My story starts with an ending. The ending of of what I thought, like any idealizing and romanticizing imbecile, would be my future “forever.” The “opposite’s attract” theory was put to the test in our pairing. The initial excitement we found in each other’s opposite characteristics became the source of our conflict and contempt. I was too free spirited and feared being confined to his rigid expectations for a future that he focused on constructing, while my fickle attitude toward aspects of life he held to a higher standard drove him into madness. The more he tried to confine me to complete this caste he had created detailing who I should be and what I should be doing, the more I purposefully drove him away out of spite. A week after we adopted a new dog, synonymous with the desperate act of “having a baby to save the relationship,” Corey grabbed the dog out of my arms, got in his car and moved out of our apartment the next day, which was the last time I saw him.
I was initially devastated despite knowing that I had been completely miserable for months prior to his departure. That was a year and a half ago and this blog is a testament to my struggle and desire to acquire the ability to deal with my fear of being alone with myself. I fashioned myself the title of being a serial monogamous, having been in consecutive relationships for the prior eights years and so decided that being alone could possibly be the best circumstance for me while in my completely depressed state of existence immediately following Corey’s departure from our home.
It was not. Without living within the structured cannon that I had constructed around my role as the adoring girlfriend I loved to play for years, I put myself into gear on the most self destructive course I navigated in my 27 years of life. My identity had been woven so delicately into a intricate pattern comprised of what each of my partner’s expectations for me had been that what I found in myself was loneliness, fear and a vast empty void comprising my core. I could not work, I could not eat, I could not function with the onset of this realization. I started going to therapy once a week and went on short term disability as a means to pull myself up from underneath the excruciating weight of my emptiness. Then I acted in complete opposition to the work I was trying to do in order to find myself. My doctor’s blame my dismally progressive decline into a state of complete disarray as a subsequent outcome from being diagnosed as Bipolar I. Sometimes I feel like my diagnosis is just an excuse I use to deflect culpability for my actions, but perhaps how I am affected by it is truly illustrated by what followed next.
With therapy only once a week and my only obligation other than getting myself better being group therapy for an hour three times a week, I had a lot of time to myself. And being that I had an inability to be alone with myself, I let a friend of mine who was dealing heroin move into my apartment. I lied to myself and said his presence was purely to compensate for Corey’s portion of the rent, but really, I just did not want to be alone. I had been clean from heroin for a year and a half and only lasted a month with him living with me before I picked up that piece of tin foil and filled it with black contrails that dripped across its shiny face from smoking it for a release from my loneliness. Within two months I was a full fledged addict once in pain if I waited too long between smoking sessions. Its resurgence being required in order to not feel the pain from having to stop was the straw that was going to break this camels spine after having fought so viciously to stop my five year habit to get my family and friends back in my life. At the end of my lease term, my friend and I had a falling out and I was forced to move back in with my parents house as I still was not working.
I started thinking about killing myself more and more frequently. Not only was I no longer independently foraging a path into adulthood, I had my old friend heroin along for the ride once again to dull the pain swallowing me whole. I remember that I was sitting in a parking structure crying, shuffling through different ways to die in my head that would be painless and quick when I received a text message from a friend I have had known since Kindergarten. To me it felt like divine intervention, she lived on the island of Oahu, and maybe getting out of my environment was exactly what I needed to help save me from myself. My parents, having been living with me for only two weeks and seeing my dismal state of existence, were in complete support of my epiphany and even bought my plane ticket.
I think they probably regret that decision more so than any other they ever made parenting me and will continue to regret it until the day they die.