Love Crack

In the words of the mighty Robert Palmer: Might as well face it, you're addicted to love.

It's true. I am.

People ask me, "Falcon - when you put together all the time that you spent with this guy, in real time, face to face, it amounts to like, 92 hours. How could you get so hooked in such a short time?"

It's like asking someone who just tried crack, "How could you get so hooked from just that one time?"

Some love is like pot - it slowly grows on you. Some is like acid - it takes a while to kick in and sort of sneaks up on you. Some is like Extasy - makes you feel good until one day you realize you're rotting from the inside and have to stop.

Well this love was crack. And I was addicted. And in truth, it was more than 92 hours. There were at least three months of long distance wooing and getting to know each other and the biggest addictive drug of all time - emotional intimacy. And the whole thing spiralled wildly out of control, like a brushfire that comes too close to the city. The whole thing happened in what I call, "reality show time," which means that the actual dimensions of time shifted when we were together, spreading out exponentially, so that an hour becomes a day, a day becomes a week, and a week becomes a month. I know of what I speak. I was ON a reality show. And so these 12 weeks (including those 92 hours) felt like something else. In fact, it was one of those scary situations when you meet someone and you feel as though you've known the other person your whole life. Not like you're starting from scratch, but like you're picking up where you left off.

But it was crack. The more I got, the more I wanted. And he was dealing me more than I could handle. And because it felt so good, it was hard to see the bigger picture. It's only when you're out of love, when you've been detoxed, that you can see the damage that it was doing to you while you were on it.

So now I'm clean. But it was a rough three days - standard detox time. I had all the classic syptoms; I couldn't eat, I was nauseous, I had the shakes, and of course bouts of hopeless crying. But now I feel better, if somewhat...emptier. It will take a while to fill up I guess.

It's also been a little bit like aversion therapy. You know, when someone tries to get a kid to stop smoking by making them smoke an entire pack, or eat a cigarette? So that every time they see a cig after that they feel sick to their stomach?

That's how I feel now.

I've had people ask me out on dates, and I go, thinking, "This will take my mind off things - see? There are other fish in the sea, he's not the only one with options, etc. etc." And then I sit there with some nice guy, and I look at him, and I just start to feel my stomach lurch into my mouth. I get a little barfy. Seriously.

I see a nice-looking fella on the street, and I think, "Hey, he looks like a nice - " quick, hand covers the mouth, swallow it back down, breathe a little.

Even the thought of Love, right now, literally makes me sick to my stomach.

I think that's a healthy response though. For now, at least. I need to time to heal.

My last analogy of the day:

It's like I've been shot in the chest. And I'm objective enough that I can look down and say, "Gee, that's gotta hurt." And let it hurt. I mean face it, a sucking chest wound is going to be a little painful, a little sensitive for a while. But at the same time, I've agreed with myself that I'm not going to get sucked into the whole, "Well if I was younger, smarter, prettier, funnier, then I wouldn't HAVE this sucking chest wound!" I'm getting healthy enough to realize that perhaps these things are not related.

My only fault is for walking in the path of the shotgun to begin with. But hey, shit happens.

At least I'll have a really cool scar.

- Falcon