Chris Mannion shared today’s true story about his unhappy – and brief – experience with drugs. Thanks, Chris – hope you feel better now!

~~~

I have a drug problem. Or rather, to save any misunderstanding, I have a problem with drugs in their general sense. It’s my opinion that by now, drugs have become so overrated as to never be able to live up to their own hype.

I’ve nothing against drugs as a concept. Sure, I appreciate the massively damaging effects of addiction, the all-consuming nature that can lead a person to destroy their own life and the lives of those around them. And I guess, at the very least, drugs do that a little more efficiently than a lot of things. But then, the number of things that are brain altering and addicting is difficult to imagine, from video games to gambling to sex to whatever else spins your balances and makes you crave more to the dereliction of more sober aims.

And, to be honest, the way they were described in the terrible warnings that bombarded us in our teenage years – drugs always sounded kinda fun. Like ghosts and gods, anything that makes this world a little more magical is going to attract people’s attention, so why not drug hallucinations, giggle fits, out of body experiences and blissful comas too?

Don’t be fooled.

The first time I was able to get my hands on some pot fell flat simply because I didn’t smoke. Even tracking down the pot was a chore, because I’ve just never been the kind of kid who was offered those kind of things, never snook a cig behind the bike sheds at school and was never offered a baggie to buy in clubs at university. So yeah, we rolled an joint, lit it up, passed it round. But the simple task of persuading that sweet, happy smoke to make its way past my tongue defeated me. The whole thing was a bust.

For another few months, when I’d finally be at the right kind of party to avail myself of a communal doobie, the same basic failure confounded me: you can’t smoke pot if you can’t smoke. Later on, having mastered the art of inhalation, the next obstacle was my system’s unfamiliarity with cigarette smoke. Resin-spike or otherwise, tobacco made me ill; nauseous, lethargic and really not keen to take more than one drag each time.

Finally, around the age of about 24 I had a brief exchange with a guy that went like this:

“You want to smoke a joint?”

“I don’t smoke, the tobacco makes me sick.”

“I don’t put any tobacco in it.”

Wow. Finally a chance to see what the big deal was about these mind-freeing gateways to another state of being you hear some much about. So, that evening I saw some wonderous things. The room was spinning and blurring as I struggled to keep my head up straight,  furniture, shrubbery and the floor lurching violently towards me as I stumbled through the doubled world I couldn’t quite make sense of – and the many, vivid colours of the vomit the spewed out of me again and again.

So, y’know what? If you’re having a good time, just go ahead and have it. If you’re having a bad time, a tumbler full of bourbon’s a pretty good place to catch your tears. I don’t think you’ll find much use in much else, with drugs, just like gods and ghosts, the magic’s all myth and memories made-up to fill in the gaps.

Did you ever look at a family photo and zero in on how different you look from everybody else? Karen Evans reminds us how that feels in her true story about bodies and family:

My story is about my body and someone else’s body. No sniggering, please, it’s a family tale.

I’m a tall woman. My husband is a short man. No matter how politely and euphemistically you phrase it, there’s no getting away from the facts. He’s short, about an inch shorter than me.

However, he’s the tallest person in his family. Even when his brother and sister got married, they married short people as well.

Just imagine the family photos. A bunch of nicely homogenous people, and then this gangly, self-conscious person (i.e., me) sticking out like a sore thumb, complete with awkward grin.

So when people started giving birth to the next generation I started waiting, and I have been waiting, very patiently, for eighteen years.

Through the nappy stage. Through the toddler stage. Through the trousers-halfway-up-the-ankles stage. Through the eating-everything-in-sight stage.

We’ve been getting close for a while, but at Christmas it finally happened. My youngest nephew has outgrown me! That moment when we stood back to back in our stocking feet, and he was declared to be taller than me, was sheer, utter bliss. And he’ll be growing for a while yet.

I know who I’m standing next to in the family photos.

Today’s wonderful story about a decision is by the multi- (and uber-) talented Melissa Dinwiddie:

~~~

Scene: Me, age 19. Serious dancer. No, scratch that — obsessed dancer. So much so that I took a year “off” after high school to dance several hours a day at my local private dance academy, because I was afraid that going straight to college wouldn’t allow for the kind of dedication to dance that I wanted to give.

I did matriculate the following fall to UC Berkeley, and I loved it… but with just one 90-minute dance class every day, I simply wasn’t dancing “enough.”

So that summer, when three (three!) classmates from my local private dance academy auditioned for — and got into — the prestigious Juilliard School in New York City…

And when my teacher pulled me aside after class one day to sternly tell me in no-uncertain terms that I should be going with them…

And when I discovered that Juilliard, which holds auditions around the world for a mere 20 or 30 spots, had one more set of auditions in New York, the week before school started in the fall…

I made a decision.

The ten-minute drive home from my dance school that night in my parents’ orange VW bus was the longest, most tear-filled drive of my life. Back home, I called my best friend for moral support, then as soon as I got off the phone I called my mom and dad into the room.

“Mom, Dad,” I said, “I’ve decided to fly to New York and audition for Juilliard. If I get in, I’m dropping out of UC Berkeley.”

The silence was deafening. They were a little — okay, a lot — stunned that their A-student, academically-inclined daughter was making such a radical move.

But they loved me, and they supported me. If that’s what I wanted, I had their (rather discombobulated) blessing.

I did fly to New York. I did audition for Juilliard the week before school started. And I did get in (in fact, one of the students assisting at the audition told me I was at the top of the list of the few they accepted.)

The ecstasy I felt is indescribable.

I won’t tell you about the many ways that year in New York shattered my dreams, broke my heart and stole my innocence. I’ll leave that for another time. For now, let’s just live in the land of the hope and miracles for awhile longer, shall we?

Today’s story is about fame and it’s true, best meaning. Thanks to Melani Marx for a beautiful lesson. ~LaVonne

~~~

Many years ago I learned to read hands. Of course, I looked at everyone’s hands while I was learning, including my children’s. My son, then about 7, had and still does have a very strong fame line in his hand. He got all excited about this.

“Does this mean I will be famous one day, Mom?”

My instant response was, “Well, there is famous and there is infamous.”

My tone was disapproving and curt. I cruelly and unthinkingly slapped my son down because of my own unnamed and unexamined fears. It was as if I had channelled my own mother and her sharp voice in that moment.

My son is almost 24 now and that brief conversation has haunted me ever since. It is one of the things I regret most. I saw some of his shine tarnish in that moment. Some of his beauty and golden brightness. His intrinsic beauty, diminish.

When my son was 12 he wanted to play the guitar. I gave him one for Christmas and he never put it down. He played every moment he had…and honestly he was not very good. He struggled for every bit of expertise he gained.

He dyed his hair blue and grew a very tall mohawk. At 12 years old he was 6 ’1″. He stood out and everyone knew who he was in our small town. Even people in nearby towns remembered him. He wore chains and studs and listened to angry hateful, anarchic music.

He was also bound and determined to master the guitar and be famous. He played with bands, got more instruments and never stopped playing. He wrote music and there was some wonderful genius that was expressed as his creative energies flowed in this way. I worried about him and honestly was a bit afraid of this tall almost man-boy living in my home.

I was also afraid of the disappointment he would face, because I believed he would never be famous. That he shouldn’t even try. That it was dangerous to even want it. Fame was bad. Wanting it was fruitless. These unexamined beliefs that were part of my familial legacy, invisibly held me prisoner.

I later learned in my studies that In the ancient Chinese tradition and philosophy of Feng Shui, Fame is very important. It is so important that it is one of the eight sections of the Bagua or life map. Fame is one’s reputation. It is how the world sees you. It is your “good name.” Your calling card, so to speak.

Everywhere my son has gone since he was a small boy, he has captured the hearts, friendship and admiration of almost everyone he meets. He is a thoughtful, deep, individual and careful man. He lives on an island and is a cherished part of his community. He has very strong values and lives them. He has a kind word for most everyone. For those he doesn’t? He examines himself closely to attempt to see where he is ignorant. He still writes and plays music, although growing organic food and being a farmer is his main passion these days.

He has always been famous in the deepest sense of the word. Always.

Melani Marx, energy master, life coach, mentor and creative being, experiences life as a joyous, playful adventure. She brings this knowing, along with her deep wisdom, compassion and fierce commitment to the personal transformation and energy alignment work she loves.

I’m excited to present this wonderful story about growing up ‘cowgirl’ from my friend, Nancy Boyd. Thanks, Nancy! ~LaVonne

~~~

Every little girl wants to be something when she grows up. A ballerina. A princess. Maybe a doctor or, these days, even a President.

Me? I wanted to be a cowgirl.

It was always about the horses. And about being tough. One of the earliest pictures of me was taken when I was 2 years old, atop the back of a Percheron draft horse from my grandfather’s farm; I look small as a pigeon sitting up there on that big old draft horse. I’m told I had many horse adventures on that farm, growing up.

But the thing about fantasies is, the real stuff hurts. Fantasies don’t have pain in them; they’re for taking you somewhere you aren’t.

Some memories shine and glow. Others are embedded like gravel in the skin of the moment, forever visible when the mind returns to that particular landscape.

When I was about 10 years old, I got part of my fantasy to come true. In exchange for doing chores on a pony farm, I slowly got to learn about – and be around – ponies. What a wonderful thing that was, for a girl whose only real dream was to become a cowgirl!

Farmer Ted only had one fixed rule: you had to attend Sunday school each week, or you would lose the privilege of being on the property. Because we lived in small Midwest farming community, there were not a lot of churches to pick from. And in any case, it didn’t much matter. Almost everyone went to church or Sunday school; it’s just what you did if you lived in that town (which was pretty much like every other Midwest rural town in that regard.)

After school, before dinner (and the inevitable homework), I got to live my fantasy. It was a time of wonder – and also of a taste of harsh reality. The learning (and pleasure) parts of the experience were always in a continual battle with the pain of doing actual work and of the occasional accident.

The work was hard for a child; looking back at what we were asked to do, it’s probable that almost everything we kids did (and I wasn’t the only one who eagerly “signed on” as an apprentice pony kid) would now be illegal due to child labor laws. It wasn’t a huge farm; even then few small farmers in the Midwest had big herds. But it was one of the biggest in the county, with more than a dozen ponies and colts at all times. Just enough ponies that there was more than enough work for 2 or 3 youngsters who would eagerly trade their time and energy in exchange for the occasional privilege of riding one of the ponies.

We mucked out stalls, which meant carrying heavy loads of manure from the stall out to the compost pile by the barn, some fair distance away. We cleaned and polished tack, which meant hard work with rags and leather polish cleaning dirty halters, leads, harnesses, and saddles and then giving them a shine so bright we could see our faces in them.

We cleaned out water buckets and carried water back to the stalls. Each bucket was a 5-gallon zinc bucket, which was so heavy when it was full that I almost had to drag it along the ground to get it from one place to another. At least that’s how it was the first year I was there. By the time I was 12, I could do it the whole way without the bucket touching the ground.

We fed the ponies a bit of grain mix and lots and lots of sweet hay. We learned just how much each pony needed, and not to give more food than that because then they would get sick. We carried bales of straw down from the hay mow in the barn and flung pieces of them into the pony stalls, spreading it out evenly so it would cover the stall bed completely – all of which would later have to be removed daily when it got soiled, and taken outside again.

In the summer, we would help unload new bales of straw from other farms close by, and try to throw them up into the hay mow. At 10 years of age I couldn’t even lift a bale of straw; each one weighs around 30 pounds; but at age 12 I could, and was proud of it. The work helped me grow strong muscles and get a nice tan.

If you did enough chores, and if you were thorough in the tasks assigned to you, you would earn the right to ride one of the ponies. And, if you got REALLY good, you could learn to “green break” the colts – teach them how to accept a rider. I longed to do that because it was dangerous, and because I loved the ponies and wanted them to like being ridden by kids. I wanted to bond with them, and make it fun for them, too, not just for me to ride them, especially if they didn’t like it at first.

All of that work was worth every second I got to sit on the back of a pony. Farmer Ted had a few Shetland ponies, but most of the rest of them were slightly bigger Welsh ponies, which he used in a six-horse hitch. While riding was my big quest, after a while I wanted to learn how to drive a six-horse hitch, too, because it wasn’t a “girl thing”. I was a full-blown tomboy who thought that being a cowgirl was a completely acceptable vocation for a female.

It turns out that I didn’t so much want to be just a cowgirl, I wanted to be a rancher too, and do everything the guys did. It never occurred to me that there might be any kind of problem with that. But as I would soon discover, there were lots of problems I hadn’t foreseen.

Before I finally bid a fond farewell to horses sometime after college, I had managed to become a fairly decent barrel rider; and during a summer stint as a cattle wrangler in Kansas I got my fill of being “a rancher” dusting weeds out of my hair – and getting saddle sores and learning just how ornery steers can be when it’s 98 degrees outside and hasn’t rained for weeks. They like to hide in the high brush in the low places, for one thing, and your horse doesn’t like to go in there to get them. Not so much fun when you have to bring all of the livestock back to the barn before dark, and you don’t have a herding dog along to help you.

But that was where my cowgirl fantasy led me, and I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything. Not even the one from when I was 12 years old and rather full of myself, after having learned how to properly green-break a colt, ride bareback like an Indian with just a halter on the pony, and teach a colt how to respond to knee pressure rather than reins.

I had become a good rider. I learned how to put a bit into the pony’s mouth without the pony resisting me and how to put the saddle blanket on and then to place a saddle the right way onto the pony’s back and cinch it up tight so I wouldn’t end up underneath the pony mid-ride. (That actually happened to me once; I managed to hold on with my legs until the pony stopped and I could safely make my embarrassed exit without peeing my pants! No one saw, which itself was a blessing.) But I never forgot to triple-check my cinches after that. I could have been killed.

My favorite way to ride was always bareback. I felt closer to the horse, and I thought that the experience was the best for both horse and rider. Except for the time I got thrown. I should have known better, but as I said, I was full of myself and cocky after I learned how to tame a young colt – and I wasn’t paying attention.

The day was warm and sunny, but not too hot. A perfect day for a ride. I had just trained my second pony, one that was bigger than the others by several hands. He was almost as tall as a Morgan, shy of a few inches or so. He was taffy-colored, deeper than a Palomino but not as brown as the Welsh ponies Farmer Ted used in his draft team. Those were evenly matched in size and color, and made a sparkling display when hitched to the small wagon they pulled for shows and parades.

I don’t even remember the pony’s name, now – but I will never forget what happened as long as I live. I decided (on a whim, I think) to take him outside of the paddock to a nearby gravel road, to give him a bit more experience “out in the world.” In our rural town that wasn’t such a big deal after all, but it was different for him than being inside the farm grounds. And that was why everything went wrong.

Inside the riding paddock, there was nothing to alarm a pony. No sights or sounds that would be strange or frightening. But outside? There were cows and sheep and sometimes goats, tractors and farm equipment, trucks and cars and kids and people. Not so many of any of them – but critters and experiences those ponies had never seen before. I didn’t think of that.

We were trotting along nicely about a mile away from the barn on this country gravel road, when a car drove by. There wasn’t usually a lot of traffic on that road. No one drove fast around there, but it wasn’t the speed that caused the problem. It was the sight and the smell of a car. I don’t know if the pony had ever seen a car close up before – but even if he hadn’t, I didn’t think it would be a problem. My mistake.

That pony got so skittish I thought he would come out of his skin. He started sidestepping, and snorting, and his gait changed every three feet. After the car passed, I thought, “OK, that wasn’t so bad. Now we can just take it from here.” Wrong.

The pony had gotten majorly spooked – and I didn’t realize how badly. I decided that a good way to shake loose his charged-up energy might be to put him into a canter, and let him run off some of it. That might have been a good idea if he had been more used to having a rider on his back WHILE he was spooked. But he was new at this. And so was I, although I didn’t want to admit it.

We went along for a good 50 yards or so, when a rabbit leaped out of the ditch by the side of the road. And that was the trigger for a very bad thing. In verrrrrrry slowwwww motionnnnnn . . . the pony came to an abrupt halt. And I didn’t.

I flew over his head onto the gravel road, face down, in shock. Before I even realized what had happened, the pony leapt onto my back and used it as a springboard to take off at a dead run for the barn.

Now I am lying there on the gravel road, pissed at the pony for doing something so stupid as to jump ON my back instead of OVER it – and not thinking for one second whether I was hurt or not. The adrenaline took over – along with a heaping fit of anger at the pony – and I got up, and marched myself down the road back to the barn, where the pony was standing calmly at the gate, waiting for a drink of water.

Instead of letting him back in, I picked up his reins, pulled myself up, and got back on. I took him for another ride around the outside of the barn, got off, tied him to a post, got down a brush, and let him cool down before putting him back into the paddock for a drink. I had learned that you never “put up a horse wet” – even if he did just stomp the bejeezus out of you.

And then I went home, bleeding front and back. The walk back to the barn helped work out some of the soreness from being tromped, but it didn’t keep the pain from shouting at me from someplace deeper than I knew I had places. I was lucky to be alive, although I didn’t realize it until much later.

Farmer Ted never knew. Mom did, because she saw me walk into the kitchen when I got home. Her face turned white, and she squeaked, “What HAPPENED to you???”

I had gravel embedded in my face, chest, and knees, and hoofprint-sized purple bruises on my back for weeks. I’m pretty sure that Mom made me go to see a doctor, to make sure nothing was broken. It wasn’t; not even my spirit.

Far from keeping me away, the experience only firmed my resolve to get better. No horse was ever again going to get the better of me. And the next time I rode that pony? I believe I could have taken him anywhere I wanted. He never so much as blinked an eye at strange sights or sounds again.

As for me, I went on to learn how to put harness tack on Welsh ponies; which order they went in and how to select the leader and the ones closest to the wagon; how to hold the reins (all twelve of them on one hand!); how to attach the harness rig to the wagon; how to make them start, turn, and stop; and how to take the whole thing apart again at the end. I was too small to move the wagon myself, but I could do everything else. My proudest moment was driving a six-horse hitch at the county fair that year. No girl that I knew of had ever done that before..

I had other adventures with ponies, horses, riding, and harness work – most of them more fun than I ever could have imagined. I saved enough money (along with some my Dad gave me) to buy a Shetland pony of my own eventually. I did get thrown again – several times – but by then I had learned how to fall without getting hurt. I had adventures getting lost in a forest on horseback in a sudden mountain downpour; I had adventures sitting around a campfire with other horse people drinking black coffee and telling stories late into the night. I won prizes barrel racing in competition. The fantasy was thoroughly fulfilled.

And through the pain and suffering of what it takes to work with horses and care for them, I learned about reality, too. I should mention that, as a youngster, there were two things I swore I would never become in life: a teacher, and a secretary. During my wildly checkered career, I ended up doing both (but not for long.) I’ve earned my living many ways (all of them legal and moral – including some that involved horses.)

But when I dreamed of being a cowgirl, I could never in my wildest imagination have thought that what I would learn as a result of fulfilling the fantasy would stay with me longer than the fun. Some of the things I learned were:

• Reality can seldom live up to the expectation you create in your fantasy.
• Sometimes reality is better than your fantasy, because you can only guess how it will feel – but when you live it, you know.
• Just because you want it, doesn’t mean you should do it or try it. Some things you want can actually hurt you, if you don’t know any better.
• You can have the time of your life if you decide to try on a fantasy for real; just don’t count on it being like you thought it would be! It never can.
•  Never be so sure of yourself that you end up bleeding front and back; it can happen!

Nancy Boyd started writing at age 3 and basically never stopped.  An award-winning writer and award-winning coach, she blogs about animals, time management, motivation, self-growth and personal development.  Through her company, Bright Wings Inc, she offers empowerment tools for people who are up to something good.  Discover more at http://www.brightwings.com.

© 2012 Nancy Boyd. All rights reserved.

Today’s wonderful true story  about a turning point is from the lovely and talented Angel Sullivan. ~LaVonne

~~~

My turning point?

He believed in me.

I, generally speaking, do not work with men in any context.

Any doctors I visit are female (save my dentist and orthodontist…. no good females around here to my knowledge.. a situation which ought to be remedied as soon as possible).

The only clients I accept for either of my businesses are female.

Though I am married, I have no close male (straight) friends.

One exception I’ve made to all of the above is Fabeku (Fabeku Fatunmise, for those who are unfamiliar).

I had a coaching session with him in early summer of 2011. I was burned out with my day job, to the point of crying at my desk nearly every day, and just stressed to the max with my life altogether. This coaching session had me believing in myself again… and it had been a long, long time.

It was well overdue.

We talked. Considered some plans and did some brainstorming. We hung up and life went on.

I did more brainstorming.

In the midst of that brainstorming I got a handwritten note from Fabeku saying:

Angel-

You can so totally do this.

F.F.

From there, I made concrete plans and ran them by my husband.

I laid out an exit strategy for my day job and started taking action.

My last day there was at the end of September.

I don’t cry at my desk anymore — or if I do… it’s because I’ve just experienced something meaningful.

(Oh, and I abso-freakin-lutely kept that card. I look up at it any time I doubt myself.)

Having someone to believe in you… it can make a difference.

It can be a major turning point, as it was for me.

Nicotine is a powerful drug, as Karen Evans vividly shows us in this true story from her South Wales childhood. ~LaVonne

~~~

When I was a child, we looked down on our neighbours. Literally.

Our street was so steep our back yard was way above the heads of anyone standing in next-door’s back yard. But that didn’t stop us being good friends.

The neighbours were elderly when we moved in, and over the years we watched them get stouter, greyer, and less healthy. After her stroke Audrey was banned cigarettes, and her husband, listening to doctor’s instructions, could rarely be persuaded to buy her any. So every time he left for a game of golf we would hear Audrey calling for my mother, in the sideways phrases of a stroke victim. She would be standing in her doorway, waving a £5 note. As children, we knew the signal.

“Mum, Mum, Audrey wants some fags!” And my mother would grab a packet from her own supply, and run out to pass them over the wall.

As children, this seemed contrary, if not perverse. But Mum and Audrey had talked it over, and Audrey had very clear views on the matter.

“It’s the only thing I can enjoy any more.” she would say. “There’s nothing else left.”

And who were we to pass judgment?

This cautionary tale, in response to the story prompt Drugs, was sent in by Morgan (last name withheld). ~LaVonne

~~~

I was what you call more of a “straight edge” in high school, meaning I didn’t really drink or do drugs.

When I got to college I still wasn’t really into the whole drug scene. The most I’ve done is pot. But anyway, the last time I did pot is the one I always remember when I think, “Oh, this would be fun to try again.”

The first thing you should know is that pot gives me THE worst hangover. I don’t really understand why but for first 12 hours or so after I wake up it’s like I’m in a fog, like I have a seriously bad head cold.

So it was the summer after my junior year and I was at school for a theater program. One of my friends, who also worked there was having a going away party. We met at the local bar had a few drinks, then headed to the movie theater. Another friend of the girl who was leaving had rented out the spot to show Jurassic Park…and someone had brought pot brownies. I was warned before partaking that these were stronger than most but I still took a large piece (size of my hand) and then my friend decided she couldn’t finish hers so I ate that too.

I don’t remember the movie.

Movie’s finished, I head back to the dorm where I’m staying and the room starts to spin. I decided the best thing to do is go to sleep because I feel, hear, touch my heart pounding in my chest and it’s racing and I am convinced that this is how I’m going to die. I can’t sleep because I am so afraid. I stumble out into the hallway, panicking, to find my friends by the bathroom, tell them what’s wrong. I am sent back to bed, but with my door open and with the promise they will check in on me.

I spend the entire time trying to fall asleep, praying that this is not the way I die, mainly because my parents would be so embarrassed.

In the morning I wake up, heave the contents of my stomach twice and go about my day…in a fog and safe with the knowledge that I will never do that again.

Wow, did you people ever come through  in response to our first story prompt! The first one was a moving story about addiction to a person by Skaja Wills. The author of the following funny/scary story has asked to remain anonymous – as you will see, for obvious reasons. Keep ‘em coming, folks! ~LaVonne Ellis

~~~

How my eldest son (then 14) found himself at school with a bag of weed in his pocket:

(I had borrowed his coat to go to the shop… and took the weed so said son and his mates couldn’t help themselves whilst I was gone…forgot it was there…)

He has me crying with laughing, recounting the moment (he is 25 now)…..when he put his hand in his pocket, at school, on the school grounds, during playtime, teachers everywhere..and realised what he had his hand on. He does a very funny runthrough of potential conversations with the headmaster…explaining it was his mum’s…and how his mum had failed to come to terms with the fact that smoking cannabis openly and regularly was not a part of life for most people…..and at the same time the delight of knowing there might also be the option of hanging onto it successfully until the end of the school day…after all, I obviously didn’t realise I’d done it.

This is the first reader story written in response to the new story prompts emails I’m sending out every week. The prompt was “Drugs.” Skaja Wills wrote a powerful and brave story about addiction – to another human being:

‘We still have the bond.’

It was at that moment that things became clear. I couldn’t merely say good-bye. All ties had to be cut.

Four years ago, I was at the lowest point of my life. Divorced. Unemployed. About to move in with my brother. Depression and mental illness raging. Few people accepting how broken I had become. He was there, on the phone with me. In instant messages, often late into the night. Even then, I had inklings that it was toxic. I had other people telling me it was toxic. It didn’t matter.

I was addicted to his attention.

We fought. All the time. Each time, he was always in the right. From his viewpoint, at least. Fights were usually because of some imaginary transgression, or because I rebelled against the carefully constructed false reality. Each time I began to flourish, he would panic and pull me back.

We could never be together, but that didn’t stop him from demanding my time, and me from giving him whatever he wanted.

It was during the aftermath of one of the more epic fights that I met and became involved with my now-husband.

The inevitable happened almost a year and a half ago. Afterward, he said it was all history talking, perhaps in an attempt to rationalize a mistake. He was in a state of blissful oblivion until I scraped together the guts to tell my husband.

What happened after should have shattered the hold he had on me. Funny how it didn’t. I couldn’t let him go, and asked audacious things of my husband.

I began climbing out of this addiction at the beginning of 2011. At the time, he said he didn’t worry about me leaving him because I would always come back.

I realized that had been true. I had always gone back, apologizing and promising to be better. However, by this time, I had confessed my mistakes to my inner circle and asked for their help in kicking the Habit of Him.

I grew to love myself more, and become weary of feeling drained after each interaction. My tolerance for the drama waned.

The very last conversation with him, I asked what he was waiting for. ‘You,’ he said. ‘Cause no matter what – we still have the bond we always had.’

I left that conversation drained and nauseous. The weight of four years of emotional drama and abuse grew heavier. In talking to my husband, I realized that if the bond was going to break, I had to be the one to do it. I wrote him one last letter and said good bye.

I feel light.