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The
fact
is
,
I
had
become
addicted
to
David
(
in
my
defense
,
he
had
fostered
this
,
being
something
of
a
"
man
-
fatale
"
)
,
and
now
that
his
attention
was
wavering
,
I
was
suffering
the
easily
foreseeable
consequences
.
Addiction
is
the
hallmark
of
every
infatuation
-
based
love
story
.
It
all
begins
when
the
object
of
your
adoration
bestows
upon
you
a
heady
,
hallucinogenic
dose
of
something
you
never
even
dared
to
admit
that
you
wanted
-
an
emotional
speedball
,
perhaps
,
of
thunderous
love
and
roiling
excitement
.
Soon
you
start
craving
that
intense
attention
,
with
the
hungry
obsession
of
any
junkie
.
When
the
drug
is
withheld
,
you
promptly
turn
sick
,
crazy
and
depleted
(
not
to
mention
resentful
of
the
dealer
who
encouraged
this
addiction
in
the
first
place
but
who
now
refuses
to
pony
up
the
good
stuff
anymore
-
despite
the
fact
that
you
know
he
has
it
hidden
somewhere
,
goddamn
it
,
because
he
used
to
give
it
to
you
for
free
)
.
Next
stage
finds
you
skinny
and
shaking
in
a
corner
,
certain
only
that
you
would
sell
your
soul
or
rob
your
neighbors
just
to
have
that
thing
even
one
more
time
.
Meanwhile
,
the
object
of
your
adoration
has
now
become
repulsed
by
you
.
He
looks
at
you
like
you
’
re
someone
he
’
s
never
met
before
,
much
less
someone
he
once
loved
with
high
passion
.
The
irony
is
,
you
can
hardly
blame
him
.
I
mean
,
check
yourself
out
.
You
’
re
a
pathetic
mess
,
unrecognizable
even
to
your
own
eyes
.
So
that
’
s
it
.
You
have
now
reached
infatuation
’
s
final
destination
-
the
complete
and
merciless
devaluation
of
self
.
The
fact
that
I
can
even
write
calmly
about
this
today
is
mighty
evidence
of
time
’
s
healing
powers
,
because
I
didn
’
t
take
it
well
as
it
was
happening
.
To
be
losing
David
right
after
the
failure
of
my
marriage
,
and
right
after
the
terrorizing
of
my
city
,
and
right
during
the
worst
ugliness
of
divorce
(
a
life
experience
my
friend
Brian
has
compared
to
"
having
a
really
bad
car
accident
every
single
day
for
about
two
years
"
)
…
well
,
this
was
simply
too
much
.
David
and
I
continued
to
have
our
bouts
of
fun
and
compatibility
during
the
days
,
but
at
night
,
in
his
bed
,
I
became
the
only
survivor
of
a
nuclear
winter
as
he
visibly
retreated
from
me
,
more
every
day
,
as
though
I
were
infectious
I
came
to
fear
nighttime
like
it
was
a
torturer
’
s
cellar
.
I
would
lie
there
beside
David
’
s
beautiful
,
inaccessible
sleeping
body
and
I
would
spin
into
a
panic
of
loneliness
and
meticulously
detailed
suicidal
thoughts
.
Every
part
of
my
body
pained
me
.
I
felt
like
I
was
some
kind
of
primitive
springloaded
machine
,
placed
under
far
more
tension
than
it
had
ever
been
built
to
sustain
,
about
to
blast
apart
at
great
danger
to
anyone
standing
nearby
.
I
imagined
my
body
parts
flying
off
my
torso
in
order
to
escape
the
volcanic
core
of
unhappiness
that
had
become
:
me
.
Most
mornings
,
David
would
wake
to
find
me
sleeping
fitfully
on
the
floor
beside
his
bed
,
huddled
on
a
pile
of
bathroom
towels
,
like
a
dog
.
"
What
happened
now
?
"
he
would
ask
-
another
man
thoroughly
exhausted
by
me
.
I
think
I
lost
something
like
thirty
pounds
during
that
time
.
Oh
,
but
it
wasn
’
t
all
bad
,
those
few
years
…
Because
God
never
slams
a
door
in
your
face
without
opening
a
box
of
Girl
Scout
cookies
(
or
however
the
old
adage
goes
)
,
some
wonderful
things
did
happen
to
me
in
the
shadow
of
all
that
sorrow
.
For
one
thing
,
I
finally
started
learning
Italian
.
Also
,
I
found
an
Indian
Guru
.
Lastly
,
I
was
invited
by
an
elderly
medicine
man
to
come
and
live
with
him
in
Indonesia
.
