By A Comeaux
My crackhead ex-lover smelled of cologne once enticing, but now stale and outdated.
He dressed nice if slacks, church shoes, dull pinky rings adorned with dull diamond chips with sweaters reminiscent of Mr. Rogers Neighborhood counts.
And he had the persistence of a runaway slave for freedom, in his pursuit of me.
On the surface, he looked like an easy kill, except I’d given up devouring easy thrills a few mistakes ago. He was old and overzealous with a certain confidence I somehow found amusing. I was the woman he wished he’d met in his prime. Like, 20 years ago we could’ve conquered the world, but I was a child back then and he had demons he dressed in titles rather than recovery.
With a daughter using suicide threats as a cry for attention and a son begging to be in jail rather than home, he cried to me for relief using his familial ills as a tagline for love.
‘Help me, please, we just need you around. Everyone is happier when they’re around you’…
He used textbook passive aggressive manipulation.
Later I’d realize these were red flags of imminent danger far beyond their condition, but warning leaks that would soon flood my life.
I knew he smoked blunts, again, my dark humor found this hilarious considering his age and esteemed work in the community.
He defended his ‘medicine’ for anxiety relief. But he often smelled of a medicinal stench that rested on his skin telling secrets his lips would never admit.
His behavior was at times was wildly depressing and low for days. There were hours he’d sulk on the many traumas he’s suffered in life, usually this would surface in the wee hours of the night into morning.
Then there were times of utter glee he’d clean a 3-story home from ceiling to floor without missing a corner. With a job to report to in the morning, it always concerned me when he’d call over 50 times in the middle of the night making elaborate accusations, with details and assumptions all from his hallucinating imagination.
This turned into sexual assault. This turned into abuse. This turned into public violence and attacks in secrecy.
This had me in the passenger seat of his car doing 90 on the highway professing he had nothing to lose.
These sporadic behaviors, all surfacing overnight in otherwise calming hours, all turned violent and enraged when he surfaced from the basement. I thought he was depressed. I thought life was weighing too heavy on him and he relentlessly transferred that burden on my back.
He was a functional crackhead and the most costly lesson ever learned because I tried to reason with his demons. He was an addict 16 years ago and I’d vowed to never date an addict because of my childhood.
He was not only an alcoholic, he’d used crack just as much as he’d abused liquor.
His remaining teeth were indications. His outbursts, ranging from tears to fights, were indications. His unstable emotions and detrimental lows were signs I ignored.
His eagerness for affection and detachment from reality were clear indications.
A recent twitter chat disclosed that crack is just as widely used today as it was when it was a popular drug of choice in the wild 80s; just like a flavored pop that may not have the buzz for Super Bowl commercials but still on the shelves ready to drink.
I’m A Comeaux and I no longer give benefit to doubt, I’m now in-tuned to my intuition and will never again believe that my light is great enough to a battle ones darkness.
A Comeaux is the writer, speaker and actor who poetically paints pictures of life and love with a paradoxical perspective. Follow her on Twitter @KCOSpoke
Get your blog delivered to you! Type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button. Six Brown Chicks' list is completely spam free, and you can opt out at any time.