Tag: addicted

I Was Addicted to Helping People – Here’s Why It Made Me Miserable

“As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.” ~Maya Angelou

Growing up in Africa, I was told that the virtue and worth of a woman lies in her ability to take care of everyone around her; that a woman was considered good or worthy when everyone around her was happy and pleased with her. I took this advice to heart, especially since I watched my mother meet this standard to a T. Putting everyone else, including strangers, above herself.

Most of the Things We Learn as Kids Shape Us

As a kid, I was taught how to cook, clean, and care for others. As a teenager, I got a lot of practice caring for my younger siblings; at first, it was great, being a caregiver, being the one who everyone went to when they needed something. I loved being needed, and I relished in the label I was given as dependable.

Family, friends, and even strangers knew that I was the go-to girl for whatever they wanted. If I couldn’t help them with whatever they needed, I would find someone who could. I was determined to never leave anyone high and dry. I loved being needed, and if anyone needed me, I believed that I was their last resort.

The Joy of Giving

You see, one thing about giving is that it feels good… until it doesn’t. The moment you get to a place where giving doesn’t feel good anymore, it means that you need to turn the giving around and start giving to yourself. But how does someone who is addicted to being needed realize this?

When helping people started feeling more exhausting than exhilarating, my first instinct was to give more because I believed that the more I gave to others, the more I would receive from them. But that was not the case. The more I gave, the less I received, and this prompted me to label most of my friends as bad friends because I wasn’t getting as much as I was giving to them.

When I became isolated from cutting friends off because they were “bad” to me, I realized the problem wasn’t that I was not getting as much as I was giving; the problem was that I was giving to everyone but myself. I had put myself in the back burner and abandoned myself. How can I abandon myself and not expect others to abandon me?

The Guilt That Comes with Giving to Yourself

Realizing my deep-seated issues was easy, but addressing them was a whole other thing. Because I was conditioned to believe that my worth was in pleasing others, I always said yes to everyone who needed my help; saying no was extremely difficult.

This was because I was suppressed by intense guilt and ended up caving in to finding help for the person at my own expense. Everything changed for me when a former classmate said to me out of the blue: “You are nobody’s last resort.”

You are nobody’s last resort, no matter how bad it is. If you cannot help someone with their problem, another person will. And more importantly, it’s not your responsibility to ensure they get the help they need—it’s theirs.

This was a turning point in my life because now I knew that telling someone no because I needed the time to invest in my own needs did not mean that they were never going to get help.

The guilt was still there, but little by little, I persevered in choosing myself over and over again. I started with little things, like saying no to helping a friend walk their dog to stay at home, to take a long bath and read a book (I enjoy reading). And over time I was able to get better at saying no to larger requests that would have been draining and would have negatively impacted my mental health.

Give to Yourself and You Won’t Expect Too Much From Others

Slowly but surely, I learned that my worth is determined by me and me alone—by how much love and care I direct toward myself. Guilt still visits me sometimes, but it is not as intense as it used to be.

I know now it is better to feel guilty for taking care of yourself than to expect others to anticipate your needs and take care of you. News flash: if you don’t take care of yourself from the inside out, no one will.

Don’t get me wrong, I still take care of my loved ones and help others as well as I can, but I now do it from a complete place, a place of wholeness, knowing that I will be fine whether they invest in me or not.

I don’t expect much from people, and I don’t get disappointed much because I have learned to prioritize myself. Frankly speaking, I have noticed that the people around me enjoy me more now that I am not a self-righteous person who resents her giving and selflessness.

“I give and give and give, and what do I get? Nothing.” If you have heard yourself say or think these words, then you are expecting people to make you happy just because you are bending over backwards to make them happy. If you keep bending backwards to make others happy, one day you will break your back. A broken back is very painful to bear, take note.

Life’s a Journey, Not a Race

This is not an overnight process; it will take time and patience. I have learned that part of taking care of myself is being nice to myself, whether I’m making progress or not. I’m done talking down to myself. Everything I wouldn’t do or say to another person, I’ve vowed never to do or say to myself.

There is no glory in stomping all over yourself to please the world, there is no glory in self-deprecation and self-hate. It is not humble to call yourself terrible names or to live in suffering because you don’t want to hurt some else’s feeling or because you want to be called a nice/polite person.

Our feelings and needs matter as much as anyone else’s, but we can only honor them if we recognize this and prioritize them.

June 3, 2021
How to Get Through Your Darkest Days: Lessons from Addiction and Loss

“You are never stronger…than when you land on the other side of despair.” ~Zadie Smith

In the last years of my twenties, my life completely fell apart.

I’d moved to Hollywood to become an actor, but after a few years in Tinsel Town things weren’t panning out the way I hoped. My crippling anxiety kept me from going on auditions, extreme insecurity led to binge eating nearly every night, and an inability to truly be myself translated to a flock of fair-weather friends.

As the decade wound to a close, I stumbled upon the final deadly ingredient in my toxic lifestyle: opiates. A few small pills prescribed for pain unlocked a part of my brain I didn’t know existed: a calm, confident, and numb version of myself that seemed way more manageable than the over-thinking mind-chatter I was used to.

At first the pills were like a casual indulgence—I’d pop a few before a nerve-wracking audition or first date, the same way other people might have a few drinks before going out on the town. But my casual relationship to opiates was short-lived: soon the pills were no longer reserved for awkward dates or nerve-wracking auditions, and instead necessary for any type of outing or interaction.

I knew I’d crossed an invisible line when I began to feel sick without a “dose” of medication. The physical pain they’d been prescribed for had long subsided, but they’d created a need that only grew with more use. Soon I became sick if I didn’t take any pills, which is when I began going to any lengths to get more.

I wanted so much to stop but felt trapped on a terrible ride: I’d wake hating myself for what I’d done the day before, and with deep shame I’d vow earnestly to quit—then afternoon would come and with it, withdrawal symptoms. As my stomach would turn and my head would spin, I’d lose the resolve to stop and begin searching for my next fix. With that fix would come a few hours of relief, followed by another cycle of self-loathing, a vow to quit, and more failure.

It was a spin cycle that likely would have killed me had life not intervened in ways that at the time felt devastating; in a span of two weeks my “normal” façade collapsed and, with it, most pillars in my life. Like a house of cards toppling, I lost my job, car, relationship, and was evicted from my home.

It felt like a cliché country song where the singer loses everything, except in those songs that person is usually likeable and innocent—but in my story, I felt like the villain.

As I watched my entire life crumble around me, I felt no choice other than to return home and seek the shelter of the only person who had always been there for me—my mom.

The mom who had raised me with morals like honesty, accountability, and kindness, although I hadn’t been living them for a while. The mom who had struggled raising two kids alone, gotten us off food stamps by going to nursing school, and who watched helplessly as I descended into the same cycle of addiction that had taken the life of my father.

She told me I could stay if I was sober; I vowed to try, though I’d stopped believing my own promises long before.

In the recovery program I found soon after, there was an oft repeated saying on every wall: “it’s always darkest before the dawn.” If taken literally, it makes you think about how dark the night sky is before dawn breaks… how heavy, looming, and consuming. Before the light returns, it can feel like the darkness will never end.

That was how my early days sober felt.

But as I cobbled together a few weeks and then a few months, I began to feel the faintest bit of trust in myself. Through abstinence and therapy, mindfulness and a sober community, the hopelessness that had seemed so all-consuming began to crack open and let in some light.

I moved out into my own apartment, returned to school to complete a long-sought college degree, and had a waitressing job that I loved. Then, just after I achieved one year sober, I got a phone call from my brother that would change everything.

“Melissa, you need to come home,” he said, his voice thick with tears. “It’s mom.”

My stomach dropped as I gripped the phone, suddenly feeling about five years old. I’d find out later it was a heart attack.

I felt the darkness descend again.

—

In the days that followed her death I felt like a dependent child that was unable to care for myself. I dragged myself through brushing my teeth, dressing, and arranging her funeral; it felt like my heart had stopped along with hers.

The same thought kept circling the drain of my head—how can I live the rest of my life without my mother?

I couldn’t imagine not having her at my graduation, wedding, or when I became a parent. Her disappearance from my future brought up a dread much worse than that of the previous year— but as I began to settle into my grief, I realized I had a path through this moment, if I were willing to take it.

The tools I’d forged in sobriety would prove to be useful in the dark days that followed. I share them below as an offering for anyone who travels through a dark night of the soul: simple steps to keep in mind when you can’t see a path forward.

Take things one day at a time.

In sobriety, you learn that imagining your whole life without another drink or drug can be so daunting that you just give up and get loaded. So instead of borrowing future worry, you learn to stay in the week, the day, and the moment.

I didn’t have to know what having a wedding without my mother would be like—I just needed to eat breakfast. I didn’t need to imagine my graduation—I just needed to get myself through one more class. As I pieced my future together one moment at a time, I found that I could handle the emptiness in bite size pieces. I didn’t have to figure it all out—I just had to keep going.

Allow feelings to come and trust that they will go.

Much of what I’d been running from as an addict was the discomfort of my feelings. I didn’t want to feel rejection, so I contorted myself to be liked; I didn’t want to feel sadness, so I busied myself with the next activity. In recovery I learned that we can run from feelings all we want, but eventually they catch up to us in some form. Instead of running I’d learned to allow; instead of busying myself I’d been taught to turn toward pain and trust that it wouldn’t last forever.

Though this was easier said than done, some part of me knew that running from the grief of my mom’s death would only snowball into a freight train later. I’d scream in my car as I seethed with the unfairness of it all; I’d rock with sobs on my couch when the sadness became too much. It wasn’t pretty and it felt terrible, but when I let the grief shake through me. I found that there would always be an end… that at the bottom of my spiral a thread of mercy would appear, and I would be able to go on.

Tell the truth.

From a young age, I felt much more comfortable in a mask of smiles and jokes than sharing how I was actually doing at any given moment. Though getting sober had helped me shed layers of the mask, I still found myself trying to likeable, approved-of, and “good.” But as grief zapped my energy and ability to make myself palatable, when people asked how I was doing I started to be honest.

Sharing the pain I felt after my mom’s death was like standing naked in the middle of the street—I wasn’t used to crying in front of people and didn’t think they’d like me when they found out I wasn’t always “fun and easy going.” But it was exactly this type of vulnerability that allowed true friends to materialize, old connections to deepen, and the support I longed for to appear.

Allow yourself to be forever changed.

In recovery from addiction, I began to think of my sobriety date as a second birthday—the start of an actual new life. Though the way my former life had burned to the ground was painful, I welcomed the chance for a new start.

But when my mom died, I didn’t realize that losing her would again scatter me into a thousand unrecognizable pieces—pieces I kept trying to fit back together but weren’t ever going to be the same, because I wasn’t.

Once I allowed my life, relationships, and priorities to be changed by my grief, I found a self that was stronger, more resilient, and somehow more tender. I never would have chosen the form of this lesson, but I came through these experiences a more authentic version of myself… an overarching goal of my life.

*

It’s now been seven years since my mom’s death, and I’ve been sober for eight. As my journey continues to unfold, I never lose sight of how broken I once was and how dark things seemed. I also know that the struggles of life aren’t over; they’re part of being human and living a full life.

But something I now keep in mind is that it’s always darkest before the dawn—I know I don’t have to always see the light…

I just have to keep going.

February 28, 2021
The Invisible Effects of Social Media: When It’s Time to Stop Scrolling

“What you do today is important because you are exchanging a day of your life for it.” ~Unknown

Is there a more precious commodity than time? It’s the currency of life; the most basic finite resource, and we have a responsibility to spend it wisely. It’s up to us each individually to figure out what that means to us. For me, that means being mindful of the people, activities, and thoughts to which I give my time and energy.

I am an obsessive reader, and at any one time I have at least fifteen books checked out of the library. I tell myself that I won’t check out any more books until I’ve finished reading the ones I’ve already borrowed, but I never listen and I’m glad for it, because reading is one of the wisest and most enjoyable ways I can spend my time.

I try to be cognizant of what grows my spirit and what shrinks it, and I aim to use my time accordingly.

But this is hardly an easy task, especially with the constant lure of technology and smartphones. Unlike with books, the escape these devices offer can quickly lead me down a rabbit hole of anxiety where I feel my inspiration leaking away and self-doubt taking its place.

Whether this is because I’m feeling guilty for wasting so much time, tired from staring at an electronic screen so long, or because I’m negatively comparing myself to other people, I know that my time can be put to better use.

I often end these technology binges with a nagging sense of emptiness and, despite the vast array of connection offered by technology, a vague feeling of disconnection as well. I don’t want to scroll my day away, yet sometimes feel compelled to do it.

We all have a basic need to belong, and social media’s popularity can be boiled down to its ability to tap into that need. However, it’s important to keep in mind that the complexities and imperfections of real life are often glossed over or edited out entirely. To compare your real life to someone else’s crafted digital persona is unfair and unrealistic, and it sets you up for disappointment.

Social media can also taunt us by bombarding us with the adventures of people better left in our past.

I didn’t fully appreciate this hurtful effect until my social media usage worsened a recent experience of heartbreak. Like a bullet in the back, my screen suddenly and completely filled with him. And not just him, but his new girlfriend too.

It wasn’t long before the photo left the confines of the screen and filled my room and my mind; my entire world became consumed with memories of when he held me that way and the accompanying feelings of sorrow, loss, anger, and jealousy.

I thought strength meant I shouldn’t be affected by something as silly and trivial as Facebook or Instagram, but no matter how much I don’t want to be affected, the truth is that I am. And the effect social media can have on our feelings of self-worth is not trivial.

Only when I accepted this did I begin to move toward easing the pain of heartbreak. The first step was using my time not for social media obsession, but for reflective writing and poetry, which are activities that provide me with real, sustainable healing.

When I do use social media, I make sure my feed is filled with posts that I enjoy seeing and that help me grow rather than make me feel smaller. And I share posts that are an expression of my inner feelings or at least can make someone laugh.

I have also made a commitment to be present with myself and my emotions, without judgment, instead of using social media to distract myself from my feelings. This mindful practice, though difficult, is worth the effort because it allows me to strengthen my ability to treat emotions as valid but fleeting, rather than being in resistance or letting them consume me.

Heartbreak and pain are part of the human experience. It helps to remind myself that I am not alone and to reach out to loved ones—offline—and let myself be vulnerable enough to express what I’m going through. For me, too much social media actually dampens my sense of connection to others because I tend to retreat when I start believing my life is not as exciting or meaningful as other people’s.

I’ve learned to limit the time I spend fueling insecurity with social media and to fill that time either with mindful scrolling or something else entirely. I keep in mind that this technology is the new terrain on the landscape of communications, and it can be a fantastic and fun tool if I navigate and utilize it responsibly.

This article is most likely reaching you via a social media channel, and I’m thankful for the opportunity this provides for sharing work that elevates our awareness and consciousness. Because of social media, I’ve increased my exposure to websites and channels that facilitate personal growth, such as Tiny Buddha, but I’ve had to learn to become more mindful of when it’s okay to unwind online and when it’s harmful.

Sometimes I need a break, and watching a video of cats that are afraid of cucumbers or hopping from one newsfeed to the next can be a good stress reliever. I also find that pausing occasionally during creative activities gives ideas the necessary time to simmer below the surface until they are ready to come to light, and social media can be a good way to give my mind a break.

I know I need to stop scrolling when I feel a shift in my emotions; when the lighthearted fun of connecting virtually and the joy of sharing my creative work with people all over the world becomes a self-imposed prison of mindlessness. I don’t want to allow my precious time to tick away in a stream of posts and updates. When I feel this shift, I know it is best to turn off my device, take a few deep breaths, and turn my attention and time to something more enriching.

I also realize now that it’s more beneficial to be present with my surroundings rather than tuning out into a digital world during every available moment. On walks, commutes, and at the dinner table I enjoy being fully present with the people and things around me, as well as my own sensations and feelings.

These small moments of togetherness and solitude are fertile with opportunity for self-reflection, presence, and connection, but only if I resist the temptation to compulsively check my smartphone.

The key here is to become aware of how often we reach for our phones so we can examine how we spend our time and whether we can put some of that time to better use.

I’ve caught myself multiple times at the beginning of an unproductive scrolling session and made the intention to put my phone down after ten minutes so I don’t get too lost in a cycle of posts and updates. And on other days I could use a good cat vs. cucumber video, and that’s okay too; it’s all about balance and awareness.

Social media can be a good thing when we use it responsibly. Whether we are scrolling, sipping a cup of tea, or having a conversation, cultivating mindful presence can only enrich our experiences. This, I believe, is how we can wisely utilize the small amount of time we are afforded.

When I dip into moments of deep, full presence, the only response that springs forth is gratitude, and I can think of no better way to spend my time than in a state of appreciation.

February 25, 2019
Why I Got Caught Up in the Drama of an On-and-Off Relationship

“One reason people resist change is because they focus on what they have to give up instead of what they have to gain.” ~Rick Godwin

Dave and I met earlier this January. I was immediately attracted to his aquamarine eyes and his tattoos. I met him on the eve of my twenty-sixth birthday and, based on our interaction, I assumed we’d have a casual fling. Things didn’t end that simply, to my surprise.

When we were lying in bed together that first night, holding hands, he turned to me and asked if there was any chance we could get to know one another without sleeping with other people.

This was strange to hear, but as a single woman in Los Angeles, I felt as though I had stumbled across some sort of rare species of man who was actually interested in pursuing a commitment without me having to do much.

A part of me felt caught off guard and suspicious, considering I’d made it clear that this was just supposed to be a hook up. On the other hand, it was kind of nice that someone who I was incredibly attracted to wanted to get to know me exclusively. In retrospect, I realized that it filled me with this feeling of warmth that I’d been deprived of before I’d met him.

Within five days, Dave asked me to be his girlfriend. Although I found his eagerness to jump into a relationship to be a bit off, I agreed because I liked him and wanted to go with the flow.

The first few weeks were amazing, as we shared intimate conversations, romantic outings in Los Angeles, amazing sex, gifts, and the beginning of what felt like something that could blossom into a true partnership. However, the passion was intense, and we hadn’t had much time to develop authentic trust. It became increasingly evident to me that this relationship would be a ticking time bomb.

Within a month and a half, I was overwhelmed with Dave’s jealousy, suspiciousness, and paranoia. He was becoming increasingly controlling and accusatory toward me.

I was incredibly loyal to him and began to resent feeling like I was always doing something wrong when I was trying my best to be a good girlfriend. His gifts started to seem like a farce—like he had simply gotten me them to possess me instead of genuinely liking me for who I was.

I broke up with him a few times because I couldn’t tolerate his jealousy and the way he degraded me. However, I would go back to him because I’d remember the good times and was becoming addicted to the kind of intensity he provided for me.

I would question myself and think perhaps I was being too critical; after all, no one was perfect, and I should be flattered that someone was evidently so invested in me. I was in it too deep to see things clearly and make the right decision.

When he and I would split, I’d attempt to get out there and date others, but no one was able to elicit the same warmth and stimulation I’d felt from him. So I’d go back to him. Just three months into this, we’d already established an on-and-off relationship that began to deteriorate my mental, emotional, and physical health.

The fourth and final time we broke up ended with him yelling at me in public. I had wanted to leave a particular bar because I’d had an anxiety attack, and he accused me of wanting to exit because of “some guy” there. He was totally delusional. There was no guy in the bar I was trying to hide from him.

I remembered chasing Dave after he’d stormed out from the bar and thrown money at me, demanding I take a bus back to my house. I was actually crying on the street chasing him while he yelled at me! I hated myself and the woman I’d regressed to.

For comedic relief, there were two women watching us fight, standing outside a movie theater eating popcorn.

“Don’t chase him, girl,” they told me. “He’s mean. Look at how he’s yelling at you. You deserve better.” Dave cussed at the girls before running off. I stopped chasing him. I came to my senses. It was brutal, but I realized that this relationship just wasn’t worth all the pain anymore.

Part of me hates myself for letting myself get involved in such a clearly self-destructive relationship. I would like to say that this is my first on-and-off relationship, but it isn’t. Based off my experiences and observations, it seems like once you’ve been in one on-and-off relationship, you’re prone to more.

Why couldn’t I just walk away the first time I broke up with this guy? Why do we get hooked on the drama of on-and-off relationships? Here are some theories I’ve formed.

1. Life wasn’t much better before.

Looking back, I recognize that I wasn’t in a solid place in my life before I met Dave. I was bored and at a crossroads with my career. I was highly susceptible to getting caught up in something like this because I was unhappy with my life and the drama provided both stimulation and a nice distraction.

2. Pain felt familiar and comfortable to me.

Even though Dave had shown me his mean streak within a month of dating, I stuck with it thinking I deserved it and that I should endure it for the greater good. My parents often shamed, invalidated, and criticized me when I was growing up, and as an adult I’ve been attracted to partners who do the same.

3. I wasn’t clear on my deal breakers.

I knew I was turned off by extreme jealousy, but I didn’t know it was a deal breaker for me at the time. Now, looking back, the deal breaker I’ve settled on is being degraded or humiliated for someone else’s uncontrollable jealousy.

4. I developed an addiction to him and the drama.

I’d become addicted to Dave, the sex, and the whole act of reconciling. There’s something intoxicating about the highs that follow the lows. It’s a cycle many are familiar with, and I am one of the lucky ones that got out of this relationship before it became even more destructive.

—

Now that I’m armed with this knowledge, I’m going to focus on understanding and working on my masochistic behavior. I’m going to get more clarity on what my deal breakers are and make sure to end things once I feel someone isn’t respecting them.

I’m sure there are some on-and-off relationships that end up working out, but in my experience, the whole act of repeatedly getting back together and breaking up undermines trust. I’d love to hear any experiences you’ve had with on-and-off relationships and any insights you’ve formed.

July 12, 2018
The Difference Between True Love and Love Addiction

“We often say ‘love’ when we really mean, and are acting out, an addiction—a sterile, ingrown dependency relationship, with another person serving as the object of our need for security.” ~Stanton Peele

When I was sixteen, I fell in love. At least I thought I did. I had all the symptoms—quickened pulse, butterflies, and a head so full of him that all my pain and all my problems magically disappeared when we were together.

I called this love.

And why wouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t any young girl? Isn’t that what love is—when you can’t live without each other, when you can’t think about anything else, when it hurts to be apart?

Up until that first relationship, I’d already been through about a dozen different relationships with a dozen different people.

My first whirlwind romance was with a boy named Andrei in the first grade of Regional School #17 in Donetsk, Ukraine. I remember when he got up during naptime and, with a mischievous look on his face, peed all over the carpet. So rebellious, I sighed.

My romance with Andrei ended when we got on the plane to Toronto. I cried. I cried for the country I was leaving, for the friends I left behind, and I cried for Andrei. Andrei who had never spoken to me or held my hand. Andrei who was just a character inside a story in my mind.

One day, my eight-year-old self thought through her thick tears, I’ll love again.

After I got to Canada, I got into a very complicated, semi-violent relationship with Eminem. When it looked like he was getting back together with his ex wife (which broke my heart, obviously), I went on to Nathan, who was two grades above me at school, who had bleach blonde hair, just like Eminem. He was a rebound.

Neither of them ever knew I existed.

I couldn’t approach Nathan or any other boy I liked, but I knew what I had to do. By this time, I’d watched enough television to know—I was too ugly for a boyfriend. Too fat. And what was this cellulite? These pimples? These stretch marks? The girls with boyfriends didn’t have that—not the ones on TV and not the ones in my school.

I started wearing makeup in grade six. I still remember someone asking me why I had weird beige stuff on my eyebrows. My face turned red (or, as red as it could turn underneath the concealer cream that I’d literally just spread all over my entire face).

I just want to be pretty. I just want a boy to like me.

As my hormones raged hard, and my social anxiety raged harder, I started having relationships with guys on the Internet. It seemed like a step in the right direction. At least these were real people talking to me.

But that didn’t work and that got dangerous. I went back to making up relationships in my head.

All I wanted was a real boy. A real-life boy to call my own.

I’ll have to work extra hard to get him, I thought.

By the time I got to high school, I’d tried a handful of different crash diets and, soon enough, every moment of my day was devoted to maintaining 400 calories a day and exercising them all off.

I was exhausted. I weighed less. In the mirror, I looked no different.

When am I going to feel pretty? When will I fall in love?

And, one day, it happened. He was in my grade ten math class. I asked him for batteries. Since his Discman could have been considered an extra limb, it seemed like a safe bet. And it was.

One year later, we were inseparable. I thought it was finally happening. The relationship of my dreams was finally coming true.

I knew, at the time, that it was love because every time we were around each other, my head was clear. All the rest of the time, I was obsessing about my calorie intake and my skin. Around him, there was only him—nothing else.

With him, I felt euphoria. With him, I felt safe. With him, I felt alive. With him, I felt pretty.

How could I live without that?

And, soon enough, I couldn’t. The moments without him became torture as the inner voices screaming criticisms that echoed through each part of my psyche became louder and angrier from being suppressed. The moments with him became riddled with anxiety about when we’d next have to be apart.

I was hooked.

I called this love.

As the novelty wore off and real life set in, I couldn’t bear to lose that feeling. I came apart at the seams. And, in my mind, it was all his fault.

My journals from that time are filled with questions scribbled with ferocious pain on tear-stained pages.

Why doesn’t he love me anymore? Why can’t things feel like they used to? Why does love hurt so much?

No matter what he tried to do to make me happy, it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

I was hooked on a feeling of euphoria that drowned out my inner demons and, after a while, he no longer produced that feeling. He couldn’t give me what I wanted, because I didn’t want him. I wanted a feeling that the novelty of obsession in human form had brought me.

I was so full of anger, so full of rage at him for not loving me. It wasn’t until I had a breakdown and almost killed myself four years after we broke up, the demons in my head having become so powerful that I had to learn to accept myself or die, that I realized it wasn’t him that didn’t love. It was me.

I didn’t love him, because I didn’t love myself. I didn’t love him, because that’s not love. Needing someone, using them to get away from your problems, acclimatizing to the good feelings so you need more and more, becoming psychotic when they’re away—that’s not love. That’s addiction.

I used him and abused him, like a drug, and when he couldn’t give me the feelings I was addicted to, I threw him away. He was a character in my fairy tale, an idea in my head, just like the others who came before him. There was no room for him to be a human being, because I didn’t give myself that room.

The more I’ve learned to love myself, stretch marks and all, the more I’ve been able to love other people, to forgive those who hurt me, to support my current partner through his light and his darkness.

When I gave myself the room to be imperfect, to be a human being, I could give other people that room. And, in that newly created space, the feeling of love has crept in and permeated each moment.

I’ve learned the hard way that love isn’t something we get from other people. It’s not even a feeling.

Love is a kind of awareness we have about ourselves, about people, about life.

Love is when we see ourselves and others for what we are, not what we think we should be. Love is when we stop trying to protect ourselves and open up to what’s here—the pain, the joy, the beauty, the darkness, everything.

Love is a decision to be open and stay open, to receive the beauty of what’s all around us instead of pushing fake beauty down our throats.

Love is a way of life, a state of mind.

It’s taken me a while to forgive myself for not knowing better all those years ago, for hurting the boy I thought I loved. While I can’t take back what I’ve done, I can do my best to share what I’ve learned so that it might help feed that love hunger in the world that used to torment me, that led me to torment other people.

And I can hope that whatever self-protective shields my ex built up from our messy romance are now disassembled. I hope that he’s found a way to let go, to be free, to open back up and learn to trust again, against all odds.

And I hope that you—no matter if you’re single or in a relationship, no matter if you’ve been hurt once or twenty times—I hope that you take that plunge into this moment, into the beauty and the suffering, even if it hurts, just one more time. And know, this is what true love is all about.

Heart eyes image via Shutterstock

March 30, 2015