The Thoughtful Addictfeatured

Laying down staring up at the ceiling the world seems to take a distant feel. Cold chills trickle down my skin like droplets of water falling from condensation. The outline of the ceiling fan twirls around the room as my reality spins circularly in a haze. Dilated, my pupils see the bursts of green, blue, and purple hues as they explode and dissipate like the fireworks on the 4^th of July.

I am drifting along with the hum and sound of my heartbeat as the numbness of time races by.

When I open my eyes again, I can see light radiating and pouring out from the window in my bedroom. The sunshine of the early morning is perched abruptly as a reminder that a new day is waiting graciously to be greeted. But I’m not ready to move forward to begin another lapse of sentiment in a fixed day of challenging perspectives. Selfishly, the highs of the night before having momentarily calmed a raging sea, allow me to escape the sickening feeling growing in the pit of my stomach.

Having loved an addict is hard. Being half of the addict who chooses to love herself more is harder.

To recover would be an awfully big achievement.

With Light & Love,
– H ✌