Cycling

Right now, we’re in this never-ending cycle of suck. I’ve put my foot down regarding being in his presence when he’s under the influence of an opiate. And I’ve stuck to that, too. However, inevitably, I’ll show up somewhere to meet him, or he’ll pick me up from work, and I’ll take one look at him and know. The pinned pupils, the lidded eyes, the drooped mouth, the constant touching of his face. And I’ll insist that he take me home. And I’ll be angry, because how the hell did he think I wouldn’t be able to tell? To his credit, he is completely honest with me when I ask if he’s used. If he wants to hang out with me, I’ll tell him that I won’t if he’s used that day, and he’ll fess up if he has. After the first round of him lying about his dope use and me confronting him about it, he’s been honest with me.

But then, after a few days of no in-person contact, he’ll get a few Suboxone or something, and therefore won’t use. And we’ll hang out. We’ll have two or so great nights and great days together. Everything will be how it’s supposed to be. We’ll have dates and cuddle in bed and have tons of sex and I’m in heaven. But it’s only a matter of time before his withdrawal symptoms kick in. He’ll try to fight it to stay with me, but if you know anything about opiate withdrawal, you know how difficult it is. It’s awful and painful and you feel like you’re going to die. You vomit and sweat and shake and your whole body hurts and it feels like there are needles in your legs and it lasts for what feels like forever. And so, he’ll have to go pick up to stop his suffering, and our cycle starts all over again.

These few amazing days and moments that we have together are a tease. They’re like watching through the window of someone else’s house, getting a glimpse of what you could have and what you should have, if only this One Thing didn’t exist. And then I get mad at myself for deluding myself into thinking that we could hang out. It’s like false hope; everything is great while it lasts, but I know it can’t last. But it’s like I won’t allow myself to think about the fact that it’s not going to last. I know this disease well. It’s what I do for a living. And I understand it in my clients so fucking well. And yet when it comes to the man I love, I just want to believe that it’s different, even though I know it isn’t. He started a blog to chronicle this, and reading it broke my heart a bit. To read just how much this man is suffering and just how bad his addiction is makes me want to go hug him and kiss him and hold him and tell him everything is going to be alright.

I don’t know if everything will be alright, but I have to believe it will be or I’ll never get through this.