Her Name Was Whiskey.

I remember when I first became addicted to her. She came into my life when I was at a particularly low point. I had just lost a high-paying job as a magazine editor, I was on the verge of eviction, and my girlfriend of a year and a half had left me for one of my friends. Needless to say, I was craving an escape. An outlet. Something to take my mind off the pain. I was in a bar when I first met her. She was everything that I was looking for. She made me feel carefree, like the rules of life didn't apply to me. I felt braver, I felt stronger. I felt like for the first time in awhile I was having fun. She begged me to come back and see her at the same time I had that night. In the morning, I felt a little sick, but in the end it was worth it. I felt better for the first time in months. I went to the bar again the next night, and there she was, waiting for me like always. I was thirsty, and she was a tall glass of water. She was refreshing. Again, I felt the effects immediately in her presence. After that night, I knew that I had to keep going back. I met the same girl in the bar almost every night. Pretty soon, I stopped caring about my needs and everyone else. I didn't care about working anymore, she was my priority. It didn't matter where I lived; I practically lived in the bar with her. That was where I started to hit rock bottom. My family found me and they told me how worried they were about the path that I was taking. How I was ruining my life by being with her. I became angry. They had no idea what kind of hell I had been going through. How did they know what was good for me. All I needed was her. I knew that she would always be there when I needed her, unlike so many people in my life. I told them to leave me alone, that I knew what was good for me. They eventually stopped coming around, but I didn't mind. I still had her. I would do anything to get a chance to see her. I started to lose my memory, my sense of time, and everything else that came along with her. I stumbled my way into the bathroom of the bar and looked at myself for a long time in the mirror. I hardly recognized myself. The man in the mirror had a beard and hair that was messy and unkempt, he had put on a massive amount of weight around the stomach, and he smelt horrible. I couldn't believe what I saw. It was at that moment that I had to get rid of her. I didn't want her to be the death of me. I decided to stop coming around the bar to see her. I told her that we had to stop this, that this would only lead to more hurt and destruction. She was clearly upset, saying that I couldn't live without her. She said that I would come running back to her to get away from the pain soon enough. I left soon after, called up my family, and told them that I was finally done messing around with her and I was ready to get help. The first few weeks without her were horrible. I felt really sick. I would throw up, cry, and fall asleep. When I woke up, the same cycle would repeat itself. My head throbbed and I felt hot and cold at the same time. I wanted so badly to run back to her, to take the pain away. But my family was there, and they were my rock while I was getting over her. In the end, their love and support finally helped me move on from her. I was able to think clearly and see that the relationship we had was toxic and nothing good would have come out of it if I had continued on the path I was on. Today, I'm happy to say that it's been two years since I have had anything to do with her and I have found a new purpose in writing, and I have a beautiful home, with a supportive wife and a child on the way. The last time I saw her was at a bar with my friends a month ago, who were celebrating my book getting published. I simply smiled and continued chatting and laughing with my friends. At the end of the night, as I turned to leave, I gave her one last look and smiled. With a sigh, I turned back around and, as the lights turned off, shut the door behind me.

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