Kicking the Habit

They say that heroin is the toughest addiction to overcome. It’s brutal; personal. They say that once you get a taste you feel better than you ever have before. And that every time you do it you need a little more to try to match that original high. It’s never enough, and as you continue to need more the experience dulls so that you have actually moved further apart before colliding back together again. They say that even when you try to give it up it finds you, begging for one last chance to have fun together before you really say goodbye. And you can’t ever say no. It never makes sense. There’s always a reason to do it again. And next time you can avoid it or turn it down, but this time will be the final farewell. You just can’t bring yourself to deny the one true pleasure. The experience that enables you to forget everything and feel things you can only do so together. Even if it isn’t as good as it was it still feels better than going without.

I am not a heroin addict, I am addicted to you. It is a significant difference, and perhaps I am being too dramatic. My 12-year-old crush died of a heroin overdose last year. He just couldn’t kick the habit. But I can’t get myself over you.

You are the bad boy with the good heart who makes me tingle in ways and places never possible with other men. You say things sometimes that I swear were pulled out of my own brain and then re-worded to sound more like you. You are also the non-Jewish, tattooed, self-proclaimed "Asshole," who had early success in the film industry only to crack under pressure, drop out of school, work a dead-end job and spend the last few years promising me you're trying to get your shit together. You disappear and keep coming back to find me when I am in some kind of weakened state and desperate for the greatest touch, kiss, look. When I am craving to re-connect with you, be with you, even if all I get is an abridged rendezvous or 3am phone call. Regardless of how much it pains me afterwards, I always let you back in. Convincing myself that it is all worth it for the few hours of pleasure and connection I collect.

The thing is, like the heroin addict’s drug experience weakens every time, my occasions with you aren’t getting any better. They are more spread out, more detached, more erratic. But being with you still feels better than any other attempt at intimacy with any one else. And those moments feel infinitely better than being alone.

I am wearing a flattering dress today. Men keep looking at me and commenting. And it’s not just the construction workers and other stereotypes on the street. Business men in suits, college students with backpacks, even a couple women. Perhaps today is the day I can finally kick my habit. If I don’t learn to say no, you will keep coming back. You always come back. I asked you a year and a half ago to never call me again and you obliged for a year, but then you came back. You can’t manage to stay away from me indefinitely. You are more than willing to disappear when some more important project comes along, but you weasel your way back to me. You will always keep trying. Part of me is flattered. But most of me is willing to start listening to my friends who have been begging me to give you up for what seems like forever. I realize now that if I don’t push you out of my life you will always be lurking in the background. And that that is not necessarily a good thing.

It really is not fair. It is hard enough to find someone who you like who likes you too. How can it be that your best efforts and my lowest expectations are still worlds apart? My left breast is aching today. I started a new pill this month, so it could somehow be related to that, but I think it is my heart having been cracked ever so slightly. Not broken, just cracked enough to know that there is a flaw. Because I have known for days that it is time for me to start my withdrawal. And it is painful. And last time didn’t feel good enough to be the official “last time.” It never does…