21 Days
Image by Hannah Neubauer
To the one I can’t let go,
The old myth is that it takes 21 days to break an addiction. They make it seem so simple; so easy. I mean it is only 21 days for the craving to wreak havoc on the body. What’s the big deal, right? 21 days to withdraw and shiver and shake for the next fix. 21 days for the need and lust to make its way through the veins. At first, I believed what they said, and I naively marked big red X’s on the small car calendar we got at that old Thai restaurant. Day after soul-crushing day I crossed off a new box, hoping the next one would bring a new me, but it never came.
Each day I mark across the last day I made it through alive, without you. It’s tedious and brings back too many hurtful memories to bear, but my mom thought the routine of it would help. She might get on my last nerve sometimes, and I may occasionally hang up on her when the conversation turns to her asking to visit, but deep down I love her. I truly do, as much as someone like me is capable of loving. She cares, in her own overbearing way, and that is more than I can say for you.
I suppose the routine is helpful in a way. Marking off one more empty box on the calendar really does leave me with a sense of accomplishment for the day. If the only thing I can do is lift myself out of bed to grab a damn marker and cross off the next stupid day, I can say I have been rather productive. I mean, sooner or later I would have to accept the inevitable. Sometimes the painful reminder makes things better. Sometimes, it makes things worse.
Each day that goes by is harder than the last. At the end of day one, I feel empowered. Like I’m on top of the goddamn world! But then that dreaded nightfall rears its tantalizing head and the cravings return. The same cravings that continuously crash land me right on my backside into the solid ground of reality. The craving to hear your sweet serenade, like that of a siren beckoning me back into dangerous water returns. The need to be with you one last time is mind-altering - no bottle of whiskey or one-night stand could ever compare. Trust me, I would know. The second day is the worst; the feelings of consciousness slowly being sucked from the veins. The feeling of foreboding rocks my shivering body, and I can’t breathe. That second day feels like giving up. Like I’m sitting in a nice cold bath, watching calmly as a toaster balances precariously on the edge of the tub. I make no move to stop it falling.
After week one the withdrawal begins to seep from my skin and wash away my sinful thoughts of you, and for a while, things get better. But sometimes when I lay just right on that old beat-up couch in the living room, the one that still smells of menthols and the cheap red wine we used to drink on Thursday nights, I can sometimes almost feel your presence. If I close my eyes and concentrate just right, I can even feel the tingling sensation you would leave running up the length of my smooth legs to the ends of my matted hair and eventually shocking my soul. Caressing my weathered skin. Blowing my mind. Those are the nights that I throw my body into a scalding hot shower and cry until the water turns to ice.
21 days. 21 days turn into 30, and 30 turns into 76. I often find myself awake during the nights; warm feet pressed against the frozen concrete floors as I wander through the halls that are now so foreign to me. Every wall whisper’s as I pass: secrets I never wished to hear; words I never wish repeated. Before I even realize it, I find my cracked phone in my frail, shaking hand dialing that once familiar number again, and another 76 days go down the drain.
For nearly two years now this has been the cycle. But that’s the thing about addiction, isn’t it? It never truly goes away. It lurks and creeps and haunts, twisting and coiling around the heart, through the veins, and into the brainstem before we even notice the hold it has on us. Addiction takes over. It becomes who we are, and in a way, I can’t deny it. You have become a part of me; just as I had hoped you wouldn’t… But as I lay awake at night, thrashing about on my sweat-soaked sheets, I come to realize how foolish I once was. And as soon as I am able to whisper those words allowed, maybe then I will be free. But until that day comes… Well, anyways,
Every day I wake up feeling strong. I put on my mask and head out into the sea with the rest of the miserable actors, but every night I return just as haggard and desperate as day one. They said it would take only 21 days.
They said 21 days and I would be free.
21 days to break my addiction. 21 days for the addiction to break me.
I see no difference.
With utter and complete devotion ,
The girl tired of fighting