Entering rehabilitation I was: broken, addicted, addicting, shattered, twisted, evil, 

incredibly naive, generous, zealous, crude, over-loving, arrogant, selfish, egotistical, 


effortlessly humanitarian, 

utterly uncaring, 

too trusting, 

hating almost everything, 

loving all the wrong things; 

I embraced the nothingness of being the wonderment that was so powerful a presence nobody dare say, or, ask anything from me, yet also, nobody could ignore me, out of sheer human desire to gaze upon, that which, is the paradox of the Beautifully Macabre.

I had ran the streets with my switchblade. I left that behind. 
I had done the dope. As much could kill me. And again. And again. I left that behind. 
I left all the …  SHIT … behind. 

I left. 

I left behind the Love of my Life. 


My rehabilitation facility was better than I could have imagined. Sitting right on the lake, just off from a tiny town, enough that it felt like the middle of nowhere, with spectacular views from the cafeteria; it was a serene place to heal. 

It took me awhile to get acclimated, but once I was in the swing of things I was on my path to recovery. 


There was one drug I was having trouble leaving behind. 

There was one drug I was having trouble not thinking about. 

There was one drug I didn’t know how to say goodbye to. 


I had come to the realization that the love I was searching for all these years was not one to be found where I had been searching. 

I was looking in all the wrong people, places, and things. 

I was stuffing myself full of other things hoping that they could fill the holes inside of my seeping soul, that I feared would fade away if I didn’t continuously try to make everything feel better all the time. 

It didn’t matter whether the person was a rectangle and the hole in my soul was a square: I would try to make that person fit in that area of my soul that needed someone like them so badly that… 

…I would lose myself trying to find them.

 Even though parts of them, just didn’t fit, and in fact, quite hurt me a lot in some cases, I kept them, some, for years, until finally, they, arrived at the conclusion, that, 

my shape, didn’t fit them anymore…

… Even then, if the person was someone I had decided,  did, actually fulfill a part of my torn soul, I wouldn’t let go… 

…Harder still… was the man that I had fallen in love with who had completely covered up the wounds in my soul; he didn’t need to fit… he made all the pain go away… 

…most of the time. 

All of these people… all of the things… all of the places… that I had tried to use to make myself feel loved… feel validated… it all came from a place inside myself where I valued myself very little.

All of these men … 

… I didn’t know what love was then. 

I couldn’t love someone else properly then. 

I couldn’t even love myself properly then. 

It took me a lot of time, and work, and energy, and patience, and tears, and sweat, and cussing, and talking, and memories, and ugliness, and honesty, and willingness, and sheer determination, that I could make it through anything and everything, to get to a point in my healing where I was able to look in the mirror. Once I could look in the mirror, I was unstoppable. 
Then, I could give myself the love I so needed and deserved. 
And I did. 
My trauma therapist told me that I did the healing in 3 weeks that most people do in 10-15 years. I was so proud. 
Until the somatic pain hit me. 
The realization that I was co-

dependant took me more than a few lectures, one-to-one counselling sessions, and reading my own notes over and over… 

Until I saw my own patterns… 

That it went… CLICK. 

And I got it. When I wanted a man to care for me: I would do anything and everything to ensure he wouldn’t leave; which in reality, in the end, pushed them all away. 

Instead of being the woman that fell in love with: intelligent, independent, vocally honest, self-assured, self-reliant, and living my own life; I became the opposite: indecisive, dependant, closed off or wildly unpredictable, needy, and unable to be without them. The beginning of my romances usually began the same way: Too passionate too quickly, move into my place right away, we love each other immediately, inseparable immediately, the other can do no wrong; eventually this gets tiring for the other person. They want more. I, on the other hand, am fulfilled by them and sleep; and, in the latter years, drugs. 

Problems clearly arise from their need for normal human interaction and participation in normal daily living activities, and my fear of indulging in anything close to any sort of the above. 

In some way or another, the romance becomes less of a romance and more of a chore, on their part; it becomes less of a romance and more of their being my responsibility, on my part. 

Either way, neither of us are happy anymore. Yet… we both cling to the notion that this relationship we have is the ONE that matters most in our entire existence. We fool ourselves into believing that there will NEVER be another person who will ever make us feel the way this person does. We trick ourselves into continuing to love another human being that we don’t love anymore, because we are scared not to love another human being in the manner that makes us feel “complete”. 
On top of that… 
We are addicted to the cycle of this. 
I’m addicted to men in general.  To love. To the feeling love gives me. 
I’m addicted to men and the validation that having a man gives me. 
Together we are addicted to the highs of the tumultuous road of our codependency. Up and down. Up and down. 

We love it though. This whole theory had to be examined by me in extreme detail and with adequate consideration. 
Could this be true? 
Could I really be holding onto love longer just because I want to feel the feeling of love even though it’s not even there anymore?! 
And could I really be addicted to it?! 
Does that even make any sense? 
I thought back to the break ups and make ups… 
The feeling of heartache as I watched… one or another man storm out of… one or another door

 slamming it behind them… sometimes with a slew of cuss words to really masculinize the exit…
The adrenaline as I texted him angrily over and over… 

The impending anxiety wondering what might happen next… 

The excitement when he finally came back… 
The fresh honeymoon love feeling for the first few weeks after we make up… 
Dun… dun… dunnn… 
It was true. I was addicted to all of those feelings. 
I was addicted to men…Bad men. 
I was co-dependent. 
Being codependent comes naturally for someone with addiction issues coupled with severe depression layered with numerous mental health conditions, especially ones who have suffered trauma in childhood. 
Knowing all of this and being able to change it: 2 different things. …….Healing comes with letting go. Letting go of the past. Letting go of all the trauma. Letting go of all the inner turmoil. Letting go of all the secrets. Letting go of all those lies. Letting go of all the resentment. Letting go of all the rage. Letting go of all the sadness. Letting go of all the insecurities.Letting go of all those barriers. Letting go of anything that doesn’t serve a purpose in your life to help your total wellness with love and light. 
Letting go of all the things that you still do love that need to be let go of. 
It was time. And so… 
I did just that. ………
The fire burned so hot, white embers quickly ate the wood in the fire pit. 
My spiritual counsellor kept watch of the fire. 
I said goodbye properly to Him. 
I let go. 

………The attraction I felt for bad boys I vowed would always be a part of me. I swore that “my type” would always be “my type”. 
I didn’t see the change happen. I didn’t feel the change happen. I didn’t know the change had happened. 
I was locked up in a rehabilitation facility with men, and young men, who for the most part were in the process of becoming a reformed bad boy… or trying to escape that life… or not. 
Let’s be honest… the first few nights I was in detox, I was going to leave with a guy with tattoos all over his face that I didn’t know. The men that I was attracted to when entering rehab were the ones who would keep my lifestyle alive by being okay with it… more than okay, in fact, by being participatory in it. 
At first, I was still interested in flirting and being validated by the male human species. Slowly though, that completely faded from my mind; slowly though, recovery came into the forefront of my mind; slowly though, I started focusing on what I came to do. 
Then one night… 
No warning…
A meeting at night…
I had seen him before… 
He spoke… 
He was inconceivably obtuse to the fact nobody could follow the nonsensical narrative he was laying out… 
…Except me… 
He was brilliant… 
‘…And, so, began a connection between minds, souls, and hearts, so intertwined not even death could break it…’