Caretaker, not girlfriend

Finding treatment options and getting him clean became a full-time responsibility.

He played to my over-abundant empathy and I quickly learned more about drugs than I ever thought I would.

He would describe his pain and reminisce past times he used. He told me how it all started and I listened. This wasn't my world, but I wasn't about to make him feel bad for how he arrived there. He had a job at the time, and I had two, but in the end, it was me that managed to find time to help him.

When I finally found a bed at a detox facility, he assured me that he would only need to be there a few days. Naive to how addiction works, I was excited that all he'd been going through would soon be over. When I said goodbye to him for a few days, I was worried, but hopeful.

As you can imagine, it seemed fine ... for a while.

When he got out, less than a week later, it was good to see him "clean" again. He seemed different. I felt like he was vulnerable with me and we were connecting. I told him as long as he didn't lie, he could come to me with anything. ANYTHING. But what I didn't know at the time was that a few days without drugs in his system wasn't enough to cure his addiction. In fact, things were going to get much worse. I just didn't know it yet.

Within a few days, I was dealing with that same irritated guy I was before. I was crushed. On top of trying to make sure he stayed clean, having him happy with me became one more thing I had to work at.

I took everything personally.

I couldn't understand or accept that it was something beyond me. To me, I had made him happy before and now I wasn't. So each day, I'd go to work and in-between phone calls and interviews, I'd call out-patient facilities and seek advice. I sat in at his doctor's appointments. I looked for doctors that prescribed Narcan. I even slept on the sidewalk beside him, waiting in line at a Methadone clinic, several times. The first time, we waited for hours, only to be turned down because there were only a five slots available. The second time, we got there for 2 a.m. and had just barely made it. The lady behind us wasn't so lucky. Each day before, during and after I would go to work as a reporter, this was my life.

Somewhere in those mess of days, he lost another job.

"They were out to get me," he told me. Funny, they were always out to get him.

Since I could see how hard it was to maintain a job and getting clean, I told him to focus his energy on getting clean. I even found AA and NA meetings and attended them beside him. I even bought him chew. GAG. He said it helped him cravings and whatever. If it meant helping him, I was going to try anything.

I felt like I was going above and beyond. Because he cooked at most of his previous jobs and because he had more time at home, I just asked that he help with the house and our meals ... it seemed only fair.

So, after working all day at the newspaper and a short shift waitressing at the restaurant, I came home to a destroyed apartment. Clothes and items strewn about. Dinner not made. As I made my way to the back of the third floor, I found him. He was planted in front of the television playing video games in the dark. No dinner cooked. In fact, I don't think he moved all day long.

Why didn't he care? Why didn't he act like I mattered or appreciate all the things I was doing?

At some point throughout this journey, I stopped being his girlfriend. I was his caretaker. But at the time, I didn't realize it. And I would realize it. Not for a long time.