. I'm overwhelmed with guilt each time I ask for help. Placing the money in my hand, she holds so tightly as if to never let me go. I'm ashamed; living only on Social Security, mom is too old for this stress.

My daughter Rene, to whom I'm no longer seen as a mentor, maybe not even a mom, hates me because of my addict. My plight became a reality for her when she needed to use my computer for a college assignment. I lied to her saying, "my computer died after I spilled soda into the keyboard." She knew damn well my addict had sold that thing. She stormed off in such a rage, calling me a weak, defeated, fallen professional. "Mother, you are the bane of my existence," she shouted with disdain.

And I can't forget my self-centered friend Kevin (a wanna-be-boyfriend), who's purview doesn't go beyond fast money and stupid women. He knows enough about me and my addict to desperately want me in his entourage: Stupid is as stupid does, I guess. I would actually fit right into his 'silly women's club,' as many times as I've allowed my addict to take my money without consequence.

I honestly wish everyone would leave me alone! They don't fully understand that I'm not oblivious to my situation. I'm a fool who needs a savior. All things considered, these folks have themselves been webbed into the beast's dance. Because of their concern, he steals their joy and peace of mind each time they watch me suffer.

They would all feel so deceived if they knew that I'm a blatant hypocrite. I cry victim to them whenever the beast shows up. I put on a charade: professing my faith in God, my painstaking love for my addict, and a desire for change. Truth is, I knowingly yield to the tricks of the beast in my own way. It's evil influence has captured my mind and body through my addict's sexual manipulations. Yes, I said sex.

Avoiding loneliness and the absence of a sex life, I sacrifice my self-respect to keep my addict close; real close. I hate to say it but I'm afraid; I fear that intimacy won't find me again if he leave. I don't want to be alone.

In my screwed up mind, my addict--young and spry-- is the best partner I've ever had, bar none. When the beast sleeps, we're actually friends; amazing lovers. I'm addicted to his touch. Make-up sex has become the reward for the pain he causes me; that's the epitome of a Pyrrhic victory. Literally, I wait in anticipation to make love after he recuperates from his rendezvouses with the beast. It makes me feel wanted and beautiful in my ugliest state.

There's an element of embarrassment in my testimony but it's true. Our sex life has become his bargaining chip. My addict takes advantage of my poor self-esteem. He knows I won't fight for my dignity because I have so little left.

I can recall early on in our relationship when my addict disappeared for three days. No call. No explanation. Nothing! On the fourth day, my authentic self rose up in me, begging me to retaliate. It proclaimed, "I'm through with this mess! He's not going to do this to me anymore! God knows I'd be better off if (the) addict weren't around! Then, maybe, I can live again!"

With wind at my back, I climbed out of bed that day, hurriedly packed his things, and phoned around demanding his so-called associates find him and tell him his ass was out! Oh, I felt so energized, a powerful sense of pride flowed throughout my body!

Unfortunately, by the time he did get home, looking sad, sorry, and sickly, my superwoman had deteriorated into a meek and pathetic puppy. "Come in. Clean up. Eat. Sleep. We'll be ok, my addict," I said, as I unpacked his things and ran his bath. I felt more defeated in that moment then I had at times when I simply submitted to his nonsense.

I know my addict has surrendered to his fight with the beast and is ill-equipped to save himself, let alone save me. Believe me, I ask myself often, "What are you going to do about this? Why are you tolerating this abuse? Is it for love? NOOOT."

The ties that once bonded my addict and I in love have become nooses that we use interchangeably to incapacitate one another's dreams. Each incident of my addict's disappearing act is an epiphany of hopelessness and loneliness.

At one point, I saw our love as a formidable opponent, defeating the beast and causing him to go away or seek out new souls to torment. Now, entrapped in my own addiction (to my addict), my self-worth has been depleted and I crave sexual gratification and companionship at any cost. This reality have become my ever-present vice . . . And the beast knows it. He knows I endure the unthinkable, not caring that I'm seen as a foolish old lady.

There are still times when my troubled heart tries to reset saying, "You deserve true love. Get rid of your addict! You can kick his tired ass to the curb! You're stronger than you think!" But before I can absorb those affirmations of possibility, fear compasses me, "Shut up and get real! Addiction seldom loses in the game of live or die. Your addict doesn't want to leave the beast, and you, you won't leave him. You've tried and you've failed." "Man, has my tolerance for pain grown," I mouthed with shaking lips.

Damn, I've even considered the team approach. Like when my addict comes home after street crawling in the darkness with drugs, alcohol and skank women, I could assert, "Let's get it together, my addict. We can turn this tide. Let's get some help to defeat our addictions!-- You're to the beast . . . mine to you."

But instead I don't say a word. You see, the effort would be one-sided and futile. My addict no longer cares what tomorrow holds as long as he has the beast. That's all that matters to him. And for me, all that matters is that when he leaves, he returns.

So, with my reflective thoughts exhausted, I look back into the mirror. I swallow my tainted pride, shake off false hopes, and forgive myself for another moment of optimistic insanity.

And then I wait . . . wait for my addict to come home.