Staring Deep into the Eyes of the Demon Depression

I wanted to go to the museum, and instead he fell asleep. By the time I left in the middle of the afternoon, I wondered: will he leave the house at all today? I had been there for the last twenty four hours, and I had noticed that on that day, and also on most of the days I had been there, that we only ever left the house for one reason: to go to the store to buy liquor and sometimes food.

I gathered up the empty liquor bottles and put them in the trash before I left because I figured that was the least I could do. I wondered: does my presence enable this behavior, or does it make the pain more tolerable? I’ve started to sense that I’ve stumbled into a quagmire of alcoholic codependency, and while our time together is generally characterized by a tone of romance of sex, I’ve started to realize, after all these years, that maybe I’ve been looking in the wrong direction.

I am not thrilled about this revelation. Mostly because I know that I can’t handle this – not because I don’t want to, but because, well, has anybody ever smoothly handled this kind of situation? Is that even an option at this point? I know myself, and I know that despite the fact that my best efforts might futile, I’m still going to give it my best effort because if I walk away I’ll feel like I’ve failed the basic human concept of love. This is going to hurt. And not in that fun, kinky way that I let him drag me around by my hair and spank me when I’m bad. More in that deep, dark, soul trembling pain that comes from watching someone you love slowly yet irreparably deteriorate over time.

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