The truth about loving a heroin addict, being a sober junkie

Love is the best thing that we do. I’ve heard this many many times in my life. I’ve found so much comfort in this phrase. It’s been my destiny to fulfill myself in every word and find the meaning of my existence in it. I’ve measured myself, and everyone I’ve shared pieces of my heart with, through this phrase.

Love is the best thing that we do.

I’ve dissected it and analyzed and simplified it.

But what happens when it's not?

The answer, for me, is chaos, darkness and confusion. Love. Love? How has my experience been so dark… with love? I’ve begged, pleaded, sobbed and cried for love. Snot coming from my nose as I begged God to take me back to the warm embrace of ignorance and blind love. I’ve spent hours on my knees at church begging for God, for hope, for faith… for love. My family and friends have watched me fall to pieces, helped me glue them back and even held me when I couldn't. I’ve drank myself to sleep, ran half marathons to keep up with my mind and doubted every word anyone’s ever said to me. How can this be the best thing that I'm doing?

And now, now, I’m a crazy lady knitting scarves and leaving them all across this God forsaken town. All because I had a dream that he was cold. He told everyone around him just how cold. Nobody seemed to notice, or even really care. But he walked across this park and on the fence he found a scarf. He put it around his neck and felt complete. He felt the comfort he was missing, the warmth his body and soul craved for. The next morning I woke up rushing to the store to start my knitting.

But first, let’s start from the beginning.

There are many of us that walk around this earth and never really see ourselves. Some are even frightened by the reflections of our “self” we get a glimpse of during different stages of our life. We do not recognize ourselves in the mirror or in the people that surround us. Perhaps we can’t even connect to someone inside our closest circle. Searching for belonging. There is a haze we walk in. Aware we may be missing something, but unaware of what it is.

That haze that had me walking zombie-like disappeared when I met the love of my life, Alexander Zale Hardrgrove. Zale, like the Greek name meaning sea-strength. Like the strength my heart loved him with. The certainty that came with that “hello” was the only evidence I needed to know that my life, my purpose, my future was now and would forever be bound to him.

There was a recognition in his eyes. He carried himself in the body of an athlete, he expressed himself through kind green eyes. Beautiful green eyes that were always feening for connection, seeking for passion and compassion, seeking any experience of the human or non-human experiences he could, seeking for himself…something I could recognize. His touch, both tender and destroyer of every inch inside my heart and every millimeter of my skin. His voice, calming to my soul, soothing to my fears, erotic to my dreams. His smile, the window to every warm feeling you’ve ever emerged yourself in. How else would one describe perfection? Cause he was, he truly was, the perfect man for me.

We met when I was fourteen. I was a freshman and he was a senior in the same high school. Every person that I knew that knew him would always make comparisons. They’d tell me how much I was like him with some kind of admiration in their tone. I could tell that they looked up to him. In some ways that he didn't even know. When I first met him, though, he seemed to be extremely full of himself. He didn’t show the confidence that went along with the admiration that they had for him for being a deep thinking, great at soccer, unique in ideas or poetic to the heart. Rather his cockiness seemed to come from the admiration that he wanted to have from them for being the “coolest” person and the best at caring less. When it came down to what he wanted, it seemed to extremely differ from what he was getting. Not just in a popular sense, but in the “more fulfilling” kind of way.

Alex and I ended up getting to truly know each other through texting and some phone calls half a year after we met. I don't even remember when I got his number, or how we first connected. I think it was through MySpace. He was in the marine corps at the time and I was starting my sophomore year of high school. I was sitting in my English class when he first texted me. “Hey, it’s Alex…. Alex Hardgrove.” And just like that, all my stars aligned. We had many laughs, child-like and best friend-like. We talked all day, every day. He went UA chasing drugs. He came to me and I made him go home and turn himself back in. His father thanked me for this. Then he went to the brig. Then he stayed a bit longer till he was separated from the corps. We got to truly be ourselves through all of these changes. In what felt like, maybe the first time ever. We trusted each other in a way I had never trusted anyone before. Not even myself. And suddenly in a second, or maybe over months of conversation, our love had bloomed.

Being with him felt special in the way a baby feels with its mother after finally being picked up after a long cry in the middle of the night. That satisfying feeling that you’ve finally been heard, that someone finally heard you. That they heard you and they came for you, because they care about you. It felt like that moment of peace, understanding and belonging when you’re finally in their arms. You’re no longer alone, you are safe and you don’t even need to speak to tell them what is wrong or what you’ve felt. Because a single glance at you along with their loving embrace already tells you everything you’d need to hear.

Being with him felt like that. At first.

How sad our love story turned out to be. In him I found everything I needed. Every escape from my own darkness, every reassurance of my pain, every recognition of my worth (or lack thereof), everything I lacked from my parents and myself. From that moment, I don’t even know exactly when it happened, I was dependent on him for the quality of my life and even for my life itself. My heart was tethered to his and where he went I followed. Oh the times he’d cry to me telling me he was scared. That he was losing his mind and wanted to die. I had no idea why. All I knew was that if he wanted to die, I wanted to die. And I knew in my heart that if he died, I’d die.

In some ways, we even had our own language. Beyond the glances, we were able to have a conversation within a conversation. A conversation secret to the people around us. We’d laugh out loud and hug and kiss because only we understood the punchline. Our punchline. I remember the time we went to see Legend of the Guardians. No one wanted to go with me because it was a childish movie. But I was in love with animation and how cute the owls were. I remember thanking him when he got the tickets for genuinely wanting to go with me. We dressed up and made it a date night, we went all out.

That day he shared some fun-facts he had researched about the owls. “You know, barn owls are actually kind of majestic. The male is the main provider of food for his wife and kids. They hunt animals in the dark and rely solely on their hearing. They’re so quiet in their hunt. They are found mostly anywhere in the world. They take care of the pests and things that are of biggest inconvenience. Yet–” “Yet they are so beautiful.” I said.

“They are beautiful. And mate for life.” He said smiling. "They reminded me of the story you said about the eagles. How they go through the painful molting of their wings. The owls have special wings that make them quiet, so quiet that makes them the great hunters that they are. They nest in cavities. They seem to have the same love for abandon places (or things) we do, and they make a home of it (like we do)." He rolled his eyes, "I know I can go on and on about this." “I wish I could be like that.” I said as I zipped my jacket up. “You’re like that owl, Ana. You take care of your family, you take care of me, like that. I don’t know how you do it.” He cupped my chin so I’d look up. “Owl always love you.” I said and smiled back. He kissed me gently and profoundly. He was always researching things, he was so smart and was always teaching me about things I'd never care to learn about. The movie started and we sat quietly. It was a beautiful movie about courage and doing what is right. Most importantly, it was about trusting yourself and your instincts in order to be able to do what’s right. I watched this movie many times after this.

Our tale began with the same infatuation that every relationship typically begins with. I didn’t know being so naked with someone was possible. We were incredibly sexual and passionate. We were vulnerable in the ways that making love would make us cry. We felt so safe. Even our arguments, that seemed possible to crumble anyone else, would only make us stronger. We spent so much time together, but there was one drift. The times we never shared together were due to him wanting something more. A life I could not share or give. A life, to me, unknown.

The drugs. The party. The attention and the friends. All of which I did not have. The times we’d truly fight were due to him lying about drinking, actually drinking or lying about going to parties. “We met through mutual friends,” he’d say. “You were smoking pot and they were doing all kinds of drugs”, he’d remind me. I’d feel so insecure and hide in my own pride. Tell him I’d replace him, and that I didn't need him. But without him I would fall apart. Why was I not enough for him anymore? Why does he need drinking? His parents are alcoholics and there’s so much history of addiction in his bloodline. I’d only known of my grandpa being an alcoholic but he was sober over 20 years. We’d break up and he’d go out to party. We’d break up and I’d go out and meet some guy. This soon became our pattern. But we’d always find our way back to each other’s arms.

Throughout the years I’d find evidence of drugs. Many which I never knew a thing about. I remember the first time I found tinfoil inside our favorite movie case, he broke down crying. I didn’t know what I had said… His drug of choice was heroin. And I was not enough… there was no comparison. There was no way I would ever be enough. At the time I thought it was because I’d never be as good as the high that he was chasing. It took a couple of more years to realize I wouldn't be enough because it wasn’t drugs or me he needed. The help and attention that he needed was from his parents and from therapy. It took me even more years later to realize the same applied to me.

Needless to say, coming from a broken family and a father that went to jail– leaving a mother with three teenagers and three jobs to make ends meet– I needed Alex like I needed air. His parents were together, but they were your typical [not-so] picture perfect family. They had the houses, had the business, had the pictures… but they expressed love through (what I considered) disrespect. They expressed love and respect very differently in their household and the walls would scream 'neglect'. His mom was passive and his dad was always angry. His mom would give me bibles and throughout the years tell me to love Jesus. She, oftentimes, would tell me that if she didn’t love Jesus–or put him first–she wouldn’t love Alex’ father. These comments always made me sad.

My parents are as imperfect as imperfection goes. My dad was a leech sucking life, money and energy from my mom due to his shortcomings. My mom was strong, loving and kind but she always seemed like a doormat to the men she loved around her. Be it culture, be it the way that she was raised, but men were always right and women always quiet. My parents... they loved, truly, loved each other. So innocently, like kids playing in the playground or bullying each other to show they cared. Often testing their own waters. Laughing, so often they were laughing. Always talking about how much they love each other and how much they loved us kids. My mom was very strict and my father, a free spirit.

Watching my mom grow up, I quickly learned that being kind and loving was often viewed as weakness. My dad, her dad, other family and friends would often take advantage of her. And that's where my anger started growing. I became a bucking horse that Alex seemed to love. I come from humble beginnings, my family didn't have a lot to give. My mom didn't have a lot to give, but what she had she gave. This, too, angered me.

Alex seemed to love my family. He’d talk to my brother about his video games. Even came around my family that wouldn’t speak much English. I always loved how he could be that open and genuinely affectionate to them. His parents always made racist comments when I’d come around. Though things were rocky, I thought we’d eventually make it through. He ended up going to a rehab for his drinking. Or so I thought. We broke up when his one month in rehab turned to eight. He got out and had another girlfriend. I was seeing someone, too. But sure enough, we gravitated back to each other and ended those relationships.

Everything turned from sadness to depression, from black to never-seen-the-light, from heartache to shattered-pieces-of-the-heart when Alex moved to Oregon. We’d see each other every once in a while. Made lots of love, fought and laughed. It was near impossible to keep up with the good, though, when he was doing drugs. I started partying in college. I never did drugs. Thanks to him, I guess, but I did start drinking heavily. I was as addicted to him and the abuse as he was to drugs. If only I had seen it then.

Sadly, it wasn’t until my first college graduation (from community college with an associates degree) that I found out how bad his addiction truly was. He came down to watch me walk and then we flew up to Oregon together. The fights we'd have were excruciating to watch and even more so to be in. He’d leave me at the house alone for most of the day. Then he’d come home for dinner or a movie, we’d fight and go to sleep. There was something so OFF about our relationship this time. I remember being in the bath talking to one of my friends back home. I didn’t want to tell any of my inner circle what was going on because, well they’d had enough with us. But the friend I was on the phone with told me he was using heroin. I didn’t believe it. Well, why would I? Alex came home, we fought and I slept on the couch, yet again. The next morning he was in the bathroom when I finally reached for his phone. I read his texts with some girl about meeting up. My heart sank… he’s cheating. I went to another conversation and found that he was asking for drugs. Again?! I got so lightheaded. I didn’t know how to react but my body was having a reaction of its own. I gave him his phone. No more lies… shattered. Shattered everything.

“What is this? What do you do???” …. "‘Drugs, drugs’ ... Heroin.. when it’s around.” All of a sudden the marks on his arm appeared.

Everything, shattered.

You wanna know where barn owls aren’t found? The desert and the polar regions. Where our love now resides. Where nothing grows, and hardly anything lives, because it’s too damn hard to live–survive.

This was the moment my life made sense. Of course he’s doing heroin! None of his stories made any sense. All of the lies, manipulation, the screaming, the yelling, the confusion, the mood swings, the helping him scratch his whole body in the middle of the night! His mom. I remember asking him about his family. The conversations switched quickly and he left even quicker. I called his mom and she didn't believe me. I had to call the girl he was cheating on me with to come pick me up and take me to the airport. I flew home that day, shattered and sobbing in every airport and plane I was in.

I went to his house the next day. His youngest sister was there and stomped out the house when she saw me in the living room with her dad. “She blames you, but I guess that’s how it is. Your family blames him and they blame you.” What? “My family doesn’t blame him.” In fact, the first thing my mom said when I told her was, 'I wish I could see him so I could hug him'. His dad gave me some bullshit explanation about how he’s been struggling with drugs for years and how his brother was also a heroin addict and, the story again, of how he overcame his coke addiction. “Don’t worry, if his mom and I aren’t flying up there to take care of him we won’t be making or expecting you to.” WHAT?!

Nothing about that talk seemed right. Nothing about being there anymore felt right. THE LOVE OF MY LIFE IS DYING AND YOU’RE NOT GOING TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT?!

His sister’s high school graduation was the following week and I knew he’d be flying home so I hoped and prayed his family would make him go back to rehab or love him back to health. We met up before he went back to Oregon. I swear we didn’t say a word for nearly two hours. We just sat next to each other. In silence. I could feel his heart beating inside mine. There were no words, but there was so much love. We understood, we spoke our language. Was he back to stay? I couldn’t bear to hear the “no”. So I stayed quiet. In fear. In brokenness. In darkness. Surrounded by the light and warmth our love was burning up for us.

I thought about my family. I thought about my own self loathing. I thought about how little of this world I knew. Of how little of him I knew. I was scared to beg for him to stay, to go to rehab, to let me love him and to live with me. Could I really do that? What would that even look like? Maybe I deserve this. For pushing him away and being so damn cruel. Of course he’s a heroin addict, what made you think you deserved anything else? What do you think your love story or happy ending would be? You weren’t meant to have one!

He went back to Oregon and started to ignore me… for days and weeks at a time. I got so angry, so bitter… too damn hurt for anyone to help me. I remember when I texted, “You’re just a junkie. You turned out to be the piece of shit you always claimed you were.” He texted back, “I’d watch my mouth if I were you cause I still have respect for you.”

Junkie, according to Urban Dictionary a junkie is “originally the term given to drug users, (especially heroin users) early in the twentieth centery, who supported their habit by collecting and selling scrap metal. Hence the term got started by the drug addicts penchant for collecting "junk" rather than the "junk" (drugs) they used.”

In retrospect, I didn’t drive him to his addiction like he and his family made me believe. His addiction was with him since before our stars aligned. As was mine. A collector of the junk, in exchange for something that would only bring me pain. A constant chase, a constant craving, a constant path through self-destruction and destruction of any relationship I could have. Cause after this moment (five years after our relationship first started), we did not call it quits. Yes, it took me five years to truly wrap my mind around what heroin addiction was and what his life/path was really looking like. But seven years after that my love stayed burning.

Let’s start with the lies. When you love someone who’s an addict your life with them becomes as blurry and confusing as their own. The facts don’t add up, the story's always changing. The mood swings are worse than yours going on and off birth control or adolescent hormones. The lows… lower than anyone around you’s lows. Before you even know it, you’re not only blinded to their lies, but blind yourself to yours. You become an even better liar every time you say he's fine, "we're" fine. "I dont need help, he does." "I don't have a problem, he does." Living in the lies is like being on a never-stopping treadmill with a water bottle dangling in front of you only to watch it appear and disappear every time you reach for it. Take away a person's consistency, confidence and stability and you have a scared toddler in constant tantrums.

The make-up sex is great. It’s like you’re back to a honeymoon-like state. It somehow erases every wrongdoing in the relationship and 'from now on', nothing can or will ever hurt the relationship again. There was so much pain, so much struggle, so much hatred that when you’re making love and staring into each other’s souls… God, nothing compares. It’s all worth it. It’s like that high, right? You feel untouchable, indestructible and stronger for having made it this far. This far and now everything is good.

Then there are the times you say goodbye, sobbing cause you truly believe it will be the last time they’ll see your eyes. I remember him sobbing in my car because, as he's holding heroin in his wallet, doesn't think he'll ever see me again. Then the empty promises. I began to hate every time a person lied to me. How can someone break a promise? It’s a promise made to you. What’s more personal than that? Except the death threats. Those are not just empty promises. You really truly don’t know which one will “off” themselves this time. You turn into the worst versions of yourselves and no one that once loved you can stand to be around you. Isolation. "He's not worth it, just move on." Isolation.

One can spend their entire adulthood thinking about ways to bring them back, or find a way back to them. I've changed my moral compass, my definition of what's right and wrong. I've changed my hopes and dreams. Stripped down to anything that I’d have to be, to be with him. The identity my family and I worked hard to create, I didn't want it because it wasn't what he wanted. How foolish? How foolish was I? The drama. People said, they said it all. The drama. “That poor girl”. “She must not love herself”. "She has it all why does she love him?" The ridicule I've faced. I’d face it all again. But the reward, where the story ends, was always just goodbye.

The core truth, though, is that loving someone that is a heroin addict is the most resilient, pure, true, blind and hopeful kind of love there is. Because if you truly love them, you learn a type of forgiveness and hope that most people never experience. You hope, hard, against all odds. You forgive the unforgivable. You will go through the range of every human emotion again and again. The memories of bathing eachother, tenderly and lovingly, blend into the memories of bullets shooting through our mouths. It's the most dangerous for someone with an addictive personality, like me, because you blend into them and their addiction. Who knows, maybe if I hadn't chosen to love him--and become addicted to him--I might have ended up in the same drug path that he took. By loving him, I made his addiction mine. I made his recovery mine. And thanks to that I was able to see a lot of the traumatic and unhealed moments I deeply needed to. I had to learn every in and out of trusting myself and knowing myself, in the way an addict has to through recovery.

I have these thoughts as I knit away thinking of the beach.

Alex, you lied to me about everything and I didn't even care if it meant we'd end up together. You lied about drinking…when you were running heroin through your veins. You were in rehab and still using meth. We were bonded by the fears and solidified by tears. Every single time we cried and held each other. Every single time we screamed at each other and then wiped away the tears. Every single time we scared each other’s fears away. Every time we tore each other down and built each other back again. Everytime we shared our self loathing and loved each other anyway. Trauma bonding, they call it. We called it love.

I always believed we would end up together. The theme of every poem I’ve ever written has been the underlying love I’ve had for you. The love that has guided every interaction I’ve had with any other guy since the day that I first met you. All of those childish things we did. All of the childish fights we had. All of the deep conversations and selfless acts of love. Every true forgiveness and compassiante moment we gave each other. They are my favorite things in the world. They are the best feelings I’ve ever felt. They are untouched by the terrible, tragic fights we had in all the darkness that surrounded us.

Here I am, saddened, imobile by the fact I’ve knitted a million scarves. And none of them have brought you back to me. I have become the owl on the prowl. Longing, hunting, sad, but gentle. Fierce in the hunt to protect and eat. In an old abandoned barn. Alone. Majestic–majestically alone.

I knit a scarf, for the warmth you’ll never feel. I’ll knit a million more if it meant someday you might feel that warmth. With every movement of my fingers, every dollar spent, every run to the store to find the colors, with every part of this, I give every part of me. And every single time I come back and wait for you. I wait for the day you’ll show up and say you’re warm. You’re warm and can love me back. Will you love me back? Will you want me back? Please, just want me back.

I’d leave the city, I’ve left my dreams, I’d leave all of me…

"But you shouldn’t have to. The right one would never make you." They say, "the right man would never even let you leave any part of you behind." What is that like? To love something, or someone, so completely that every inch of them is enough. What is it like when they want you back? I know how to love. I love him like that. Has he ever loved me like that?

I’ve always seen stories, and songs, about people loving someone that did not love them back. Did not want them back. And I thought… how sad must that be? Never knowing that would be my fate. I cried my eyes out as I walked out that door. I cry every time I knit those scarves and hope they make their way to you.

I had a dream we were skydiving. You were my tandem. As we made our way down, you held me in your arms. We watched the sunset and we set with it this time. You held me so tightly. You kissed me in the cheek, so tenderly. We didn’t say a word. It felt so magical.

The next morning, I did not knit. I went out for a walk instead. I listened to “I still haven’t found what I’m looking for” as I sipped my overpriced latte from Starbucks. It’s weird that the temperature reads the same as yesterday’s, yet here I am. Without a scarf.

OWWW!

A bike ran into me and spilled my coffee. “Man! I was just reflecting on how expensive that latte was!” I said jokingly, but startled.

He laughed as he got up. “I’m SO sorry! I know that must’ve cost you a kidney!” He joked as he dusted himself off. He was wearing short sleeves. Isn't he cold?!

“Hi.” I said through a small giggle.

He smiled, so genuinely, back to me and said, “Would you like to get another latte? –On me this time.”

As he reached out to shake my hand I saw an owl tattoo on his forearm.

“I like your owl tattoo.” I whispered.

“Barn owls. Most underrated, majestic lovers and hunters, they are.”

My heart was shooketh.

“I don't know why I just spoke like Yoda.” He said embarrassed.

I wasn’t sure what he said but I felt that warmth the latte was giving me as it was going down my throat.

“Let’s grab that latte.” I said with a certainty I hadn’t felt in a long time. As he grabbed his bike and moved it away from me, the sun kept shining on that owl. I heard something I hadn’t in a while… my heart began to beat again.