Dying to Breathe

He made me look older, but more importantly, he made me look sophisticated. He allowed me to escape the awkward crawl through those embarrassing teenage moments of blazing mortification. I'd had plenty of those. And no matter what my mother said, I knew I'd never laugh about them years from now.

Maybe it was serendipity. That's what it felt like. A little piece of luck in a life that, up until now, only had the kind that made you knock on wood and avoid ladders in an effort to slow the unlucky tide before it pulled you under and drowned you. We met by accident. My best friend introduced us, casually, never realizing what she'd started.

Of course, I fell in love with him. He saved me from a life of loneliness and mediocrity. He surrounded and enveloped me in a pocket of safety. I never had to be alone again. I spent so much time with him I'd forget to eat. I started to lose weight. My parents were worried. But I'd been too heavy to begin with. So now I felt just right. I felt like a better person in so many ways. I was someone who had life under control.

When I didn't know how to act, he calmed and distracted me. His fiery personality entertained me and he gave me permission to express myself. He made me stop fidgeting and he made me feel as if I really was normal. When I got depressed, he pulled me out of it. If I did something great, he'd reward me. Being with him allowed me to focus. He promised he'd be there for me no matter what. No matter where I went or what I did, he'd never leave. He made me smolder with newfound sensuality. He was my mentor, my savior, and my new best friend. His very presence made me fit in, part of something now. I was welcomed with warmth and light and acceptance, no longer on the edge.

Inevitably, I believed I couldn't get along without him. That loss of independence scared me but not enough to let him go. Not enough to break free. Not enough to be alone. He wouldn't let me breathe. He was always there. Always wanting my attention. He was jealous of the time I spent away from him and would call me back to him. His anger burned me but his scorching need melted my defenses. He had me convinced I depended on him. I thought I couldn't live without him. I was obsessed. I loved him. Didn't I?

I left him when I found out I was pregnant. But he begged me to come back to him. He promised he wouldn't hound me and he'd try not to hurt me anymore. He promised he'd give me plenty of space. He wouldn't ask for all of my attention, just some of it. Whatever I could spare for him.

After the baby was born, I relented. It was such a relief to be reunited with him. I was sure I could never give him up for good. But I wanted to when he started taking over my life again, just like the last time. I had to plan everything around and for him. My time didn't belong to me. I knew he wouldn't give me up as easily this time. I knew he'd fight harder if I tried to leave him again. What would I do if he wouldn't let me go?

He would probably end up killing me eventually. My spirit would go first, absorbed by the strength of his hold on me. My body would follow, resistant, but with mute resignation. Everyone started telling me how bad he was for me, that he added nothing positive to my life. I felt caged by him and trapped by the truth. But I knew I had to let go. I needed to get away from him and reclaim my life. I was going to miss him, ache for him, even while I reviled his hold on me. It would feel as if the best part of me was gone. All that time we'd devoted to each other up in smoke. I wondered if the good part of life was over. I knew it was long past time to let go. I needed to be free. And I needed to live. I exhaled loudly. And put my last cigarette out, bidding a fond farewell to the one true love of my life. My best friend, and undying addiction: The Marlboro Man.