I hung up the phone. I really did love him. He made me feel understood- he was my person. After the first time he beat me and the cops came, he promised to go to therapy. He didn’t. After the second time, he promised again…but he didn’t. Soon he was beating me nearly to death every day, and my heart screamed, trying to reach him.

How could I still love a person who hurt me so badly in every way? How could I still want to be with him? While he was in jail, I realized I was willing to die for his love. I knew if I stayed, it really would kill me. But when he got out, I could help but smile when I saw him.

All he wanted was crack. He didn’t kiss me anymore, or tell me how beautiful I was. He didn’t tell me how much he missed me. He accused me of hogging the crack. And then he said it was all I cared about. Even in the depths of addiction, I really would have given it up on the spot if it could make everything better. If it could make him love me the way he did in my head. I wanted the man I loved back. I wanted the happy ever after. I wanted to grow old and be happy and have children.

I dodged a bullet. Every time he left a bruise on my body, he was giving me a gift. Those bruises allowed me to eventually pick a different path. Those bruises allowed me to free myself.

But first I had to go deeper. I couldn’t go deeper into him and I couldn’t bear the loss of the life we’d planned. So I went deeper into using. I went months straight without ever once sobering up for even a moment. When I did finally run out, I’d start crying uncontrollably. My whole body hurt, and my heart hurt more. I didn’t want to live, but I didn’t want to die. I wanted to want to live. So I just kept existing, kept rolling the dice with my life.

It was all a gift. It brought me here.