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As each day goes by and I fall further and further into him, my doubt over being able to be fixed grows.
As I fall further and further into Tyler Stone, I am more certain than ever that I will have to say goodbye.
I wish, more than anything, that I were back in Seattle. I wish I were alone in my apartment with Angus. I wish I could drink coffee and eat pizza and hide the 30 Day Shred DVD behind the sofa.
I wish I could have time to lay out all the thoughts in my mind into something that even remotely makes sense. Right now my brain is a hive of sensations, and none of them are good.
They are fears and doubts and hesitation and anxiety. They are the things I’ve avoided successfully for so long. They are weakness.
And I’m beginning to feel it. That weakness. Like a bad drug, it’s clamping down and taking hold of me, winding its way through my body. It’s pulsating through my veins and itching across my skin.
It’s in every beat of my heart, in every shuddered breath I take as I fight the panic back down.
It’s on the tip of my tongue.
I am weak.
The love I have for Tyler has coupled with my addiction and intertwined with it in the most intricate way just like I feared, and the strings that bind me to my feelings are too strong. They hold me captive within my emotions and my addictions. They expose me to my fears.
I’m looking for things that aren’t there. I’m listening for things that haven’t happened. I’m thinking of things that aren’t in my control.
If you look enough, listen enough, think enough, you’ll create your own world. You’ll create a warped kind of universe where nothing is right. It’s a universe borne entirely of insecurity and anxiety.
Insecurity and anxiety make you weak.
I am weakness.
For the first time, I’m in too deep. This isn’t like before with Warren. This isn’t a teenage dream. This is a real love, the kind you feel deep in your bones. It’s the kind you feel so acutely that it could transcend time and space.
I love Tyler wholly, with every part of me. I love him with who I was and who I will be one day. I love him with who I am right in this second.
Except the person I am right now isn’t much of anything.
She is scared. Unsettled. Broken.
She’s addicted in the worst kind of way.
The thought of not being with him every day makes my lungs burn with the force of my breath. The thought of not being able to touch his face, kiss his lips, or hold his body physically hurts. It rips through me unrelentingly.
But being with him hurts, too. There isn’t a middle ground or a happy medium. It’s one extreme or the other. It hurts either way because both ends of my addiction, of my love, are devastating.
Without him, I could be nothing but an empty shell, living desperately for the one thing I’d have left of him.
With him, I’m bursting with life, but it comes with every insecurity a woman has to face.
Addiction hurts.
Nothing can feel good for so long without inevitably crashing and burning.
I scrub my skin with the puff until it’s raw. I scrub every part of pain away from my skin before I step out of the shower. If only it were easy to scrub it from beneath my skin.
If I could take every bit of pain out of my body, I would.
I would rather not love him than hurt us.
Because that’s all I’m doing. I’m hurting us both. Sure, he’ll hold me and wipe my tears, but I see the pain in his eyes.
Last night, I crawled into bed and sobbed into my pillow.
