Watching you self-destruct.

Dear Helen,
  I’d awaken to the sun filtering through the curtains and our cats winding around my head and purring in my ear. I’d reach for you to discover an empty space where you should be. I’d slip through into the living room to find you rolling your first joint of the day. I’d lean in to kiss you murmuring “good morning” you would push me away intent on the task of burning the cannabis resin and crumbling it onto the tobacco already in the skin. Once satisfied you would roll it, fasten it with a flick of your tongue and light it. The sweet smell would immediately pervade the room, only when you’d smoked it halfway down would you say morning to me. I’d wander into the kitchen and make you a cup of tea, and offer you toast (which I knew you’d refuse) I’d then feed the cats and grab some cereal and coffee for myself. Back in the living room I’d try and draw you into conversation, inevitably you had little to say. At this point joint number two would be being prepared as expertly as the first. I’d dress before kissing you goodbye and heading off to work. At lunchtime I’d call to see how you were. There’d often be chatter in the background, the ‘friends’ who’d gather to smoke your cannabis, eat our food, use our telephone and leave ‘boulder’ burns in our furniture. Sometimes I’d arrive home to find many of them still there, and like a fool would cook for them as well as us. I’d wait for them to leave and you to go to bed before washing the umpteen mugs and emptying the overflowing ashtrays. I did this; I stayed, because I loved you. A year into our relationship, I arrived home one day to find you with enlarged pupils and acting oddly. You were all over the place, couldn’t sit still. I knew that this wasn’t from cannabis, but it took me days to find out you were using speed. Within weeks you were stirring the yellow powder into your coffee first thing in the morning. You became paranoid, asking where I’d been, who I’d spoken to, and eventually accused me of having an affair with a male friend of ours. It was at this point I had to leave you; I’d tried so hard to support you, to show you what you were doing to yourself. You wouldn’t and couldn’t listen; you were addicted even though you kept insisting you could stop whenever you wanted. It was three months after I left that I next saw you, you were almost unrecognisable. You’d lost around three stone, you were gaunt and unkempt, and you were begging outside an arcade. I cried for days afterwards, you were on heroin by this point and had none of the characteristics I’d fallen in love with. All I could do for you at this point was try and reason with you, give you something to eat to try and get some nourishment into you. I never gave you money, no matter how much you begged, pleaded and cried. I felt guilty for not doing but knew any financial assistance would enable you to destroy yourself further. Its five years since we broke up, I often wonder about you, where you are, what you’re doing, if you’re still alive. I like to think of you rehabilitated, in a nice home, with a new girlfriend who adores you and you her, maybe with a job. If you could read this letter, maybe it would help you to understand why I had to leave you, and that I’ve never stopped caring for you.
Love K xx