I was with this man for four years. I never used the drug that killed him. He and I both worked honest jobs, paid our bills, enjoyed helping people, animals, we went for Sunday walks in the neighborhood, we danced in the snow as he bought me a Christmas tree one year while I was finishing college. We loved Christmas so much. Quoting our favorite movies, eating popcorn, heating up cocoa. We loved the simple things. We didn’t care about money.
He loved his family and we often would check in on his grandfather, mother and siblings. He was the one bringing in the bread since aged 14 as a landscaper. He had three other siblings and took over being the man of the house after his parents divorced.
He never smoked a cigarette, he hated drinking. If anything I quit drinking since I met him ten years ago. I can’t believe how I beat the odds of staying sober today. His moral support never wavered.
I did not know it was heroin until the last year of his life. He had been introduced to oxys from two girlfriends prior to me many years back. Those times he seemed overly tired, but still managed to go to work every day as a landscaper loyal to the company he worked for…it was his dependency.
I tried tough love with boundaries but ALWAYS saying I was not going anywhere and I loved him, that he could be honest. I wish I knew then what I know now about that drug and the risks I didn’t know about.
But through the pain of his addiction, he was the kindest man I have ever met.
Not every story is the same. The addiction was a struggle, but through that hell he faced and hid with a smile at times, he warmed my heart and always will with the pure tenderness and kindness he had that is so rare.
I told him the last night we were together that I’d always love him and I was proud he was trying his best to get clean, and not to give up. We hugged a long three minutes before saying goodnight. We spoke our last inside joke to each other, and that was the last time I saw him.
His family - parents brothers and sisters, cousins and grandparents always kept their arms open and knew from day one that I cared about the well being, physical and mental health of him (and they can be judgemental af).
To insinuate I was another stereotype of the “girlfriend of the addict,” is simply not the case.
I tell this story because I refuse to feed into nastiness. Yes, I am bitter when people mention the subject or doubt I have an idea what addiction looks like.
You might be hurting, and you are showing vitriol. But I’m not even going to be nasty back because what’s the point?
I told this story because you may not care, but I do.
I cannot summarize his or my story, and I am fully aware that you just said