Last Sunday was a crazy busy day. At 11:55 pm, I realized that I had five minutes to publish my post on time. Well, based on the many emotional health checks I received from friends and followers, I see now that I obviously needed more than five minutes to adequately articulate my sentiment. I shall explain…

For almost seven years, I’d clung to the comfort and relative safety provided by a certain gentleman. It began at a time when chronic emotional pain and bitter disappointment had become my daily standard. Blinded by the loss of all I’d held dear, I ignored my need for sustenance and willingly embraced pacification. Having no idea how to perform the surgical procedure my heart so desperately needed, narcotics were the next best thing.

The surreal ‘opioidic’ effect of his arms and adoration became a welcome albeit reckless survival tool. He was my drug of choice, and like many drugs, once deemed necessary, it became a lifestyle. Magically, he turned a thunderous pain that drowned out all joy into a low hum that I could smile through. But we all know that magic is nothing more than a well-executed illusion that only serves as momentary entertainment. I was still broken, still lost, still hurting, but competently, skillfully, and meticulously entertained.

So, when I found myself in the presence of my addiction recently, I anticipated the old familiar pangs. As I expectantly nestled in the nook of his arms, I waited and waited for the euphoria on which I had come to rely. I uncharacteristically piloted our interactions, desperate to conjure the high that only he could provide… but there was no euphoria, no high… only a man.

Bewildered, I rifled within, trying to locate our connection, the viscid tendrils that held me hostage so long. But it had somehow drained from my system – he had somehow seeped from my heart – without warning; a silent detox. There wasn’t even an emptiness, simply the lack of him. History and immaturity dictated there should be pain, an internal raucous to properly represent the end of something so substantial.

And that’s when I had to admit just how unsubstantial it had all been.

Six months ago, a fire lit under me to recover my Muchness. As my perspective shifts and the blessings from my life’s collapse become more apparent, I’ve been able to see myself, my world, and my God more clearly than ever before. But when I began painstakingly tweezing the shrapnel of my past from my heart, I never expected him (us) to go with it.

I’m not the same woman who desired to be shielded from her hurt; I’ve learned to use it as ladder rungs to my future. I no longer need his arms to hide in; I dwell in the shelter of the Most-High. I didn’t miss “us”; I missed the familiarity of the bliss that my willful ignorance supplied. In the bright light of day, narcotics and magic have never been okay with me! I just lost who I was under all the rubble.

[Enters Guilt]

What to do now?! I may not have been the facilitator, but I went along with so much of this! I’m going to crush an entire man because I was feeling sad and decided to be selfish! He wasn’t hurt and confused when he chose me; his feelings were real! How do I bow out gracefully?

Well, that’s the kicker… Illusions don’t just happen. There are cloaked men and women who’ve spent years mastering their craft. They want to trick the audience just as badly as it wants to be tricked. The last words my addiction/magician spoke to me were empty and laced with deception – a perfect summation of our seven years of stagnant dysfunction. Gratefully, I exited through the gaping hole his lie blew through my respect for him, took my bow, and accepted the truth that “us” had died… and disturbingly – I feel nothing.