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Loving a Meth Addict

He was never an addict. He was a good man. We met in high school, dated for a few years, moved in together, started a life together. I was his princess, his queen, he lived to make me smile. He never used. Then his personality did a 180, shortly after proposing to me. For 8 months I thought I was doing something to cause the mood swings, the unwillingness to eat, the disgust to making love, the general hate he had for me. I stopped laughing, I stopped smiling, I stopped planning a wedding that was never meant to be. I considered suicide. I held that .45 in my hand cocked and ready to go more times than I care to admit. Until the day I found out, and I got angry. Angry that he would let me die rather than tell me the truth, that he had started using meth and was getting addicted. So now as I wander the house where our dreams were supposed to grow, the laughter of a lifetime past, full of dreams, echoing around me, the only thought in my mind, "I miss my best friend." Someday, somewhere he might come back...but not to me, and that breaks my heart more than losing him to meth in the first place. So as I wander this empty house, removing the last pieces of me from it, I send a prayer, a prayer that this house will know happy again, that the next ones to come will have the happy family I so wanted. He wasn't an addict.

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