I wrote this about Laura Dolgy.

I had fallen into the old routine already. I knew that it wouldn’t be long before I got like this again. I was detesting myself, and with reason. I was relentlessly single, and hating every moment of it. I could not bear the idea of being alone. Not after my codependence had been fed for a year two months and seventeen days. Of course this was always the way it went after being devastated by a heartbreak, and I allowed myself to get like this. I needed this feeling of post-dependency, and for a new phase to develop or evolve into deeper contempt. My nights got shorter in sleep but longer in darkness; this was the perfect situation for destruction. Days would pass with no daylight, heat or food, and booze seemed to fit well into this combination. It help tremendously. It helped so much that on certain occasions on which I was invited out to compete with the pain, I would make an exhibition of myself. But I certainly didn’t care, because for those moments I was not thinking of her. They allowed for periodic moments of rest in my deteriorating obsession. Oh but on the return home, that’s when the memories came back and I dreaded to face my lonely room again. That lonely room that was a constant reminder of intimate times, and of the reason why I had moved here to begin with.

And I didn’t want to help myself. I saw no reason to because there was a level of comfort for me in sorrow. As if pity, the lowest of all possible emotions, was my own feeling of myself. And I hated myself enough to be satisfied with such a position. I didn’t want to go back to work, I could’t even go grocery shopping, and even stepping out of my house, if alone, was becoming a terrifying idea. But I had been here before, and I knew exactly where I was heading to.

On other nights, sometimes I would get so enraged with myself that I was hesitant to beat myself to death. Such frustration came from lack of expression, and I could not understand why such a devastating incident in my life would not bring me forth creation. I had so much to say about her, I had so much love put into it, and so much love still left waiting to emerge. I was boiling with passion and it was already dripping over the edges. How was I so silent. How could I accept to let her memories die out like this.

But I knew where I was heading to, and there was no going back, not this time. She was gone, and there was nothing I could do to make this better. I would have to face the pain of disgrace and embarrassment before she let me go fully. And I wasn’t ready for that. I wanted her closer to me than ever, and couldn’t let go of that presence just yet. The presence that left me complete and wholesome, like I could die in satisfaction, like death never existed, like living was worth it. But she was gone and I was alone, and so I kept drinking…